Category: Poetry

Newsreel By C Day Lewis

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Enter the dream-house, brothers and sisters, leaving
Your debts asleep, your history at the door:
This is the home for heroes, and this loving
Darkness a fur you can afford.

Fish in their tank electrically heated
Nose without envy the glass wall: for them
Clerk, spy, nurse, killer, prince, the great and the defeated,
Move in a mute day-dream.

Bathed in this common source, you gape incurious
At what your active hours have willed –
Sleep-walking on that silver wall, the furious
Sick shapes and pregnant fancies of your world.

There is the mayor opening the oyster season:
A society wedding: the autumn hats look swell:
An old crocks’ race, and a politician
In fishing-waders to prove that all is well.

Oh, look at the warplanes! Screaming hysteric treble
In the low power-dive, like gannets they fall steep.
But what are they to trouble –
These silver shadows – to trouble your watery, womb-deep sleep?

See the big guns, rising, groping, erected
To plant death in your world’s soft womb.
Fire-bud, smoke-blossom, iron seed projected –
Are these exotics? They will grow nearer home!

Grow nearer home – and out of the dream-house stumbling
One night into a strangling air and the flung
Rags of children and thunder of stone niagaras tumbling,
You’ll know you slept too long.

A few years ago, this poem might have read like ancient history, but now it could be taken as a comment on current events.

In Newsreel, published in 1938, C Day Lewis describes the cinema audience as numbed by the fantasies of entertainment and oblivious to the implications of the war scenes depicted in the newsreel. They see it as something distant that will not impinge on their own lives. This was the era of the Munich crisis, of Neville Chamberlain’s “a quarrel in a far-away country between people of whom we know nothing”.

The poem is technically very adept. The sudden switch from familiar, cosy and domestic footage to the images of war at the end of the fourth verse is almost like a cinematic jump cut itself. There’s an image of fertilisation and pregnancy running through the later part of the poem, with the guns seen as phallic in the sixth verse. In the final verse there is an extraordinary image for the destruction of buildings in an air raid: “stone niagaras”.

There is a slight feeling here that Day Lewis is looking down at the masses who cannot see what is coming. He was though, in that group of intellectuals who were well-informed about the Spanish civil war and had a shrewd idea of what it might lead to.

221B by Vincent Starrett

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Here dwell together still two men of note
Who never lived and so can never die:
How very near they seem, yet how remote
That age before the world went all awry.
But still the game’s afoot for those with ears
Attuned to catch the distant view-halloo:
England is England yet, for all our fears—
Only those things the heart believes are true.

A yellow fog swirls past the window-pane
As night descends upon this fabled street:
A lonely hansom splashes through the rain,
The ghostly gas lamps fail at twenty feet.
Here, though the world explode, these two survive,
And it is always eighteen ninety-five.

I am a lifelong reader of the Sherlock Holmes stories and yet I had never heard of this poem, which takes its title from that famous Baker Street address, until I discovered it in a recent magazine article.

Vincent Starrett (1886–1974) was an American journalist and writer, author of one of the first books of Sherlock Holmes scholarship, The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes (1933).

I don’t think anyone has ever summed up the timeless appeal of the Sherlock Holmes world quite as effectively as Starrett does in the last stanza. The poem reminds us of the power of all fiction to transcend the everyday and create a world that is more vivid in our minds than mundane reality.    

221B was written in 1942 and fears about the survival of London during wartime are clear in the first stanza. We can imagine the powerful longing for an earlier, more orderly world at that moment. From today’s perspective, it’s as if the poem deals with three times – 1942, 1895 and the world of imagination that is outside time.

Sonnet by Peter Reading

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Nine years of formal marriage (not to mention
the practice run at College), to be candid,
are not devoid of some domestic tension –
‘Why can’t you do bread sauce with cloves, like Gran did?’,
‘Who left the frigging bedroom light on all day?’,
or, the real nitty-gritty, ‘I regret
having had you back when you’d had it away
with that bitch!’ – as in most ménages. And yet,
in nine years, they have got acclimatised
to privacies too blushful to admit
even to close friends (who’d be scandalised
by, for example, their bad taste in Lit. –
like actually reading H G Wells);
in short, neither could stand anyone else.

Peter Reading (1946–2011) was a poet whose work covers a wide range of styles and structures. Some of his poems use a layout on the page, such as an exchange of letters, that makes them more like a mini-drama or a short story. One might see him as operating in similar territory to the experimental 1960s novelist B S Johnson. He was also very adept at producing modernised versions of traditional forms, such as sonnets and ballads. The poem above is a good example of that and is taken from his 1977 collection, Nothing for Anyone.

Whatever the form, the tone is often satirical and laugh-out-loud funny, rather similar to Philip Larkin or John Cooper Clarke. On the other hand, he can be far darker than either of them, as in the sequence C (which is short for cancer).

Reading gave up life as an art teacher to concentrate on poetry. To support himself, he worked in an agricultural feed plant, the sort of manual work that he hoped would leave his mind clear to concentrate on his writing. Perhaps unintentionally, the lives of his fellow workers provided him with a rich source of material.

n some of his finest poems, he reproduces the rural dialect and attitude to life in a way that is completely unpatronising. I think this might be some of the best writing about work outside Charles Bukowski’s novel Post Office.

