h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

Jabs, I think that was a bit more of Gods With Stainless Ears by Lynette Roberts, whose work you so admire. I'm not sure it was written in a caravan, although she was, I think, living in a caravan at the time of its publication - several years after it was written.

How's about this one?

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep, deep sea,
Or in wide desert where no life is found,
Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;
No voice is hush’d—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,
That never spoke, over the idle ground:
But in green ruins, in the desolate walls
Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,
Though the dun fox or wild hyæna calls,
And owls, that flit continually between,
Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan—
There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Thanks, ITIWBS

WFAT, you might be right about that particular poem, but it's well known that most of her poems were written in that tiny caravan by the side of the road. Of course, you got the title and he poet right, and yes, I am very fond of her mellifluous modernism.

Yours was Silence by Thomas Hood, almost an outstanding poem.

Here's another poem I'm very fond of. The style gives it away, rather, but I urge you to read the whole thing, with illustrations if they're on the web somewhere, to get the its profound melancholy:


He trilled a carol fresh and free,
He laughed aloud for very glee:
There came a breeze from off the sea:

It passed athwart the glooming flat -
It fanned his forehead as he sat -
It lightly bore away his hat,

All to the feet of one who stood
Like maid enchanted in a wood,
Frowning as darkly as she could.

Deep into the same poem is a verse which may be of interest :


"The Good and Great must ever shun
That reckless and abandoned one
Who stoops to perpetrate a pun".


Not that the author was himself entirely innocent of perpetrating them!


Jabs

Obviously and unmistakably Lewis Carroll. I assume your exhortation to "read the whole thing" applies to The Three Voices, of which those are the opening lines, rather than Phantasmagoria as a whole, Jabs.

I dug out our copy of the complete works, which has some illustrations - but none, alas, for that poem - and read it through. It's a marvellous piece and made me chuckle many times, but I didn't really appreciate its profound melancholy - perhaps because I was much distracted while reading it. In fact, I'm not really sure I understood much of it at all: you probably need to be a student of philosophy to be able to do that (but that's what you are, isn't it, Jabs?)

"'Twere hard," it answered, "themes immense
To coop within the narrow fence
That rings thy scant intelligence."

I remember, in my late teens, listening to Leonard Cohen with my best mate and being blown away by the words. We didn't really understand them, either, but, as I pointed out to him at the time, you don't have to know what you're drinking to get drunk.

As for Lynette Roberts, I don't think anything about her is well known in the normal sense, i.e. widely known. My understanding, from what I've read about her since you brought her to our attention, is that she moved into that tiny caravan in 1949, after her divorce, but that most of her poems were written earlier than that. However, I may have got the wrong end of the stick.

Now, what's this from?

Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore'er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare...

Well done, WFAT, for reading all three voices. I do happen to be a philosophy graduate, but probably it was the lack of illustrations which let you down: Man with head in hands, viciously thin and tall disapproving woman, man lying on the beach with his head under his coat in sheer despair. They're all in 'The Humorous (sic) Verse of Lewis Carroll', an ancient and favourite book of mine, published by Dover. Still available from Amazon under the misleading title of 'Humorous Verse'(Dover Classics For Children), illustrated, like the Alice books, with contemporary engravings.Not a book for children, unless they're being read to, I wouldn't think.

I can't find my volume of Lynette Roberts, and the internet is annoyingly unclear, so let's not argue - she wrote some at least some of her best poetry in the caravan. That it's a romantic image that I'm holding on to, I won't dispute. You are indeed right, though, in pointing out that she started before that. But not long before.

Intelligent discussion like this (at least from you) is a real pleasure.

I must admit that I was crushed and mystified by the poem you offered. With asphodel being what I thought a giveaway, I thought it would be some English Victorian Romantic. But it was Robert Frost, writing before (as an American) the First World War and its harsh realities - The Trial By Existence. And yet, and yet, the innocence of a Brooke is on the turn here.

Now:

In the library
all seem to have some purpose.
I, per contra, plot
a visit to the NatWest,
followed by intemperance.


This is the whole poem. Poet and title please. In addition the collection has a lovely but brief title, which you might or might not be able to find.

Jabs

You've beaten me there, Jabs. The poem is by Peter Reading, from his collection 'Faunal', but I don't know the title - unless it's 'Untitled'.

This is from something a bit older, although I think it has quite a modern ring to it.

