Peaceful windings

Wereover many a stile neeth willows grey
The winding footpath leaves the public way
Free from the dusty din & ceasless chime
Of bustling waggons in the summer time
Crossing a brook—were braving storms in vain
Two willows fell & still for brigs remain
Corn field & clover closes leading down
In peacful windings to the neighbouring town

I will be speaking: 11am Saturday, 28th March 

At the John Clare Cottage in Helpston

to the title, “The Woke John Clare”

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Comments welcome below

Patty

To mark Patty Clare’s 226th birthday today, some simple lines Clare wrote to Patty around 200 years ago: 

O once I had a true love
As blest as I could be
Patty was my turtle dove
& Patty she loved me
We walked the fields together
By roses & woodbine
In Summers sunshine weather
& Patty she was mine

We stopped to gather primroses
& violets white & blue
In pastures & green closes
All glistening with the dew
We sat upon green mole-hills
Among the daisy flowers
To hear the small birds merry trills
& share the sunny hours

I will be speaking: 11am Saturday, 28th March 

At the John Clare Cottage in Helpston

to the title, “The Woke John Clare”

#poetry #environment 

#honesty

Comments welcome below

The Gipsy

Sometimes I watch a film or read a book, come-to and tell myself, 'But I was there! I heard it, I saw it.' It is a not uncommon experience. It occurs when I read John Clare on the gypsies. He both hobnobbed with them and was fastidious where they were concerned, was prejudiced and unprejudiced at the same time. He wrote many poems about them which envied their lot, their freedom, their women, and one poem which envied them nothing.

The snow falls deep; the Forest lies alone:
The boy goes hasty for his load of brakes,
Then thinks upon the fire and hurries back;
The Gipsy knocks his hands and tucks them up,
And seeks his squalid camp, half hid in snow,
Beneath the oak, which breaks away the wind,
And bushes close, with snow like hovel warm:
There stinking mutton roasts upon the coals,
And the half-roasted dog squats close and ribs,
Then feels the heat too strong and goes aloof;
He watches well, but none a bit can spare.
And vainly waits the morsel thrown away:
'Tis thus they live- a picture to the place;
A quiet, pilfering, unprotected race.

It is masterly in its realism. Though one observation would not be ours- 'a picture to the place'. Today's Travellers' encampment has swapped the vardo for the mobile home, horses for horse-power and horse-dealing for scrap metal, and is anathema in our twinked countryside. We, the council, intended the Traveller (is 'gypsy' P.C.?- or not? - it is all rather worrying) to just winter on the official site, then push on, not to purchase them and turn them into messy caravan additions to our village. We like the gypsies best at the horse-fairs, when they return to being their colourful selves, painted wagons, fortune tellers, dark-eyed beauties, lively yearlings and all. Appleby Fair is where they should be. No scrap-dealing there.

‘John Clare and the Gypsies’
An excerpt from 'A Writer's Day-Book', by Ronald Blythe,
published by Trent Editions, 2006

I will be speaking: 11am Saturday, 28th March 

At the John Clare Cottage in Helpston

to the title, “The Woke John Clare”

#poetry #environment 

#honesty

Comments welcome below

War

As we often find, John Clare has summarised our feelings, line 8-10 says it all for me today:

Gone is my Jemmy that threw his arm round me
& bore home my milk pails & milked my cow
The tempest may blow & the rain storm may drownd me
Theres ne’er a kind heart to be meeting me now

Like the odd larking upon the bleak meadows
& lorn mopeing quail on the hard frozen lea

Which the Gun of the hard hearted swain has made widows
I meet the sad trouble that war bringeth me

All hopes they are vain while the grim war is scowling

Its fate may already alight on him now

Thus sighd a lorn maid to the winter winds howling
Whose eyes swum wi tears as she rose from her cow

(From ‘The Milkmaids Lament’)

I will be speaking: 11am Saturday, 28th March 

At the John Clare Cottage in Helpston

to the title, “The Woke John Clare”

