Shipwreckd Ghost

Ghost 

O open the door on thy william distrest
He longs just to lay his cold head on thy breast

The billows are beating contrary
They feign woud have rolld oer his rest in his grave
But he beetld the rock & he dasht the salt wave
To take a farwell of his mary

Mary 

I list somthing surely was calling to me
Ive opend the window but nought can I see
Go sleep thou impertinent fairy
I neer did thee harm to disturb my repose
To kill me wi news of his sea faring woes
Poor williams far off from his mary

Ghost 

O the night it is dark & the fogs gather deep
Thy eyes are yet dimd wi the visions of sleep
Blame thou no impertinent fairy
All hamperd wi sea weeds all clotted wi blood
From the wounds of the rock i' the rude dashing flood
He fears to be loathd by his mary

Mary 

Ah thou art no william thy voice is too broad
Tis more like the croak of the night walking toad
My williams was quite the contrary
He spoke like an angel his eyes they were bright
Twas as vainly to hide em as stars in the night
As sweet woud they shine on his mary

Ghost 

Ah closd are his eyes on the billows affloat
The salt waters ‘gug-gug—gug-gug’ down his throat
Well well may his speech seem contrary
Hoarse in the cold sea the waves mix in his wound
If thoult see thy william this instant come down
Hes short time to stay with his mary

Mary 

Ah there is my william O god how he bleeds
O faint not Ill free thy poor head from its weeds
& flew to the door like a fairy
But ere she coud open the clock tolled one
The night was all silent—her william was gone
& never more wakend his mary

Note:

George Deacon in 'John Clare and the Folk Tradition' (Page 142-3) has a tune set for this lyric.  He goes on to say, "This is surely a song written by Clare.  The lover returning as a ghost is a common theme in folk balladry, and song like 'The Daemon Lover', 'The Grey Cock' and 'Sweet William's Ghost' may have been in his mind when he wrote this.  As a composition in the popular idiom this is as unsuccessful as 'The Great Sea Fight'.  It is, however, a good example of the influence of this idiom on Clare's own writing."

Manuscript reference: Pet MS A7 33a; B2 123a; C1 5a

EP II 36

Tis Midsummer Eve

I've been gleaning again.  Working through my old notebooks from several years of searching the Clare manuscripts in the Peterborough Archive for little known or unpublished (as far as I know) work.  I noticed, only when typing them up, the links between these three short poems transcribed on three seperate visits in 2017.  Not the most eloquent of Clare's output, but they do have a real charm.

Heres the old fairey rings by this dark thickets side

Where the owl rests in fear & the foxes abide

Where fairys dance round them more still than a sigh

Yet the shepherd when late hears the noise passing bye –

& oer his snug fire in his cottage at night

Hell talk till the candle turns blue with affright

Of the pranks that they play & the sports they pursue

& the mischief when vexed that they venture to do

How they steal into barns & fall thrashing the corn

Till the cock on the dunghill gins sounding his horn

Then all in an instant flye silent away

With an ear in their hands & so many are they

That the old startled farmer with anguish & awe

When he comes in the morning finds nothing but straw

& why shouldnt we of our troubles take leave

& with nature make merry at midsummers eve

(lines 84-99)

Pet MS A49 p32

(Unpublished save MP II 207)

Do but look what a beautiful midsummer night

The fairys are dancing [no] doubt by moon light

In the dark beaten rings by the old forrest side

Where the owl roosts with fear and the fairies abide

Grass & flowers seem oerjoyed in the merry moonlight

& dress to impress in gay partys at night

For the pasture is free from the rude heavy cow

& they walk with no fear to be trampled on now

The bee with his load of red dust on his thigh

No longer to teaze them for kisses comes nigh

Tho the Moth a coy lover for chances doth creep

His kisses to steal now he thinks them asleep

Pet MS A39 p11

(Unpublished)

The Moth a coy lover now ventures to creep

Out at night to steal kisses from flowers when asleep

But the Butterflye bold as the Bee for a plot

Kisses the flowers all the day whether willing or not

Now no longer able his sports to pursue

He lay neath a leaf to get out of the dew

Heres the Cockchaffer to with his old sullen drone

Sings as if he thought no song sweet as his own

The Bee too with grains of red dust on each thigh

Who had drained thro the day all the honey flowers dry

& in vain he attempted straight forward to drive

He reeled and mistook the way home to his hive

Till lost on this spot in a considerable fright

He makes on this thistle a bed for the night

Heres the rope dancing spider a trusting his threads

From his web on the branches high over their heads

Ah well may you laugh at the sports he doth make

While he dances away in no fears for his neck

The rest were all coupled & happy & they

Song the old merry songs which they sang at his day

Pet MS A31 p9

‘Hidden Treasures’ - Arbour Editions – 2016 (2^nd edition 2019)

