POEMS AND PROSE

IMPORTANT NOTICE

Fri, 20 Nov 2009 09:56:08 +0100

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.

Comments

THE ROCK

Thu, 19 Nov 2009 09:47:25 +0100

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

I am not sure where his "Sea-Mark" was located, but I have chosen to illustrate the poem an 1890s picture of 'Stag Rock' in Freshwater Bay, not far from the crumbling cliffs of Bonchurch, where he lived.

Swinburne portrays the rock as a constant in the vagaries of life: "Faith in faith established evermore".

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

Comments

THE CLIFFSIDE PATH

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 10:15:10 +0100

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".

Swinburne grew up in Bonchurch, on the south shore of the Isle of Wight and he is buried in the churchyard there with other members of his family.

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)

Comments

THE SEABOARD

Tue, 17 Nov 2009 08:32:31 +0100

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

The poet is walking along the seashore and, I think, reflecting on our aims and ambitions in life - our hopes and disappointments: "The goal that is not, and ever again the goal"

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/

Comments

THE PLAY'S THE THING

Mon, 16 Nov 2009 08:56:44 +0100

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

Comments

WHO IS SHE?

Sun, 15 Nov 2009 09:18:04 +0100

LEAVE-TAKING

Let us go hence, my songs; she will not hear.
Let us go hence together without fear;
Keep silence now, for singing-time is over,
And over all old things and all things dear.
She loves not you nor me as all we love her.
Yea, though we sang as angels in her ear,
She would not hear.

Let us rise up and part; she will not know.
Let us go seaward as the great winds go,
Full of blown sand and foam; what help is here?
There is no help, for all these things are so,
And all the world is bitter as a tear.
And how these things are, though ye strove to show,
She would not know.

Let us go home and hence; she will not weep.
We gave love many dreams and days to keep,
Flowers without scent, and fruits that would not grow,
Saying 'If thou wilt, thrust in thy sickle and reap.'
All is reaped now; no grass is left to mow;
And we that sowed, though all we fell on sleep,
She would not weep.

Let us go hence and rest; she will not love.
She shall not hear us if we sing hereof,
Nor see love's ways, how sore they are and steep.
Come hence, let be, lie still; it is enough.
Love is a barren sea, bitter and deep;
And though she saw all heaven in flower above,
She would not love.

Let us give up, go down; she will not care.
Though all the stars made gold of all the air,
And the sea moving saw before it move
One moon-flower making all the foam-flowers fair;
Though all those waves went over us, and drove
Deep down the stifling lips and drowning hair,
She would not care.

Let us go hence, go hence; she will not see.
Sing all once more together; surely she,
She too, remembering days and words that were,
Will turn a little toward us, sighing; but we,
We are hence, we are gone, as though we had not been there.
Nay, and though all men seeing had pity on me,
She would not see.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Who is the "she" referred to in this poem? Perhaps it is the 'perfect woman' who men lust after, but can never have.

Or is it a specific person in Swinburne's life?

I have seen it suggested that it could be Swinburne's wife, lost in some kind of dementia that makes her no longer recognise her loved ones.

On reading the poem again, that interpretation seems to make the most sense, except for one thing - he never married.

Poetic License?

Comments

THE TIME OF LOVERS IS SHORT

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 10:32:31 +0100

Today's poem has nine verses and I feel it is overlong for posting here in its entirety.

Many blog readers are impatient and they are deterred by Swinburne's longer poems - so I have selected just four verses.

I apologise to you and to the poet for my truncation!

You can read the full poem at: http://www.poetryconnection.net/poets/Algernon_Charles_Swinburne/18412

THE YEAR OF THE ROSE

The year of the rose is brief;
From the first blade blown to the sheaf,
From the thin green leaf to the gold,
It has time to be sweet and grow old,
To triumph and leave not a leaf
For witness in winter's sight
How lovers once in the light
Would mix their breath with its breath,
And its spirit was quenched not of night,
As love is subdued not of death.

But the days drop one upon one,
And a chill soft wind is begun
In the heart of the rose-red maze
That weeps for the roseleaf days
And the reign of the rose undone
That ruled so long in the light,
And by spirit, and not by sight,
Through the darkness thrilled with its breath,
Still ruled in the viewless night,
As love might rule over death.