Now, this is Stella's case in fact,
An angel's face, a little cracked
(Could poets, or could painters fix
How angels look at, thirty-six):
This drew us in at first, to find
In such a form an angel's mind;
And every virtue now supplies
The fainting rays of Stella's eyes.
See, at her levee, crowding swains,
Whom Stella freely entertains,
With breeding, humour, wit, and sense;
And puts them but to small expense;
Their mind so plentifully fills,
And makes such reasonable bills,
So little gets for what she gives,
We really wonder how she lives!
And had her stock been less, no doubt,
She must have long ago run out.
Then who can think we'll quit the place,
When Doll hangs out a newer face;
Or stop and light at Cloe's Head,
With scraps and leavings to be fed.

I didn't beat you at all, WFAT. The poem's entitled [Untitled]!

Now to yours, Swift or Pope, I first thought. Turned out to be Stella's Birthday by Jonathan Swift. 34!

Now a state to envy deeply (for me, anyway):


HOW happy he, who free from care
The rage of courts, and noise of towns;
Contented breaths his native air,
In his own grounds.

Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread,
Whose flocks supply him with attire,
Whose trees in summer yield him shade,
In winter fire.

Blest! who can unconcern'dly find
Hours, days, and years slide swift away,
In health of body, peace of mind,
Quiet by day,

Sound sleep by night; study and ease
Together mix'd; sweet recreation,
And innocence, which most does please,
With meditation.

Thus let me live, unheard, unknown;
Thus unlamented let me dye;
Steal from the world, and not a stone
Tell where I lye.

Hmm, which particular elements of that state do you envy most, I wonder.

Mine was Swift, as you say, Jabs, and yours was Pope's "Ode on Solitude".

Yesterday, whilst searching in vain for a poem which contained both the word 'heroically' and the word 'told', I stumbled on this, which I find quite powerful. I suspect you will know the author, if not the title.

'Jack fell as he'd have wished,' the mother said,
And folded up the letter that she'd read.
'The Colonel writes so nicely.' Something broke
In the tired voice that quavered to a choke.
She half looked up. 'We mothers are so proud
Of our dead soldiers.' Then her face was bowed.

Quietly the Brother Officer went out.
He'd told the poor old dear some gallant lies
That she would nourish all her days, no doubt
For while he coughed and mumbled, her weak eyes
Had shone with gentle triumph, brimmed with joy,
Because he'd been so brave, her glorious boy.

He thought how 'Jack', cold-footed, useless swine,
Had panicked down the trench that night the mine
Went up at Wicked Corner; how he'd tried
To get sent home, and how, at last, he died,
Blown to small bits. And no one seemed to care
Except that lonely woman with white hair.

The Hero - Siegfried Sassoon

Many thanks for that, WFAT, it's quite brilliant, and I've managed not to come across it before, although I'm very admiring of Sassoon. The only one to compare is this, which you probably know anyway, (and there ain't nothin' wrong with that, innit, especially when it's a clear masterpiece):

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs
Bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Dulce et Decorum Est by Wilfred Owen - I guess just about everyone knows that.

Here are the opening lines to one that's just as obvious, I think - though not so well known. And not quite in the same class.


In the days of lace-ruffles, perukes and brocade
Brown Bess was a partner whom none could despise--
An out-spoken, flinty-lipped, brazen-faced jade,
With a habit of looking men straight in the eyes--
At Blenhein and Ramillies fops would confess
They were pierced to the heart by the charms of Brown Bess.

Though her sight was not long and her weight was not small,
Yet her actions were winning, her language was clear;
And everyone bowed as she opened the ball
On the arm of some high-gaitered, grim grenadier.
Half Europe admitted the striking success
Of the dances and routs that were given by Brown Bess.

Hi WFAT, hope you're having a happy holiday.

That was Brown Bess (The Army Musket) by Rudyard Kipling. I'm conflicted over Kipling - not including his dated Imperialist views, (which you can argue are his fault or not), but the main conflict is regarding a man with great natural gifts who was a populist and wrote some terrible populist stuff. Like the paean to an instrument of death, which we have here.I'm sure I'd dislike him intensely if he were a Tory MP, which he would be, today!

End of what became a rant.

Now, you will find a mixture of translations of this poem, some exceedingly bad (although I don't know the original language I can still judge the poetic value of translations), so if you find it, it may not quite be the same as this. The title doesn't matter, as it seems to be titled/untitled indiscriminately. Great poem though. This is the whole poem, saying so much so economically, including some satire. All I need is the poet.


I know the truth - give up all other truths!
No need for people anywhere on earth to struggle.
Look - it is evening, look, it is nearly night:
what do you speak of, poets, lovers, generals?

The wind is level now, the earth is wet with dew,
the storm of stars in the sky will turn to quiet.
And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we
who never let each other sleep above it.