Solitude

John Clare’s 1819 poem ‘Solitude’ was published by Taylor & Hessey as part of the 1821 “The Village Minstrel” collection, but alas, with many alterations, omissions and ‘corrections’, as well as added punctuation.   The altered text in ‘The Village Minstrel’ had been so butchered by its editors that it had become a very different poem indeed.  Why did Taylor & Hessey have this done?  Probably to make it more ‘acceptable’, in their opinion, to the book buying public of 1821.  Unfortunately, completely destroying Clare’s purpose in the poem, clearly seen by comparing their version with Clare’s manuscript.  I know which poem I would rather read, and it certainly is not the VM published version.    Whilst researching Clare’s manuscripts with Annie Lee in 2014, we came across the ‘Solitude’ manuscript, immediately realising what had been done to Clare’s verse.  Since that moment our, and now my, aim has been to publish Clare’s verse and prose as he wrote it.  Little did we realise at that time, that by doing so we were inadvertently joining a heated argument that has raged for 50 (at least) years.  Certainly, since the first publications by Professor Eric Robinson and Geoffrey Summerfield of unchanged Clare texts in the 1960s. Just to illustrate what the reader will miss reading the VM version, John Taylor removed the following lines from the published text in ‘The Village Minstrel’ (Vol 1, p 200 ff).  I have simply assembled them in the order in which they appear, dotted through the manuscript (Pet MS B2 p256a, C2 p36).     O how sweet I cannot tell     With thee at that hour to dwell     Stretchd the mossy bank beside     Lye to view the random tide     Where no clowns has chopt from thence     Bush nor stake to mend his fence     Cornerd stones & pebbles round     Breaking dasht wi mellow sound     Wether this or that to see     I am blest if Im wi thee     & full dear has been the hour     Spent wi in thy noon day bower     Prest wi thee thy mossy seat     O its unexpressive sweet Why were these lines deleted?  No-one has any idea, but the whole 'Solitude' poem in its restored form was published – with its many variant readings - in the wonderful OUP Clarendon Editions (EP II 338).  I don’t think the poem has been published in its original state apart from that, until Annie Lee and I came along that is, Annie producing the stunning Handmade Limited Edition volume you see above - all long sold out of course.

Of sunset and dandelions

Tis May and yet the March flower Dandelion 

Is still in bloom among the Emerald grass 

Shining like guineas with the suns warm eye on 

We almost think they are gold as we pass 

Or fallen stars on a green sea of grass 

The[y] shine in fields on waste grounds near the town 

They closed like painters brush when even was 

At length they turn to nothing else but down 

While the rude winds blow of[f] each shadowy crown 

('A Raphsody' - lines 80-88)

Clare's use of thee and thou

(from a discussion on my 'John Clare Poet' facebook page)

Reading through Arbour Editions "O Woman Sweet Witchingly Woman."  Interested in "Mary leave thy lowly cot" (page 12), especially for its switching from thou to ye for the addressee. 

This is well-attested in Early Modern English, switching from thou to you and back for shades of intimacy or distance, and I wonder if my mentioning this brings to mind other lyrics where this occurs. Thoughts? Thank you all.  (John Wright)

1. Mary leave thy lowly cot
2. When thy thickest jobs are done
3. When thy friends will miss the[e] not]
   Mary to the pasture run
   Where we met the other night
   Neath the bush upon the plain
   Be it dark or be it light
   Ye may guess we'll meet again

4. Shoud ye go or shoud ye not
5. Never shilly shally dear
6. Leave yer work & leave yr cot
7. Nothing need ye doubt or fear
8. 1Chaps may tell ye lies in spite
9. Calling me a roving swain
10. Think what passd the other night
11. Then Ill bound yell meet again

My answer: Not my field as I've said before, but the use of 'ye', 'yer', 'yr', 'yell' (ye'll) surely simply mimic the speech pattern, and are still 'possessives' (is that the right word)? I don't think you can say 'thour', 'thr', although I have heard (when I lived in Sheffield) 'thoull' (thou'll). Rebecca Hawley (Sheffield born and bred) might enlighten further...

Rebecca's answer: In Sheffield we still switch between thou and ye to address someone or variants of it. 'Tha'll freeze aht thee-er' - you will be cold outside. Or 'yul freeze'. Thou, thee, tha, thine, thou'll. All still used .You sometimes say thou'r meaning you were, past tense usually eg 'thou'r reyt daft yesterday when you....'. Sometimes you may say 'Tha a reyt un' meaning you're a bit of a character.

4. 
   