The time of lovers is brief;
From the fair first joy to the grief
That tells when love is grown old,
From the warm wild kiss to the cold,
From the red to the white-rose leaf,
They have but a season to seem
As rose-leaves lost on a stream
That part not and pass not apart
As a spirit from dream to dream,
As a sorrow from heart to heart.

From the bloom and the gloom that encloses
The death-bed of Love where he dozes
Till a relic be left not of sand
To the hour-glass that breaks in his hand;
From the change in the grey garden-closes
To the last stray grass of the strand,
A rain and ruin of roses
Over the red-rose land.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

SOFT, SMALL AND SWEET

Fri, 13 Nov 2009 11:44:54 +0100

A CLASP OF HANDS

Soft, small, and sweet as sunniest flowers
That bask in heavenly heat
When bud by bud breaks, breathes, and cowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.

A babe's hands open as to greet
The tender touch of ours
And mock with motion faint and fleet

The minutes of the new strange hours
That earth, not heaven, must mete;
Buds fragrant still from heaven's own bowers,
Soft, small, and sweet.

A velvet vice with springs of steel
That fasten in a trice
And clench the fingers fast that feel
A velvet vice

What man would risk the danger twice,
Nor quake from head to heel?
Whom would not one such test suffice?

Well may we tremble as we kneel
In sight of Paradise,
If both a babe's closed fists conceal
A velvet vice.

Two flower-soft fists of conquering clutch,
Two creased and dimpled wrists,
That match, if mottled overmuch,
Two flower-soft fists---

What heart of man dare hold the lists
Against such odds and such
Sweet vantage as no strength resists?

Our strength is all a broken crutch,
Our eyes are dim with mists,
Our hearts are prisoners as we touch
Two flower-soft fists.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

NOTE: If you like poetry, you may enjoy my new blog, where I am currently posting poems on the theme of "Dreams and Dreaming".

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

Comments

PUT IN THE SICKLES AND REAP

Thu, 12 Nov 2009 07:21:07 +0100

This is one of Swinburne's longer poems. It is about gathering in the corn at harvest time.

Or is it?

I suggest that is a metaphor for war and the fight for survival.

Tell me what you think.

MESSIDOR

Put in the sickles and reap;
For the morning of harvest is red,
And the long large ranks of the corn
Coloured and clothed as the morn
Stand thick in the fields and deep
For them that faint to be fed.
Let all that hunger and weep
Come hither, and who would have bread
Put in the sickles and reap.

Coloured and clothed as the morn,
The grain grows ruddier than gold,
And the good strong sun is alight
In the mists of the day-dawn white,
And the crescent, a faint sharp horn,
In the fear of his face turns cold
As the snakes of the night-time that creep
From the flag of our faith unrolled.
Put in the sickles and reap.

In the mists of the day-dawn white
That roll round the morning star,
The large flame lightens and grows
Till the red-gold harvest-rows,
Full-grown, are full of the light
As the spirits of strong men are,
Crying, Who shall slumber or sleep?
Who put back morning or mar?
Put in the sickles and reap.

Till the red-gold harvest-rows
For miles through shudder and shine
In the wind's breath, fed with the sun,
A thousand spear-heads as one
Bowed as for battle to close
Line in rank against line
With place and station to keep
Till all men's hands at a sign
Put in the sickles and reap.

A thousand spear-heads as one
Wave as with swing of the sea
When the mid tide sways at its height;
For the hour is for harvest or fight
In face of the just calm sun,
As the signal in season may be
And the lot in the helm may leap
When chance shall shake it; but ye,
Put in the sickles and reap.

For the hour is for harvest or fight
To clothe with raiment of red;
O men sore stricken of hours,
Lo, this one, is not it ours
To glean, to gather, to smite?
Let none make risk of his head
Within reach of the clean scythe-sweep,
When the people that lay as the dead
Put in the sickles and reap.

Lo, this one, is not it ours,
Now the ruins of dead things rattle
As dead men's bones in the pit,
Now the kings wax lean as they sit
Girt round with memories of powers,
With musters counted as cattle
And armies folded as sheep
Till the red blind husbandman battle
Put in the sickles and reap?

Now the kings wax lean as they sit,
The people grow strong to stand;
The men they trod on and spat,
The dumb dread people that sat
As corpses cast in a pit,
Rise up with God at their hand,
And thrones are hurled on a heap,
And strong men, sons of the land,
Put in the sickles and reap.