#poetry #environment 

#honesty

Comments welcome below

Shines like the sun

Under hedges the violets are coming in bloom 
& the Pilewort it shines like the Sun 
The Spring it is bursting from the winters cold Tomb 
& the sun of Lifes smiles has begun 
Tis February end to morrow fair maid 
& the Snowdrops are looking for thee 
The Crocus has got his gold suit ready made 
& hopes thy companion to be 
So out of two sweethearts be sure & chuse one 
While chusing is left to thy choice 
For Valentine day only came to be gone 
& then true love is left without voice

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Hazel bowers

Untoucht by frowning tempest howling high 
Their terrors thro the oak twigs melting green 
That bows the daisey down upon the green 
& threatens much the cowslaps trembling flow[er]s 
Thou ere dwelst peacful in thy lonly scene 
Thy oaks high towering & thy hazel bowers 
Thou lowly hermit flower of Solitude 
Thou plainly tellst a lesson unto me 
The naked hill bears all the tempest rude 
That wind decends to touch such thing as thee

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Pudgy paths

O for a pleasant book to cheat the sway 
Of winter—where rich mirth with hearty laugh 
Listens & rubs his legs on corner seat 
For fields are mire & sludge—& badly off 
Are those who on their pudgy paths delay 
There striding shepherd seeking driest way 
Fearing nights wetshod feet & hacking cough 
That keeps him waken till the peep of day 
Goes shouldering onward & with ready hook 
Progs off to ford the sloughs that nearly meet 
Accross the lands—croodling & thin to view 
His loath dog follows—stops & quakes & looks

For better roads—till whistled to pursue 
Then on with frequent jump he hirkles through

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Winter occupies

Where does comforts bosom glow
Where lives he a tenant now
In snug places out of doors
Fields or woods or rushy moors
No for winter occupies 
Every bit of earth & skies
Overhead the clouds are dull
Underfoot the roads are full 
Of mire & sludge & water too
That slushes in the ploughmans shoe
& spatters from the hasty horse
That has the meadows floods to cross

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Nobody cometh to woo

On Martinmas Eve the dogs did bark
& I opened the window to see
When every maiden went by with her spark
But ne'er a one came to me
& oh dear what will become of me
& oh dear what shall I do
When nobody whispers to marry me
Nobody cometh to woo

Nones born for such troubles as I be
If the sun wakens first in the morn 
‘Lazy hussy’ my parents both call me
& I must abide by their scorn
For nobody cometh to marry me
Nobody cometh to woo

So here in distress must I tarry me
What can a poor maiden do

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Early rising

While offering help to climb the stile

A modest look & winning smile

(Love beaming in her eyes the while)

Repayd my early rising

Aside the green hills steepy brow

Where shades the oak its darksome bough

The maiden sat to milk her cow

The cause of early rising

The wild rose mingling with the shade

Stung with envy closd to fade

To see the rose her cheeks displayd

The fruits of early rising

The kiss desird against he[r] will

To take the milk pail up the hill

Seemd from resistance sweeter still

Thrice happy early rising

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Footpath winding

Ive oft been glad at heart to see 
A footpath winding through the grass 
Oer narrow stiles neath spreading tree 
Not wide enough for two to pass 
But now no ownership I fear 
Nor path to keep nor stile to climb 
I feel myself a monarch here 
My very fancies grow sublime 
Yon bird that winnows in the sky 
On narrow pointed quivering wings 
These sheep that in the molehills lie 
Are all the hermit living things 
I see—and from the world away 
I feel what she can never give 
So happy at my heart to-day 
That from the world I wish to live

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Snow storm

One almost sees the hermit from the wood 
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood 
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world forgetting mood 
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs 
It seems heart aching for his solitude

Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily known for years by the strange wand 
Of winters humour changed the little croft 
Left green at night when morns loath looks obtrude
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Have gone & left us in another land