Season's Greetings to you, Jabs. It's a pity that the snow has all gone and the weather now is dismal, dark and dank.

I know just enough about Kipling to understand your conflict, Jabs, but not enough to know the truth. Unlike the tragic Marina Tsvetaeva. As you say, there are a few translations of that poem floating around, but I couldn't find out who that one was by. Powerful stuff, anyway. Must confess I had never heard of her before, she sounds interesting.

Some more ancient rhyme for you to identify:-

Bright Stella, form'd for universal reign,
Too well you know to keep the slaves you gain;
When in your eyes resistless lightnings play,
Awed into love our conquer'd hearts obey,
And yield reluctant to despotic sway;
But when your music soothes the raging pain,
We bid propitious heaven prolong your reign,
We bless the tyrant, and we hug the chain.
When old Timotheus struck the vocal string,
Ambition's fury fired the Grecian king:
Unbounded projects labouring in his mind,
He pants for room in one poor world confined.
Thus waked to rage by music's dreadful power,
He bids the sword destroy, the flame devour.
Had Stella's gentle touches moved the lyre,
Soon had the monarch felt the nobler fire:
No more delighted with destructive war,
Ambitious only now to please the fair;
Resign'd his thirst of empire to her charms,
And found a thousand worlds in Stella's arms.

a famous poem on the futility of war, titled

the German Guns

Boom, Boom, Boom, Boom,
Boom, Boom, Boom,
BOOM, Boom, Boom, Boom,
Boom, Boom, Boom,

Is that by Basil Brush?

Difficult to be serious after that. Give me a couple of days.

Jab

Posting 513 is obviously a very modern piece, I have been unable to track down the author but it is incredibly punchy and strikes at the very core of the post modernist malaise.

That's 'To Miss Hickman, playing on the spinet' by Samuel Johnson, WFAT. I enjoyed it very much. So many misogynists at roughly the same time - Johnson, Pope, Swift. I wonder if some social shift was happening in the status of women?

This is an English translation of a foreign poem (excerpt). If you're lucky enough to find it on the Analysis page, you'll see that the original is rhymed, and you might be able to make out that the original is much more powerful. Poet and title please:


I am the Dark One, - the Widower, - the Unconsoled
The Aquitaine Prince whose Tower is destroyed:
My only star is dead,- and my constellated lute
Bears the black Sun of Melancholia.

In the night of the Tomb, You who comforted me,
Give me back Mount Posillipo and the Italian sea,
The flower that my afflicted heart liked so much
And the trellised vineyard where the grapevine unites with the rose.



Pebblederook - 513 was made up, which is why you couldn't find it and may be the reason it's been modded.

Jabs, I didn't see the made up poem, I was commenting on this one:

This Posting has been temporarily hidden,
Because a member of our Moderation Team,
Has referred it to the Community Team,
For a decision,,
As to whether,
It contravenes the House Rules in some way.

The bees buzz happily amongst the rosemary bushes
Not contravening any rules of House or Garden.

We will do
Everything we can,
To ensure that
A decision is made,

High above the rooftops the swifts scream,
And soar, doing everything they can to ensure that
A decision is made.

As quickly as possible.

You can find out more about moderation
If you don't think it very boring,
Said Alice.

Ok Pebbles!

Sorry I was a bit dim this time (as usual)

I like your version!

Jabs

I'm pleased to see that #513 has been reinstated - #514 made no sense without it (and maybe not much with it). I can't imagine why it was modded in the first place, but at least that inspired Pebbles' dashed clever intervention.

Jabs, your offering was from a sonnet by Gérard de Nerval, the nom-de-plume of Gérard Labrunie, who apparently had a pet lobster named Thibault. The title is, je pense, "El Desdichado". I don't understand it any better in English than I do in French.

At this time of year there are two poems that come to my mind, so I will take advantage of your seasonal goodwill to quote them both. One I like very much, the other has a snappy first line. You'll probably know them both.

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited ;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.



Another year!--another deadly blow!
Another mighty Empire overthrown!
And We are left, or shall be left, alone;
The last that dares to struggle with the Foe.
'Tis well! from this day forward we shall know
That in ourselves our safety must be sought;
That by our own right hands it must be wrought,
That we must stand unpropped, or be laid low.
O Dastard whom such foretaste doth not cheer!
We shall exult, if they who rule the land
Be men who hold its many blessings dear,
Wise, upright, valiant; not a servile band,
Who are to judge of danger which they fear,
And honour which they do not understand.


Happy New Year