The dumb dread people that sat
All night without screen for the night,
All day without food for the day,
They shall give not their harvest away,
They shall eat of its fruit and wax fat:
They shall see the desire of their sight,
Though the ways of the seasons be steep,
They shall climb with face to the light,
Put in the sickles and reap.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Messidor was the tenth month in the French Republican Calendar and was named after the Latin word messis, which means harvest.

Comments

CLEO

Wed, 11 Nov 2009 03:41:28 +0100

A long poem by Swinburne.

I could have said it all in just five words "By God - She is beautiful".

CLEOPATRA

Her mouth is fragrant as a vine,
A vine with birds in all its boughs;
Serpent and scarab for a sign
Between the beauty of her brows
And the amorous deep lids divine.

Her great curled hair makes luminous
Her cheeks, her lifted throat and chin.
Shall she not have the hearts of us
To shatter, and the loves therein
To shred between her fingers thus?

Small ruined broken strays of light,
Pearl after pearl she shreds them through
Her long sweet sleepy fingers, white
As any pearl's heart veined with blue,
And soft as dew on a soft night.

As if the very eyes of love
Shone through her shutting lids, and stole
The slow looks of a snake or dove;
As if her lips absorbed the whole
Of love, her soul the soul thereof.

Lost, all the lordly pearls that were
Wrung from the sea's heart, from the green
Coasts of the Indian gulf-river;
Lost, all the loves of the world---so keen
Towards this queen for love of her.
You see against her throat the small
Sharp glittering shadows of them shake;
And through her hair the imperial
Curled likeness of the river snake,
Whose bite shall make an end of all.

Through the scales sheathing him like wings,
Through hieroglyphs of gold and gem,
The strong sense of her beauty stings,
Like a keen pulse of love in them,
A running flame through all his rings.

Under those low large lids of hers
She hath the histories of all time;
The fruit of foliage-stricken years;
The old seasons with their heavy chime
That leaves its rhyme in the world's ears.

She sees the hand of death made bare,
The ravelled riddle of the skies,
The faces faded that were fair,
The mouths made speechless that were wise,
The hollow eyes and dusty hair;

The shape and shadow of mystic things,
Things that fate fashions or forbids;
The staff of time-forgotten Kings
Whose name falls off the Pyramids,
Their coffin-lids and grave-clothings;

Dank dregs, the scum of pool or clod,
God-spawn of lizard-footed clans,
And those dog-headed hulks that trod
Swart necks of the old Egyptians,
Raw draughts of man's beginning God;

The poised hawk, quivering ere he smote,
With plume-like gems on breast and back;
The asps and water-worms afloat
Between the rush-flowers moist and slack;
The cat's warm black bright rising throat.

The purple days of drouth expand
Like a scroll opened out again;
The molten heaven drier than sand,
The hot red heaven without rain,
Sheds iron pain on the empty land.

All Egypt aches in the sun's sight;
The lips of men are harsh for drouth,
The fierce air leaves their cheeks burnt white,
Charred by the bitter blowing south,
Whose dusty mouth is sharp to bite.

All this she dreams of, and her eyes
Are wrought after the sense hereof.
There is no heart in her for sighs;
The face of her is more than love---
A name above the Ptolemies.

Her great grave beauty covers her
As that sleek spoil beneath her feet
Clothed once the anointed soothsayer;
The hallowing is gone forth from it
Now, made unmeet for priests to wear.

She treads on gods and god-like things,
On fate and fear and life and death,
On hate that cleaves and love that clings,
All that is brought forth of man's breath
And perisheth with what it brings.

She holds her future close, her lips
Hold fast the face of things to be;
Actium, and sound of war that dips
Down the blown valleys of the sea,
Far sails that flee, and storms of ships;

The laughing red sweet mouth of wine
At ending of life's festival;
That spice of cerecloths, and the fine
White bitter dust funereal
Sprinkled on all things for a sign;

His face, who was and was not he,
In whom, alive, her life abode;
The end, when she gained heart to see
Those ways of death wherein she trod,
Goddess by god, with Antony.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

WHEN IT'S GONE, IT'S GONE

Tue, 10 Nov 2009 05:30:21 +0100

DEAD LOVE

Dead love, by treason slain, lies stark,
White as a dead stark-stricken dove:
None that pass by him pause to mark
Dead love.

His heart, that strained and yearned and strove
As toward the sundawn strives the lark,
Is cold as all the old joy thereof.