Spirit of the woods awake (excerpt)

[Image of Holm Fen by Anne Lee]

A manuscript I dug out of the Peterborough Archives... which had originally only been published in the Clarendon Editions, but now also in my Arbour Editions Chapbook (No.6) 'Trees - In a Strange Stillness'.  An early Clare poem that is virtually impossible to read from the manuscript notebook. Clare wrote all the poems therein in pencil, then erased to reuse the little book - he was very short of paper.  The notebook dates from 1819 or thereabouts, certainly before his marriage to Patty in March 1820. Because of the difficulties in transcription, most of the poems in the notebook have been largely overlooked.  Here is an excerpt, the first two verses.

Spirit of the woods awake

In thy wildest dress appear
Trace with me the curdled brake
Sound thy wildness in my ear
Genius of the woods that dwells
Sweeping boughs & grains among
As I climb thy rough rude dells
Breath thy roughness in my song

While I brush the branches by
& this woods still ways forsake
Woodland spirit meet my eye
Genius of the woods awake
Breath thy wildness in my ear

To thy trees  I do belong
Genius of the woods appear
Sound thy roughness in my song

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

(Oxford, 2 volumes, I-II, 1989)

John Clare gains recognition on a post stamp

As part of the 250th anniversary of William Wordsworth birthday on the 5th April 2020, the Royal Mail have issued a set of 10 stamps celebrating the romantic poets. Included in this set is John Clare, others include Blake, Keats and Byron. The set of stamps comes in a presentation pack which also contains a write of the romantic poets by Jonathan Bate. 

Twas love & pleasure all along

I felt that I'd a right to song

& sung—but in a timid strain

Of fondness for my native plain

For everything I felt a love

The weeds below the birds above

& weeds that bloomed in summers hours

I thought they should be reckoned flowers

They made a garden free for all

& so I loved them great & small

& sung of some that pleased my eye

Nor could I pass the thistle bye

But paused & thought it could not be

A weed in natures poesy

(lines 79-92)

A considerable surprise

Working through a huge pile of inherited transcripts and notes made largely by Professor Robinson over many years, I came across a transcript I had forgotten.  Entitled 'For tale of fisherman' is it an incomplete short story written by Clare, judged by its manuscript context, in the late 1820s.  I am still working on it, and searching for the missing text, but here is a short extract.

he was astonished even to fear & saw the waters for miles above him & miles about him & yet he breathed as free from choaking as he did before he started [while dibbing cabbages in his garden]     how it could be he could not tell but so it was    & as his eyes began to clear of their supprise as began to look about him to see the strange country he was in     & every thing was new & nothing like what he had seen be fore     there were large forrests as high as his own wood but leafey & when he came to examine them they were of pearls & corral    there were monsters of extradinary size & shape 

& what he had never expected to have accosted    a lady approached him   not very handsome to be sure   for she had green hair   red eyes   & teeth of odd shape   yet she seemed young & wellshaped     he accosted her but she seemed not to understand him & stooping as if to amuse her self by picking up things from the sand   she offered him a handful     & they were guineas & Portugal dollars & bright as if minted but yesterday    

Pet MS A18 p R254

'The Descending Spiral' - Chapbook No.16

What was the catalyst during the autumn and early winter of 1841 that made Patty Clare realise that she could not cope with her returned husband living, as they were, in Northborough?

I have always been intrigued with this year of two Asylums.  The year when Clare quit High Beech and walked the 90 miles to Werrington, where Patty picked him up off the road.  Then after a few months at home found himself being forcibly taken to Northampton General Asylum.

By Christmas his position in Northborough was impossible to maintain, “a stranger to his own family”, and he was removed to Northampton General Lunatic Asylum on 29^thDecember 1841.

     & what is joy or bliss or happiness

     Mere trifling parents of a laugh or smile

     That are but cares decked in a different dress

     To cheat our hearts & sooth our hopes awhile

     Mere sabbaths in lifes agonizing toil

     To catch our breath while in its strife we dwell

     Prolonging life by shadows that beguile

     For joys beginnings have one tale to tell
     & bring their end a heart ache & farewell  

Poetically, the year was a very productive period with a vast output of all sorts, from Biblical paraphrases to the devastating denunciation of women, marriage and sexual excesses of Don Juan.  

Sandwiched between these polar opposites we encounter some of Clare’s most beautiful and haunting work, the beauty and longing of a confused mind.  But I see something else too.  I see a descending spiral.  A descent from mental confusion and day-dreaming, through depression into despair, which continued throughout much of his Northampton incarceration. In this, the sixteenth volume of my Chapbook series, I seek to show Clare’s spiral into despair, and the possible causes.

Incidentally, if you unsure exactly what a chapbook is, an introduction: http://arboureditions1.blogspot.com/2020/03/introduction-to-chapbook.html

Published in April 2020, The Descending Spiral is priced at £3.50 + £1 P&P.  To order by email drop me a message on arborfield@pm.me OR send me a message via facebook.

