POEMS AND PROSE

REVISED SCHEDULE

I now have SIX blogs on the Internet and I am beginning find them a struggle to manage on a regular daily basis.

They are taking too much of my time away from other interests, so I have decided to cut down the frequency of posts.

My two personal favourites are http://poemsandprose.blog.co.uk/ and http://picturepost.blog.co.uk/ and they will continue on 5 days of the week, Monday to Friday.

The others will appear less frequently, as I find interesting things to add.

There will be no posts on any of the blogs at weekends.

I am extremely grateful to the small group of loyal followers who have added brilliant, witty and relevant comments over the past few years.

Please continue to do so.

Time is precious for us all and my re-scheduling may help you as well as me.

Thank you all for your continued support.

Colin (kendrive)

The next post on this blog will be on Monday, November 23rd.

Here is another of Swinburne's poems written on his beloved Isle of Wight.

However, I am sure it has eroded over the years and is not so steadfast and timeless as the poem suggests.

A SEA-MARK

Rains have left the sea-banks ill to climb:
Waveward sinks the loosening seaboard's floor:
Half the sliding cliffs are mire and slime.
Earth, a fruit rain-rotted to the core,
Drops dissolving down in flakes, that pour
Dense as gouts from eaves grown foul with grime.
One sole rock which years that scathe not score
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.

Time were even as even the rainiest clime,
Life were even as even this lapsing shore,
Might not aught outlive their trustless prime:
Vainly fear would wail or hope implore,
Vainly grief revile or love adore
Seasons clothed in sunshine, rain, or rime
Now for me one comfort held in store
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.

Once, by fate's default or chance's crime,
Each apart, our burdens each we bore;
Heard, in monotones like bells that chime,
Chime the sounds of sorrows, float and soar
Joy's full carols, near or far before;
Heard not yet across the alternate rhyme
Time's tongue tell what sign set fast of yore
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.

Friend, the sign we knew not heretofore
Towers in sight here present and sublime.
Faith in faith established evermore
Stands a sea-mark in the tides of time.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

I am continuing Swinburne's "From a A Summer Holiday" with this work which earlier this year was chosen as "Poem of the Week" by the Guardian, where it was described as "a stirring piece of poetic impressionism".

The area around the village is subject to landslip and the cliffs crumble towards the sea: "They cleave and slide toward the ridged and wrinkled waste of girdling sand."

THE CLIFFSIDE PATH

Seaward goes the sun, and homeward by the down
We, before the night upon his grave be sealed.
Low behind us lies the bright steep murmuring town,
High before us heaves the steep rough silent field.
Breach by ghastlier breach, the cliffs collapsing yield:
Half the path is broken, half the banks divide;
Flawed and crumbled, riven and rent, they cleave and slide
Toward the ridged and wrinkled waste of girdling sand
Deep beneath, whose furrows tell how far and wide
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.

Star by star on the unsunned waters twiring down,
Golden spear-points glance against a silver shield.
Over banks and bents, across the headland's crown,
As by pulse of gradual plumes through twilight wheeled,
Soft as sleep, the waking wind awakes the weald.
Moor and copse and fallow, near or far descried.
Feel the mild wings move, and gladden where they glide:
Silence, uttering love that all things understand,
Bids the quiet fields forget that hard beside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.

Yet may sight, ere all the hoar soft shade grow brown,
Hardly reckon half the rifts and rents unhealed
Where the scarred cliffs downward sundering drive and drown,
Hewn as if with stroke of swords in tempest steeled,
Wielded as the night's will and the wind's may wield.
Crowned and zoned in vain with flowers of autumn-tide,
Soon the blasts shall break them, soon the waters hide,
Soon, where late we stood, shall no man ever stand.
Life and love seek harbourage on the landward side:
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.

Friend, though man be less than these, for all his pride,
Yet, for all his weakness, shall not hope abide?
Wind and change can wreck but life and waste but land:
Truth and trust are sure, though here till all subside
Wind is lord and change is sovereign of the strand.

Algernon Charles Swinburne 1884

"BONCHURCH (population, 564. Hotel: Ribband’s) abounds in the most delightful scenery and most enchanting walks. It is a combination of wood and water, of rock and dell, of lawny slopes and blossoming gardens, of Italian skies and sunny seas, with, over all, the majestic shadow of lofty downs, upon which the dullest eye cannot gaze unsatisfied. Its climate enjoys so much genial warmth that the myrtle and the fuchsia, the verbena and the clianthus, grow in the open air, stalwart and vigorous, and demand from the gardener but little attention. In all sorts of odd nooks, either reposing against the mighty wall of the Undercliff, or hiding away in leafy hollows, are perched its picturesque cottages and handsome villas."

(Black's Guide to the Isle of Wight 1870)

Swinburne wrote a series of poems under the title "A Midsummer Holiday" and here is the first.

Somehow the seaside makes you reflect in that way, doesn't it?

THE SEABOARD

The sea is at ebb, and the sound of her utmost word
Is soft as the least wave's lapse in a still small reach.
From bay into bay, on quest of a goal deferred,
From headland ever to headland and breach to breach
Where earth gives ear to the message that all days preach
With changes of gladness and sadness that cheer and chide
The lone way lures me along by a chance untried
That haply, if hope dissolve not and faith be whole,
Not all for nought shall I seek, with a dream for guide.
The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

The trackless ways are untravelled of sail or bird;
The hoar wave hardly recedes from the soundless beach.
The silence of instant noon goes nigh to be heard,
The viewless void to be visible: all and each,
A closure of calm no clamour of storm can breach
Concludes and confines and absorbs them on either side,
All forces of light and of life and the live world's pride.
Sands hardly ruffled of ripples that hardly roll
Seem ever to show as in reach of a swift brief stride
The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

The waves are a joy to the seamew, the meads to the herd,
And a joy to the heart is a goal that it may not reach.
No sense that for ever the limits of sense engird,
No hearing or sight that is vassal to form or speech,
Learns ever the secret that shadow and silence teach,
Hears ever the notes that or ever they swell subside,
Sees ever the light that lights not the loud world's tide,
Clasps ever the cause of the lifelong scheme's control
Where through we pursue, till the waters of life be dried,
The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

Friend, what have we sought or seek we, whate'er betide,
Though the seaboard shift its mark from afar descried,
But aims whence ever anew shall arise the soul?
Love, thought, song, life, but show for a glimpse and hide
The goal that is not, and ever again the goal.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

P.S. Are you following my 'dream' poetry on my blog "I Say"?

You can find it at: http://me-talking.blog.co.uk/

STAGE LOVE

When the game began between them for a jest,
He played king and she played queen to match the best;
Laughter soft as tears, and tears that turned to laughter,
These were things she sought for years and sorrowed after.
Pleasure with dry lips, and pain that walks by night;
All the sting and all the stain of long delight;
These were things she knew not of, that knew not of her,
When she played at half a love with half a lover.
Time was chorus, gave them cues to laugh or cry;
They would kill, befool, amuse him, let him die;
Set him webs to weave to-day and break to-morrow,
Till he died for good in play, and rose in sorrow.
What the years mean; how time dies and is not slain;
How love grows and laughs and cries and wanes again;
These were things she came to know, and take their measure,
When the play was played out so for one man's pleasure.

Algernon Charles Swinburne