Dead men, re-risen from dust, may hark
When rings the trumpet blown above:
It will not raise from out the dark
Dead love.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

NOW I GO ALONE

Mon, 09 Nov 2009 08:21:32 +0100

PAST DAYS

Dead and gone, the days we had together,
Shadow-stricken all the lights that shone
Round them, flown as flies the blown foam's feather,
Dead and gone.

Where we went, we twain, in time foregone,
Forth by land and sea, and cared not whether,
If I go again, I go alone.

Bound am I with time as with a tether;
Thee perchance death leads enfranchised on,
Far from deathlike life and changeful weather,
Dead and gone.

II.

Above the sea and sea-washed town we dwelt,
We twain together, two brief summers, free
From heed of hours as light as clouds that melt
Above the sea.

Free from all heed of aught at all were we,
Save chance of change that clouds or sunbeams dealt
And gleam of heaven to windward or to lee.

The Norman downs with bright grey waves for belt
Were more for us than inland ways might be;
A clearer sense of nearer heaven was felt
Above the sea.

III.

Cliffs and downs and headlands which the forward-hasting
Flight of dawn and eve empurples and embrowns,
Wings of wild sea-winds and stormy seasons wasting
Cliffs and downs,

These, or ever man was, were: the same sky frowns,
Laughs, and lightens, as before his soul, forecasting
Times to be, conceived such hopes as time discrowns.

These we loved of old: but now for me the blasting
Breath of death makes dull the bright small seaward towns,
Clothes with human change these all but everlasting
Cliffs and downs.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

TRAVELS IN ITALY

Sun, 08 Nov 2009 10:22:29 +0100

Swinburne takes us to three Italian cities.

THREE FACES

I. VENTIMIGLIA

The sky and sea glared hard and bright and blank:
Down the one steep street, with slow steps firm and free,
A tall girl paced, with eyes too proud to thank
The sky and sea.

One dead flat sapphire, void of wrath or glee,
Through bay on bay shone blind from bank to bank
The weary Mediterranean, drear to see.

More deep, more living, shone her eyes that drank
The breathless light and shed again on me,
Till pale before their splendour waned and shrank
The sky and sea.

II. GENOA

Again the same strange might of eyes, that saw
In heaven and earth nought fairer, overcame
My sight with rapture of reiterate awe,
Again the same.

The self-same pulse of wonder shook like flame
The spirit of sense within me: what strange law
Had bid this be, for blessing or for blame?

To what veiled end that fate or chance foresaw
Came forth this second sister face, that came
Absolute, perfect, fair without a flaw,
Again the same?

III. VENICE

Out of the dark pure twilight, where the stream
Flows glimmering, streaked by many a birdlike bark
That skims the gloom whence towers and bridges gleam
Out of the dark,

Once more a face no glance might choose but mark
Shone pale and bright, with eyes whose deep slow beam
Made quick the twilight, lifeless else and stark.

The same it seemed, or mystery made it seem,
As those before beholden; but St. Mark
Ruled here the ways that showed it like a dream
Out of the dark.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

DOWN THROUGH DARKNESS

Sat, 07 Nov 2009 04:05:30 +0100

SLEEP

Sleep, when a soul that her own clouds cover
Wails that sorrow should always keep
Watch, nor see in the gloom above her
Sleep,

Down, through darkness naked and steep,
Sinks, and the gifts of his grace recover
Soon the soul, though her wound be deep.

God beloved of us, all men's lover,
All most weary that smile or weep
Feel thee afar or anear them hover,
Sleep.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

ROBERT BROWNING

Fri, 06 Nov 2009 12:45:56 +0100

Robert Browning, the English poet and playwright, was born in Camberwell, London in 1812.

He died at his son's home 'Ca' Rezzonico' in Venice in 1889, and was buried in Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey, where his grave is immediately adjacent to that of Alfred Tennyson.

Here is Swinburne's tribute to the great man.

ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT BROWNING

He held no dream worth waking; so he said,
He who stands now on death's triumphal steep,
Awakened out of life wherein we sleep
And dream of what he knows and sees, being dead.
But never death for him was dark or dread;
"Look forth," he bade the soul, and fear not. Weep,
All ye that trust not in his truth, and keep
Vain memory's vision of a vanished head
As all that lives of all that once was he
Save that which lightens from his word; but we,
Who, seeing the sunset-colored waters roll,
Yet know the sun subdued not of the sea,
Nor weep nor doubt that still the spirit is whole,
And life and death but shadows of the soul.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

Comments

WHEN THE SOUL LEAVES OFF TO DREAM AND YEARN

Thu, 05 Nov 2009 09:34:14 +0100

HOPE AND FEAR

Beneath the shadow of dawn's aërial cope,
With eyes enkindled as the sun's own sphere,
Hope from the front of youth in godlike cheer
Looks Godward, past the shades where blind men grope
Round the dark door that prayers nor dreams can ope,
And makes for joy the very darkness dear
That gives her wide wings play; nor dreams that fear
At noon may rise and pierce the heart of hope.
Then, when the soul leaves off to dream and yearn,
May truth first purge her eyesight to discern
What, once being known, leaves time no power to appall;
Till youth at last, ere yet youth be not, learn
The kind wise word that falls from years that fall--
Hope thou not much, and fear thou not at all.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

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LOVE, SLEEP AND DEATH GO TO THE SWEET SAME TUNE

Wed, 04 Nov 2009 10:21:01 +0100

Here is one of Swinburne's longer romantic poems.

I am sorry I couldn't find an illustration of an orchard in moonlight.

You will just have to imagine that!

IN THE ORCHARD

Leave go my hands, let me catch breath and see;
Let the dew-fall drench either side of me;
Clear apple-leaves are soft upon that moon
Seen sidelong like a blossom in the tree;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

The grass is thick and cool, it lets us lie.
Kissed upon either cheek and either eye,
I turn to thee as some green afternoon
Turns toward sunset, and is loth to die;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Lie closer, lean your face upon my side,
Feel where the dew fell that has hardly dried,
Hear how the blood beats that went nigh to swoon;
The pleasure lives there when the sense has died,
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

O my fair lord, I charge you leave me this:
Is it not sweeter than a foolish kiss?
Nay take it then, my flower, my first in June,
My rose, so like a tender mouth it is:
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Love, till dawn sunder night from day with fire,
Dividing my delight and my desire,
The crescent life and love the plenilune,
Love me through dusk begin and dark retire;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Ah, my heart fails, my blood draws back; I know,
When life runs over, life is near to go;
And with the slain of love love's ways are strewn,
And with their blood, if love will have it so;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Ah, do thy will now; slay me if thou wilt;
There is no building now the walls are built,
No quarrying now the corner-stone is hewn,
No drinking now the vine's whole blood is spilt;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Nay, slay me now; nay, for I will be slain;
Pluck thy red pleasure from the teeth of pain,
Breaks down thy vine ere yet grape-gatherers prune,
Slay me ere day can slay desire again;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Yea, with thy sweet lips, with thy sweet sword; yea
Take life and all, for I will die, I say;
Love, I gave love, is life a better boon?
For sweet night's sake I will not live till day;
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Nay, I will sleep then only; nay, but go.
Ah sweet, too sweet to me, my sweet, I know
Love, sleep, and death go to the sweet same tune;
Hold my hair fast, and kiss me through it soon.
Ah God, ah God, that day should be so soon.

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

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STORM AT SEA

Tue, 03 Nov 2009 11:19:29 +0100

I have been looking through more of Swinburne's poetry to post here, but most of them are over-long and rather boring.

However,I came across this short descriptive poem of a storm at sea and intended adding the Millet painting referred to in the title.

Unfortunately, I can't find it, so I have chosen as my illustration Rembrandt's famous painting of 'The Storm on the Sea of Galilee.

A NIGHT-PIECE BY MILLET

Wind and sea and cloud and cloud-forsaking
Mirth of moonlight where the storm leaves free
Heaven awhile, for all the wrath of waking
Wind and sea.

Bright with glad mad rapture, fierce with glee,
Laughs the moon, borne on past cloud's o'ertaking
Fast, it seems, as wind or sail can flee.

One blown sail beneath her, hardly making
Forth, wild-winged for harbourage yet to be,
Strives and leaps and pants beneath the breaking
Wind and sea.

Algernon Charles Swinburne

P.S. On the morning of March 18, 1990, thieves disguised as police officers broke into the Isabella Stewart Gardner museum in Boston and stole 'The Storm on the Sea of Galilee' and 12 other works.

It is considered the biggest art theft in US history and remains unsolved. The museum still displays the paintings' empty frames in their original locations due to the strict provisions of the donor's will, which instructed that the collection be maintained unchanged.