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Love’s strings

Ive heard thee sing of plaintive things

& as thy fingers swept the strings

Thy eyes have wept most tenderly

Then list awhile till I beguile

Thy heart with sorrows melody

A young heart tried a maid to move
& pined to death for very love
The maiden naught but scorn returned
Nor dropt one tear upon his bier
He died unhonoured & unmourned

I knew thou'dst mourn so sad a thing
Oh touch my Anna touch the string
With sprightlier airs nor grief endure
That heart you weep though wounded deep
Is yet not past your cure

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Clare’s Novel

Very few folk know that in the 1820s Clare was engaged in writing scenes for a novel.  After finding traces of these writings in the Archives, I quickly realised that here was a considerable amount of prose that no-one seemed to have explored, and published.  All completely ignored although there are many important passages.  Here is a taste of the series of letters in the novel between Mrs Hubbelgubbel and Mrs Leytiss, influenced by the hilarious correspondence in Smollett's ‘Humphrey Clinker’ from the late 18th century.

Miss Eleezer plays bewtifulle on the Pye anna 
forty & sings so chamminly that I feere we shell sewn 
loose thee yung leddy fur she hes so menny 
akompleeshmints & our yung sqire steys so long away 
fram Lunnun that theirs no noin whets to bee    whel 
godd giv hur grace fur shees gat weesdom enaff aireddy 
for a dukes dewchest    athou it iss I her maa maa who 
seys it     be wise der bye beetimes & let mee tell yu 
thet a duke is not a dukk minde    thet wich swimms on 
the warter    but onne off thee quall ety der bye thet iss 
nextt to thee kingg godd bless him 

(From Clare’s aborted novel ‘Memoirs of Uncle Barnaby’ still available from me, £12.50)

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Sweet is the stillness

How calm is the even down in the narrow lane 
 
Where white thorn & woodbine & dog roses meet 
 
How bright is the dew on the dog rose again 
 
While grey mist creeps over like the days winding sheet 
O beautiful the silver mist will hang on flowers 
 
& pearl oer the freckles O the fox glove bell 
 
How sweet is the stillness O eventide hours 
 
When in the green oak leaves ring doves do dwell

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Glitters like gold

Theres a little odd house by the side of the Lane 
Where the daisy smiles sweet in the spring 
Where the morning sun glitters like gold on the pane 
& the hedge Sparrow trembles his wing 
Where chaffinch green linnet & Sparrows have tones 
That make the green Lane & the cottage their own

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One white garb

One almost sees the hermit from the wood 
Come bending with his sticks beneath his arm
& then the smoke curl up its dusky flood 
From the white little roof his peace to warm
One shapes his books his quiet & his joys
& in romances world-forgetting mood 
The scene so strange so fancys mind employs 
It seems heart aching for his solitude

Domestic spots near home & trod so oft
Seen daily known for years—by the strange wand 
Of winters humour changed the little croft 
Left green at night when morns loath looks obtrude
Trees bushes grass to one wild garb subdued
Have gone & left us in another land

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Image by #JohnNash

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Solitudes

I love to hide me on a spot that lies 

In solitudes where footsteps find no track
To make intrusions there to sympathize With nature often gazing on the rack That veils the blueness of the summer skies In rich varieties or oer the grass Behold the spangled crowds of butterflies Flutter from flower to flower & things that pass

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Spring Messengers

Here we have Clare speaking of the first signs of Spring, the primrose that I can see from my study across the garden, with its Devon banks and warm corners:

Where slanting banks are always with the sun 
The daisy is in blossom even now
& where warm patches by the hedges run 
The cottager when coming home from plough 
Brings home a cowslip root in flower to set
Thus ere the Christmas goes the spring is met 
Setting up little tents about the fields 
In sheltered spots — Primroses when they get 
Behind the woods old roots where ivy shields 
Their crimpled curdled leaves will shine and hide
Cart ruts and horses footings scarcely yield 
A slur for boys just crizzled & that's all
Frost shoots his needles by the small dyke side
& snow in scarce a feathers seen to fall