The Song of the Dying Gunner AA1 by Charles Causley

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Oh mother my mouth is full of stars
As cartridges in the tray
My blood is a twin-branched scarlet tree
And it runs all runs away.

Oh ‘Cooks to the galley’ is sounded off
And the lads are down in the mess
But I lie down by the forrard gun
With a bullet in my breast.

Don’t send me a parcel at Christmas time
Of socks and nutty and wine
And don’t depend on a long weekend
By the Great Western Railway line.

Farewell, Aggie Weston, the Barracks at Guz,
Hang my tiddley suit on the door.
I’m sewn up neat in a canvas sheet
And I shan’t be home no more.

[HMS Glory, 1945]

This is an appropriate poem for Remembrance Day.

Charles Causley (1917– 2003) was a Cornishman, born and bred, and apart from his years in the navy during the second world war, spent most of his life working there as an English teacher, writing poetry in his spare time.

He was unusual among poets of the world wars in that he served in the ranks, rather than as an officer. The Song of the Dying Gunner AA1 appeared in his first collection in 1951 and a line from the poem gives the book its title, Farewell, Aggie Weston. The poem can be seen as a more modern version of Kipling’s Barrack Room Ballads. It is also an interesting contrast to Henry Newbolt’s heroic naval ballads.

The “AA 1” in the title tells us that the speaker is an anti-aircraft gunner, first class. In the last verse, “Aggie Weston” refers to the sailors’ hostels founded by Dame Agnes Weston, “Guz” was Plymouth and a “tiddley suit” was a seaman’s best uniform, kept for shore leave.

1805 by Robert Graves

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

At Viscount Nelson’s lavish funeral,
While the mob milled and yelled about St Paul’s,
A General chatted with an Admiral:

“One of your colleagues, Sir, remarked today
That Nelson’s exit, though to be lamented,
Falls not inopportunely, in its way”

“He was a thorn in our flesh”, came the reply—
“The most bird-witted, unaccountable,
Odd little runt that ever I did spy”.

“One arm, one peeper, vain as Pretty Poll,
A meddler too, in foreign politics
And gave his heart in pawn to a plain moll.

“He would dare lecture us Sea Lords, and then
Would treat his ratings as though men of honour
And play leap-frog with his midshipmen!

“We tried to box him down, but up he popped,
And when he banged Napoleon on the Nile
Became too much the hero to be dropped.

“You’ve heard that Copenhagen ‘blind eye’ story?
We’d tied him to Nurse Parker’s apron-strings—
By G-d, he snipped them through and snatched the glory!”

“Yet”, cried the General, “sic-and-twenty sail
Captured or sunk by him off Trafalgar—
That writes a handsome finis to the tale.”

“Handsome enough. The seas are England’s now.
That fellow’s foibles need no longer plague us
He died most creditably, I’ll allow.”

“And Sir, the secret of his victories?”
“By his unServicelike, familiar ways, Sir,
He made the whole Fleet love him, damn his eyes!”

It was the anniversary of the Battle of Trafalgar the other day, so here is an appropriate poem, 1805 by Robert Graves. This is a humorous look at how the Royal Navy actually thought of Nelson before his exploits made him a national hero and beyond criticism.

It’s a reminder that history always depends on who is writing it, an idea explored in another Graves poem, The Persian Version.

The admiral in this poem is rather more concerned with the navy’s way of doing things, than with its true purpose. That concern for the institution above all else seems quite modern.

Now, as then, an unconventional genius is always going to trouble those who look at things in a more hidebound way.

Ballad of the Londoner by James Elroy Flecker

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Evening falls on the smoky walls,
    And the railings drip with rain,
And I will cross the old river
    To see my girl again.

The great and solemn-gliding tram,
    Love’s still-mysterious car,
Has many a light of gold and white,
    And a single dark red star.

I know a garden in a street
    Which no one ever knew;
I know a rose beyond the Thames,
    Where flowers are pale and few.

I found this poem by James Elroy Flecker (1884–1915) quite by chance when I was looking through one of those Poems on the Underground anthologies in a charity shop.

I have a personal connection with the poem because it reminds me that my father said he had never actually been south of the river until he met my mother.

I’m not sure exactly when it was written. Although it is more traditional in form, I think the opening lines have something of the same urban feel as T S Eliot’s Preludes.

Flecker was only thirty when he died, not as you might imagine a casualty of the first world war, but from TB.

He’s best known for poems that have a connection to the middle east, where he worked as a diplomat, such as The Gate of Damascus. With Ballad of the Londoner he created a fine, evocative poem of the city, adding to the great collective picture of London that so many poets have left behind.


Railway Scrapbook by Peter Ashley

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Here’s my little contribution to the Railway 200 celebrations.

Peter Ashley edited the anthology Railway Rhymes (2007) and included his own poem, Railway Scrapbook. He very cleverly, through the use of half-rhyme and rhythm, turns a list into a poem, an evocative picture of a vanished, gentler age of railway travel. It’s striking how only a few of the things described remain as a recognisable part of the railway scene today.

