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Andy D
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« Reply #570 on: 22:27:41, 02-04-2008 » |
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Glad you enjoyed it t-p, tho "enjoy" perhaps isn't the right word to apply to Larkin.
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trained-pianist
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« Reply #571 on: 22:37:00, 02-04-2008 » |
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May be I enjoyed that someone felt like I feel sometimes. One can enjoy feeling miserable (in kind of sad, but detached way).
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« Last Edit: 22:38:52, 02-04-2008 by trained-pianist »
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martle
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« Reply #572 on: 22:41:24, 02-04-2008 » |
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One can enjoy feeling miserable (in kind of sad, but detached way).
t-p, that is Larkin in a nutshell! You've 'got' him.  |
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Green. Always green.
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pim_derks
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« Reply #573 on: 07:49:08, 15-04-2008 » |
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Narcissus
Yes, it was Bedford Park the vision came from -
De Morgan lustre glowing round the hearth,
And that sweet flower which self-love takes its name from
Nodding among the lilies in the garth,
And Arnold Dolmetsch touching the spinet,
And Mother, Chiswick's earliest suffragette.
I was a delicate boy - my parents' only -
And highly strung. My father was in trade.
And how I loved, when Mother left me lonely,
To watch old Martha spice the marmalade,
Or help with flower arrangements in the lobby
Before I went to find my playmate Bobby.
We'ld go for walks, we bosom boyfriends would
(For Bobby's watching sisters drove us mad),
And when we just did nothing we were good,
But when we touched each other we were bad.
I found this out when Mother said one day
She thought we were unwholesome in our play.
So Bobby and I were parted. Bobby dear,
I didn't want my tea. I heard your sisters
Playing at hide-and-seek with you quite near
As off the garden gate I picked the blisters.
Oh tell me, Mother, what I mustn't do -
Then, Bobby, I can play again with you.
For I know hide-and-seek's most secret places
More than your sisters do. And you and I
Can scramble into them and leave no traces,
Nothing above us but the twigs and sky,
Nothing below us but the leaf-mould chilly
Where we can warm and hug each other silly.
My Mother wouldn't tell me why she hated
The things we did, and why they pained her so.
She said a fate far worse than death awaited
People who did the things we didn't know,
And then she said I was her precious child,
And once there was a man called Oscar Wilde.
"Open your story book and find a tale
Of ladyes fayre and deeds of derring-do,
Or good Sir Gawaine and the Holy Grail,
Mother will read her boy a page or two
Before she goes, this Women's Suffrage Week,
To hear that clever Mrs Pankhurst speak.
Sleep with your hands above your head. That's right -
And let no evil thoughts pollute the dark. "
She rose, and lowered the incandescent light.
I heard her footsteps die down Bedford Park.
Mother where are you? Bobby, Bobby, where?
I clung for safety to my teddy bear.
John Betjeman
"I want to send you this line of thanks for the wonderful poem you call "Narcissus". I don't know what it ought to be called, perhaps I don't know anything like it in literature. I don't know which I admire most - the pervading emotion or the progressive construction. I thank you most warmly."
E. M. Forster, Cambridge, 23 June 1965.
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"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
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Don Basilio
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« Reply #574 on: 08:53:27, 15-04-2008 » |
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Thank you, Pim. I knew that one, but it was not in the collected verse I bought as a teenager.
Although there are strong elements of himself there, (I was a delicate only child, father was in trade, I clung for safety to my teddy bear) he ups the familiy's social status.
I don't know how well you know your London suburbs, Pim, but Highbury where JB was brought up was not as upmarket as Chiswick. (See JB's St Saviour's Aberdeen Park and the Welcome Thread here to a new member called N5. St Saviour's is behind the cheese shop mentiond there.)
I think JB's mother, Beth, was far more down to earth than Chiswick's earliest suffragette.
He combines elements that I can well imagine some will despise (the snobbery, the neat rhymes) with an extraordinary insight.