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MY SOUL'S DESIRE

Mon, 02 Nov 2009 13:37:30 +0100

A few days ago, on my art blog, I promised to post here a poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne.

I forgot - but here it is today, rather romantic and sentimental.

LOVE AND SLEEP

Lying asleep between the strokes of night
I saw my love lean over my sad bed,
Pale as the duskiest lily's leaf or head,
Smooth-skinned and dark, with bare throat made to bite,
Too wan for blushing and too warm for white,
But perfect-coloured without white or red.
And her lips opened amorously, and said--
I wist not what, saving one word--Delight
And all her face was honey to my mouth,
And all her body pasture to mine eyes;
The long lithe arms and hotter hands than fire,
The quivering flanks, hair smelling of the south,
The bright light feet, the splendid supple thighs
And glittering eyelids of my soul's desire.

Algernon Charles Swinburne (1837-1909)

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ONE DAY WE SHALL KNOW

Sun, 01 Nov 2009 06:21:52 +0100

I think Dante Rossetti was a better painter than a poet - and I am finding it difficult to find poems of his that I really like.

This one has a certain appeal, but I have omitted the third and fourth verses.

THE CLOUD CONFINES

The day is dark and the night
To him that would search their heart;
No lips of cloud that will part
Nor morning song in the light:
Only, gazing alone,
To him wild shadows are shown,
Deep under deep unknown
And height above unknown height.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."

The Past is over and fled;
Nam'd new, we name it the old;
Thereof some tale hath been told,
But no word comes from the dead;
Whether at all they be,
Or whether as bond or free,
Or whether they too were we,
Or by what spell they have sped.
Still we say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."

The sky leans dumb on the sea,
Aweary with all its wings;
And oh! the song the sea sings
Is dark everlastingly.
Our past is clean forgot,
Our present is and is not,
Our future's a seal'd seedplot,
And what betwixt them are we?--
We who say as we go,--
"Strange to think by the way,
Whatever there is to know,
That shall we know one day."

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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Déjà Vu ?

Sat, 31 Oct 2009 09:23:36 +0100

SUDDEN LIGHT

I have been here before,
But when or how I cannot tell:
I know the grass beyond the door,
The sweet keen smell,
The sighing sound, the lights around the shore.

You have been mine before,--
How long ago I may not know:
But just when at that swallow's soar
Your neck turn'd so,
Some veil did fall,--I knew it all of yore.

Has this been thus before?
And shall not thus time's eddying flight
Still with our lives our love restore
In death's despite,
And day and night yield one delight once more?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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GREED

Fri, 30 Oct 2009 09:08:45 +0100

I am staying with the "Pre-Raphaelite Poets", but turning to William Morris, the great furniture and textile designer, who was a friend of Dante Rossetti.

Morris wrote a considerable amount of poetry and for today I have chosen these short verses about greed and selfishness.

MINE AND THINE

Two words about the world we see,
And nought but Mine and Thine they be.
Ah! might we drive them forth and wide
With us should rest and peace abide;
All free, nought owned of goods and gear,
By men and women though it were
Common to all all wheat and wine
Over the seas and up the Rhine.
No manslayer then the wide world o'er
When Mine and Thine are known no more.

Yea, God, well counselled for our health,
Gave all this fleeting earthly wealth
A common heritage to all,
That men might feed them therewithal,
And clothe their limbs and shoe their feet
And live a simple life and sweet.
But now so rageth greediness
That each desireth nothing less
Than all the world, and all his own,
And all for him and him alone.

William Morris

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INSOMNIA

Thu, 29 Oct 2009 08:44:40 +0100

Dante Gabriel Rossetti had a sleeping disorder from an early age.

After his wife Elizabeth died this became worse and he began to treat his sleeplessness with a mixture of chloral hydrate and whiskey, which ultimately led to a mental breakdown.

This poem, was written in 1881, a year before his death.

INSOMNIA

Thin are the night-skirts left behind
By daybreak hours that onward creep,
And thin, alas! the shred of sleep
That wavers with the spirit's wind:
But in half-dreams that shift and roll
And still remember and forget,
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.

Our lives, most dear, are never near,
Our thoughts are never far apart,
Though all that draws us heart to heart
Seems fainter now and now more clear.
To-night Love claims his full control,
And with desire and with regret
My soul this hour has drawn your soul
A little nearer yet.