After seeking out this lovely poem, I remembered Ronald Blythe's words from his weekly country diary "Word from Wormingford" many years ago:

"Gulls, scores of them, take greedy flight over a bit of ploughing. Clumps of snowdrops reveal their presence in my woodland, white-tipped needles in the leaf mulch. And then that midwinter yet, at the same time, near-spring rustle of blackbirds kicking around in dry leaves, and the jewel-like glimpse of their shining eyes beneath the shrubs"

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Heavy rain

The shepherd leaves his unprotected flock 
 
& flies for shelter in some scooping rock 
 
There hides in fear from the dread boding wrath 
 
Lest rocks shoud tremble when it sallies forth 
 
& that almighty power that bids it roar 
 
Has seald the doom when time shall be no more 
 
The cotters family cringe round the harth 
 
Where all is saddnd but the crickets mirth 


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Approach of Spring

Ive met the Winters biting breath
In Natures wild retreat
When Silence listens as in death
& thought its wildness sweet
& I have loved the Winters calm
When frost has left the plain
When suns that morning wakend warm
Left eve to freeze again

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Toiling

 

I feel it necessary to temper the romantic notions we have of life in the outdoors in the early 19th century as an agricultural labourer:

Toiling in the naked fields
Where no bush a shelter yields
Needy Labour dithering stands
Beats & blows his numbing hands
& upon the crumping snows
Stamps in vain to warm his toes
Leaves are fled that once had power
To resist a summer shower
& the wind so piercing blows
Winnowing small the drifting snows

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Poesys measured feet

Like boys that run behind the loaded wain
For the mere joy of riding back again
When summer from the meadow carts the hay
& school hours leave them half a day to play
So I with leisure on three sides a sheet
Of foolscap dance with poesys measured feet
Just to ride post upon the wings of time
& kill a care to friendship turned in rhyme

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I early ramble

The sharp wind shivers in the warm gorse blossoms
& trembles in the dead grass oer the heath
The silver rain pearls in the wild flowers bosoms
& moistens minute flowers of moss beneath
There i' the morning dew I early ramble
What time beneath the fern the weary moth
Hides from the sun in dew drops hangs the bramble
As down the rabbit track I venture forth

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Housewives tales

Housewives discoursing 'bout their hens & cocks
Spinning long stories wearing half the day
Sad deeds bewailing of the prowling fox
How in the roost the thief had knav'd his way
& made their market-profits all a prey
& other losses too the dames recite
Of chick & duck & gosling gone astray
All falling prizes to the swopping kite
& so the story runs both morning noon & night

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Image by my friend #CarryAkroyd

Swifter than thought

Where the deer with their shadows passed swifter than thought
& the hare from the braken went limping along
Where the pheasants red eye for a moment was caught
Then vanished away like a spinning bees song
Ye green shades of Burghley how lovely you seem
Your sweet spreading oaks & your braken so green
Your green plots as sweet as a shepherd boys dream
Neath the shade of dark trees where Ive many a day been

& sitting in braken or roots of the lime
Amusing my leisure in ballads & rhyme

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The storm

Slow boiling up on the horisons brim 
 
Hugh massey clouds mountainious large & grim 
 
Sluggish & slow upon the air they ride 
 
As pitch black ships oer the blue ocean glide 
 
Curling & hovering oer the gloomy south 
 
As curls the sulphur from the canons mouth 
 
More grizly in the sun the tempest comes 
 
& thro the wood wi threatnd vengance hums

Hissing more loud & loud among the trees 
 
The frighted wild wind trembles to a breeze 
 
Just turns the leaf in terryf[y]ing sighs 
 
Bows to the spirit of the storm & dies 
 
In wild pulsations beats the heart of fear 
 
At the low rumbling thunder creeping near

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