I didn't know the Forster comment. I would have thought him too Cambridge and high minded to relate to JB, Oxford and frivolous through and through. No doubt it was the relief in the 60s of being able to come out, however tentatively.
Since you haven't read Hillier yet, I won't spoil the story of JB going to bed with W H Auden.
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
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George Garnett
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« Reply #575 on: 09:16:13, 15-04-2008 » |
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Yes, it was Bedford Park the vision came from -
De Morgan lustre glowing round the hearth,
An excellent excuse for some De Morgan lustre (De Morgan being one of William Morris's circle):  Golly gosh! This one happens to be 'Bedford Park Daisy'. Mr Google couldn't find 'Bedford Park Narcissus' but it's pretty darn close (well, geographically). |
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« Last Edit: 09:42:53, 15-04-2008 by George Garnett »
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pim_derks
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« Reply #576 on: 09:36:10, 15-04-2008 » |
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I didn't know the Forster comment. I would have thought him too Cambridge and high minded to relate to JB, Oxford and frivolous through and through. No doubt it was the relief in the 60s of being able to come out, however tentatively. I found the comment in the second volume of John Betjeman's letters, edited and introduced by Candida Lycett Green. Thank you for that one, George! |
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"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
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Sydney Grew
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« Reply #577 on: 11:04:16, 15-04-2008 » |
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Thank you Mr. Derks - I did not know that marvellous poem!
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pim_derks
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« Reply #578 on: 12:43:28, 15-04-2008 » |
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Thank you Mr. Derks - I did not know that marvellous poem! You're welcome, Mr Grew. I suppose that you are already familiar with E.E. Bradford's poetry? John Betjeman loved it. |
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"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
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Mary Chambers
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« Reply #579 on: 13:12:26, 15-04-2008 » |
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I din't know that Betjeman either - wonderful, and very sad.
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Andy D
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« Reply #580 on: 13:55:18, 15-04-2008 » |
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We're reading Sophie Hannah in my poetry group tonight. Not a name I knew before but I've got 3 books of hers out of the library. I've selected from one of them but I've now got to look through the other two. This one I found quite poignant:
Your Dad Did What?
Where they have been, if they have been away,
or what they've done at home, if they have not -
you make them write about the holiday.
One writes My Dad did. What? Your Dad did what?
That's not a sentence. Never mind the bell.
We stay behind until the work is done.
You count their words (you who can count and spell);
all the assignments are complete bar one
and though this boy seems bright, that one is his.
He says he's finished, doesn't want to add
anything, hands it in just as it is.
No change. My Dad did. What? What did his Dad?
You find the 'E' you gave him as you sort
through reams of what this girl did, what that lad did,
and read the line again, just one 'e' short:
This holiday was horrible. My Dad did.
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SusanDoris
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« Reply #581 on: 18:36:04, 15-04-2008 » |
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Your Dad Did What? I didn't actually teach a child just like that, but there were some whose words caused concern. Did anyone hear Dr Bernard Lamb on 'Today' at about 820 yesterday (Monday) morning? He was talking about poetry with .. forgotten! ... and was saying that the QES had been asking the Poetry Society for a definition of what is/is not poetry for quite a while. I used to be a member of the QES Committee so was particularly interested. |
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pim_derks
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« Reply #582 on: 21:50:05, 15-04-2008 » |
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Paul Valéry wrote that if an idea, when written down in prose, still needs the poetic form, it's poetic. [silence] I don't need Monsieur Valéry to find that out.  |
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"People hate anything well made. It gives them a guilty conscience." John Betjeman
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Don Basilio
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« Reply #584 on: 08:11:56, 17-04-2008 » |
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Love twenty, love thirty, O fullness of joy,
The speed of a swallow, the grace of a boy.
With carefullest carelessness, gaily you won.
I am weak with your loveliness, Joan Hunter Dunn.
An odd way to compliment a woman you fancy.
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To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven.
A time to weep, and a time to laugh: a time to mourn, and a time to dance
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