Is there a home where heavy earth
Melts to bright air that breathes no pain,
Where water leaves no thirst again
And springing fire is Love's new birth?
If faith long bound to one true goal
May there at length its hope beget,
My soul that hour shall draw your soul
For ever nearer yet.

Dante Rossetti

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MY SISTER'S SLEEP

Wed, 28 Oct 2009 08:16:10 +0100

In this poem Dante Gabriel Rossetti describes the last moments of a dying girl's life through the narration of her brother.

MY SISTER'S SLEEP

She fell asleep on Christmas Eve:
At length the long-ungranted shade
Of weary eyelids overweigh'd
The pain nought else might yet relieve.

Our mother, who had leaned all day
Over the bed from chime to chime,
Then raised herself for the first time,
And as she sat her down, did pray.

Her little work-table was spread
With work to finish. For the glare
Made by her candle, she had care
To work some distance from the bed.

Without, there was a cold moon up,
Of winter radiance sheer and thin;
The hollow halo it was in
Was like an icy crystal cup.

Through the small room, with subtle sound
Of flame, by vents the fireshine drove
And reddened. In its dim alcove
The mirror shed a clearness round.

I had been sitting up some nights,
And my tired mind felt weak and blank;
Like a sharp strengthening wine it drank
The stillness and the broken lights.

Twelve struck. That sound, by dwindling years
Heard in each hour, crept off; and then
The ruffled silence spread again,
Like water that a pebble stirs.

Our mother rose from where she sat:
Her needles, as she laid them down,
Met lightly, and her silken gown
Settled: no other noise than that.

'Glory unto the Newly Born!'
So, as said angels, she did say;
Because we were in Christmas Day,
Though it would still be long till morn.

Just then in the room over us
There was a pushing back of chairs,
As some who had sat unawares
So late, now heard the hour, and rose.

With anxious softly-stepping haste
Our mother went where Margaret lay,
Fearing the sounds o'erheadÑshould they
Have broken her long watched-for rest!

She stopped an instant, calm, and turned;
But suddenly turned back again;
And all her features seemed in pain
With woe, and her eyes gazed and yearned.

For my part, I but hid my face,
And held my breath, and spoke no word:
here was none spoken; but I heard
The silence for a little space.

Our mother bowed herself and wept:
And both my arms fell, and I said,
'God knows I knew that she was dead.'
And there, all white, my sister slept.

Then kneeling, upon Christmas morn
A little after twelve o'clock
We said, ere the first quarter struck,
Christ's blessing on the newly born!'

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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APOCALYPSE

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 08:57:47 +0100

Last Friday on http://grumpy.blog.co.uk/ I posted "Catastrophe! Catastrophe!", about the end of the world.

In today's sonnet Dante Rossetti has something to say on the same subject.

"Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear!"

LXXII THE CHOICE, II

Watch thou and fear; to-morrow thou shalt die.
Or art thou sure thou shalt have time for death?
Is not the day which God's word promiseth
To come man knows not when? In yonder sky
Now while we speak, the sun speeds forth: can I
Or thou assure him of his goal? God's breath
Even at this moment haply quickeneth
The air to a flame; till spirits, always nigh

Though screen'd and hid, shall walk the daylight here.
And dost thou prate of all that man shall do?
Canst thou, who hast but plagues, presume to be
Glad in his gladness that comes after thee?
Will his strength slay thy worm in Hell? Go to:
Cover thy countenance, and watch, and fear.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

"But of that day and hour knoweth no man, no, not the angels of heaven, but my Father only."

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THAT TIME OF YEAR

Mon, 26 Oct 2009 07:23:25 +0100

Today on my "I Say" blog ( http://me-talking.blog.co.uk/ ) I have posted my poem about Autumn, called "Empty But Full".

Here is Dante Rossetti's take on the same subject, although I feel that my version is a little more optimistic.

AUTUMN SONG

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the heart feels a languid grief
Laid on it for a covering,
And how sleep seems a goodly thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

And how the swift beat of the brain
Falters because it is in vain,
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf
Knowest thou not? and how the chief
Of joys seems--not to suffer pain?

Know'st thou not at the fall of the leaf
How the soul feels like a dried sheaf
Bound up at length for harvesting,
And how death seems a comely thing
In Autumn at the fall of the leaf?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

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WITHOUT HER

Sun, 25 Oct 2009 10:03:45 +0100

After the death of his wife, Elizabeth Siddal, Rossetti published a collection of sonnets entitled The House of Life, which included this poem describing his loneliness when she was no longer there.