It’s a marvellous anthology, and I’ve included more than one poem from it on this blog. The dustjacket resembles the clipped railway ticket mentioned in this poem.

My only quibble is that I would have liked the lyrics to the song Slow Train by Flanders and Swann to be included.  

Railway Scrapbook by Peter Ashley

Dockside stations
Estuary halts
Trolleys for luggage
Platelayers’ huts
Steamy warm buffets
Station clock hands
Weighing machines
Post Office vans
Sidings and signals
Newspapers sweets
Cycles in cardboard
Platform seats
Coalyards and taxis
Pincers on tickets
Gaslight on blossom
Pigeons in baskets
Fire buckets red
Timetables white
Posters for seasides
Booking halls bright
Bridges and cuttings
Telephone wires
Tunnels and viaducts
Waiting room fires

At Lord’s by Francis Thompson

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

As the cricket season comes to an end, it’s an appropriate time to look at one of the most famous of all cricket poems, At Lord’s by Francis Thompson (1859–1907).

The lines quoted below are actually the opening and closing verses of a longer poem, but they have become well-known in their shorter form.

For non-cricketers, Lord’s in London is regarded as the home of cricket and the red rose is the symbol of Lancashire.

The poem is as much about nostalgia and the passing of time as cricket, so perhaps it’s not a surprise to find out it was written near the end of Francis Thompson’s life.

At Lord’s by Francis Thompson

It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though my own red roses there may blow;
It is little I repair to the matches of the Southron folk,
Though the red roses crest the caps, I know.
For the field is full of shades as I near the shadowy coast,
And a ghostly batsman plays to the bowling of a ghost,
And I look through my tears on a soundless-clapping host
As the run-stealers flicker to and fro,
To and fro: –
O my Hornby and my Barlow long ago!

The Retired Colonel by Ted Hughes

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

Here is an early poem by Ted Hughes. The Retired Colonel appeared in the Spectator magazine in August 1958 and then in Hughes’ second collection Lupercal. The date is important, because 1956 was the year of the Suez Crisis, the last occasion when Britain acted as a great power, and often taken as the real end of the British Empire.

The poem is rather double-edged. Towards the end there is a tinge of regret for the grandeur of the era that has now passed for ever and already seems impossibly remote. The colonel is a figure to be mocked yet respected, representing something bigger than himself.

The very structure of the poem seems to emphasise the passage of time. With its overlapping lines, it’s a more modern type of verse than the Edwardian patriotic ballads of Kipling and Newbolt that we might associate with such a character.

The Retired Colonel

Who lived at the top end of our street
Was a Mafeking stereotype, ageing.
Came, face pulped scarlet with kept rage,
For air past our gate.
Barked at his dog knout and whipcrack
And cowerings of India: five or six wars
Stiffened in his reddened neck;
Brow bull-down for the stroke.

Wife dead, daughters gone, lived on
Honouring his own caricature.
Shot through the heart with whisky wore
The lurch like ancient courage, would not go down
While posterity’s trash stood, held
His habits like a last stand, even
As if he had Victoria rolled
In a Union Jack in that stronghold.

And what if his sort should vanish?
The rabble starlings roar upon
Trafalgar. The man-eating British lion
By a pimply age brought down.
Here’s his head mounted, though only in rhymes,
Beside the head of the last English
Wolf (those starved gloomy times!)
And the last sturgeon of Thames.

Memory by Walter de la Mare

The Good ReaderLeave a comment

It must be the sunny weather that made me think of the poem Memory by Walter de la Mare. It’s an appropriate one for the changing of the seasons. De la Mare wrote two poems with this title and this is the earlier one that was published in the 1933 collection, The Fleeting.

Perhaps it hints at that all too human tendency to wish oneself elsewhere. The last two lines tell us that De la Mare sees this as a positive thing. Memory enables us to live in our physical surroundings and the world of the imagination at one and the same time.

There is some archaic language in the second verse. “Nowel” is an alternative spelling of “Noel”, and “Waits” are carol singers. This part of the poem requires careful reading because the word order has been inverted in a slightly tricky way.

Memory by Walter de la Mare

When summer heat has drowsed the day
With blaze of noontide overhead,
And hidden greenfinch can but say
What but a moment since it said;
When harvest fields stand thick with wheat,
And wasp and bee slave—dawn till dark—
Nor home, till evening moonbeams beat,
Silvering the nightjar’s oaken bark:
How strangely then the mind may build
A magic world of wintry cold,
Its meadows with frail frost-flowers filled—
Bright-ribbed with ice, a frozen wold!. . .

When dusk shuts in the shortest day,
And dark Orion spans the night;
Where antlered fireflames leap and play
Chequering the walls with fitful light—
Even sweeter in mind the summer’s rose
May bloom again; her drifting swan
Resume her beauty; while rapture flows
Of birds long since to silence gone:
And though the Nowel, sharp and shrill,
Of Waits from out the snowbound street,
Drums to their fiddle beneath the hill
June’s mill-wheel where the waters meet. . .

O angel Memory that can
Double the joys of faithless Man!