WITHOUT HER

What of her glass without her? The blank grey
There where the pool is blind of the moon’s face.
Her dress without her? The tossed empty space
Of cloud-rack whence the moon has passed away.
Her paths without her? Day’s appointed sway
Usurped by desolate night. Her pillowed place
Without her? Tears, ah me! For love’s good grace,
And cold forgetfulness of night or day.
What of the heart without her? Nay, poor heart,
Of thee what word remains ere speech be still?
A wayfarer by barren ways and chill,
Steep ways and weary, without her thou art,
Where the long cloud, the long wood’s counterpart,
Sheds doubled up darkness up the labouring hill.

Dante Rossetti

Note: The sketch of Elizabeth was made by Dante in Hastings in 1854. She didn't enjoy good health and went to the Sussex coast to convalesce. They were married in St Clement's Church, Hastings in 1860 and honeymooned in France.

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VIRGIN WITH CHILD

Sat, 24 Oct 2009 10:52:59 +0200

FOR "A VIRGIN WITH CHILD" BY MICHELANGELO

Mystery: God, man's life, born into man
Of woman. There abideth on her brow
The ended pang of knowledge, the which now
Is calm assured. Since first her task began
She hath known all. What sterner anguish than
She oft hath suffered, who for many a space
Of nights and days hath wept upon her face
While like a heavy flood the darkness ran?
All hath been told her touching her dear son,
And all shall be accomplished. Where he sits
Even now, a babe, he holds the symbol fruit
Perfect and chosen. Until God permits,
His soul's elect still have the absolute
Harsh nether darkness, & make painful moan.

There is a little controversy about this poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti which, in a subtitle, he dedicated to a painting by Michelangelo that he saw on a visit to Bruges.

However, the only work by Michelangelo in the Flemish city is his famous sculpture of The Madonna.

It is thought that Rossetti made a mistake in his recollection of the work that inspired his poem and he should have referred to the painting I have shown above, which is also in Bruges, but was painted by the the German-born painter Hans Memling (Memlinc).

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IT SEEMED THAT YOUTH WOULD NEVER GO

Fri, 23 Oct 2009 08:22:52 +0200

DGR wrote many more poems than I realised and I shall be presenting a selection over the next few weeks.

In this first one the poet recalls his life with his wife Elizabeth Siddal, who died after taking an overdose of laudanum shortly after giving birth to a stillborn child.

Dante became increasingly depressed, and buried the bulk of his unpublished poems in his wife's grave at Highgate Cemetery, although later he had them exhumed.

ALAS, SO LONG!

Ah! dear one, we were young so long,
It seemed that youth would never go,
For skies and trees were ever in song
And water in singing flow
In the days we never again shall know.
Alas, so long!
Ah! then was it all Spring weather?
Nay, but we were young and together.
Ah! dear one, I've been old so long,
It seems that age is loth to part,
Though days and years have never a song,
And oh! have they still the art.

Daniel Gabriel Rossetti

Go to my art blog http://picturepost.blog.co.uk/ to see a painting of Elizabeth Siddal, by her husband.

P.S. If you have not already done so, I would be delighted if you would visit my new video/audio blog "I Say" at: http://me-talking.blog.co.uk/

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SEA-SPELL

Thu, 22 Oct 2009 07:51:19 +0200

I am continuing the verse of Dante Gabriel Rossetti, who I mentioned the other day was both an artist and a poet.

Well, to illustrate that, I am posting today his painting "Sea-Spell" together with the poem of the same name that he wrote to accompany it. Or was it the other way around?

A SEA-SPELL

Her lute hangs shadowed in the apple-tree,
While flashing fingers weave the sweet-strung spell
Between its chords; and as the wild notes swell,
The sea-bird for those branches leaves the sea.
But to what sound her listening ear stoops she?
What netherworld gulf-whispers doth she hear,
In answering echoes from what planisphere,
Along the wind, along the estuary?
She sinks into her spell: and when full soon
Her lips move and she soars into her song,
What creatures of the midmost main shall throng
In furrowed self-clouds to the summoning rune,
Till he, the fated mariner, hears her cry,
And up her rock, bare breasted, comes to die?

Dante Gabriel Rossetti

The lady was obviously a 'Siren'.

For more turn to my art blog:

http://picturepost.blog.co.uk/

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