Kate O'Killarney

[Image: Killarney Castle]

The flower of Ould Ireland is Kate o' Killarney
So now ye half daft men ge's no more o' your blarney
Than the thistle and rose the shamrocks more green
Sweet Kate o' Killarney's the Irishmans queen
So tight Irish boys o' the smoke and the still
Drink the Irishmans Queen in another bright gill
What man o' the Shamrock what man o' the blarney
Drinks whiskey and knows not the Maid o' Killarney?

Oh Island o' green & sweet land o the praters
Wi your Catholic Priests & Eves sweet pretty craturs
I love you together like bees may you hive
And wish ye like bees in your Island may thrive
Your daughters are fair as their grandmother Eve
As lovely—as tempting—as fain to deceive
If you set me like Adam to fall by your sin
By the priest o' St Patrick I'm sure I should win

I'm not up to beading my prayers upon pearl
But I long for a kiss fro' my sweet Irish girl
Such a kiss that the parson himself could not blame
Nor find for the sin if it is so? a name
So heres to the shamrock and also the thistle
And the rose for an advocate never shall whistle
Put all three together & the pride o' Killarney
Is the Irishmans queen and her name is Kate Kearney

LP page 945

Knight Transcript KT ii 287

Ronnie at the Clare Society Festival

[Image:  Ronnie at Helpston]

I make no apology for featuring Ronald Blythe once again on this Blog. Ronnie, past President of the Clare Society, for many years wrote weekly for the Church Times.

Towards the end of the 19th century the British countryside would fall into a depression that would last until the opening of the Second World War, when food needs, and today's non-traditional farming methods, would rescue it from decline.

I looked up Clare's activities in July from his wonderfully useful The Shepherd's Calendar. So far as I can tell, virtually nothing happens in Wormingford in July. You might have to squeeze past a hay lorry whose dizzy oblong load totters ahead, and whose driver waves his sunburnt hand. No women semi-dressed in the hay-making fields which so tantalised the young poet. What work does he list for July? Well, mostly anything which meant using a scythe.

I keep my scythe in cutting order with a whet-stone. I bought it in Stowmarket a long time ago, and I am enchanted this moment to see Adrian wielding it in the orchard. Softly, it lays the summer growth down in rhythmic folds. Greengages will tumble down on to them without bruising. You have to beat the birds where there are greengages. A week late, and they will be the debris of a feast.

Clare's July village is noisy with "singing, shouting herding boys", and bagpipes, as young Scots tramp down the Great North Road to seek their fortunes in London. Our car makes its journey through ancient lanes and motorways to the church at Helpston, where I sit on the chancel step to talk on England's most eloquent village voice, and a prolific one, so that the John Clare Society need never run out of subjects.

We come home to matins and evensong in two different churches, and to the lasting heatwave. Now, with the house empty, and the white cat thanking her god for summer's torpor as she sleeps in the window ledge above what was the copper, I get back to routine, breaking into it now and then to pull up some giant weed. By far my most wondrous July achievement this year is the sweet-pea wigwam: a score of bamboo rods that carry the flowers to heaven. A vase of them locked into a room overnight is the best welcome to a July breakfast.

Clare sees "the gardener sprinkling showers from watering cans on drooping flowers" as he tended both wild and cultivated plants behind his cottage. It could have been a statement on his own genius. His natural history was marvellously inclusive. It began when he was a boy, lying low in the summer grass, watching climbing insects; and it ended as the beautiful sane region to which he could escape from the "madhouse".

(Ronald Blythe)

Signs of Winter

The cat runs races with her tail. The dog
Leaps oer the orchard hedge and knarls the grass.
The swine run round and grunt and play with straw,
Snatching out hasty mouthfuls from the stack.
Sudden upon the elmtree tops the crow
Unceremonious visit pays and croaks,
Then swops away. From mossy barn the owl
Bobs hasty out--wheels round and, scared as soon,
As hastily retires. The ducks grow wild
And from the muddy pond fly up and wheel
A circle round the village and soon, tired,
Plunge in the pond again. The maids in haste
Snatch from the orchard hedge the mizzled clothes
And laughing hurry in to keep them dry.

Review of 'The Lovers Meeting

From the moment that my copy of 'The Lovers Meeting' landed on the doormat, to reading its pages (several times), I am constantly taken aback by how insightful, knowledgeable, and masterfully illustrated this piece of work really is, by Roger Rowe and Anne Lee.  If one thought pervades my mind whilst absorbing each painstakingly, crafted page (for this book was certainly a labour of love in itself), it is of a quote from Aristotle: ‘Pleasure’ in poetry, Aristotle has said, ‘is the image of man and nature … there is no object standing between the Poet and the image of things.’ It is within this ‘image of man and nature’ that we truly begin to understand the ‘pleasure[s]’ John Clare, not only derives from non-human Nature, but also that of human nature; perfectly bound and brought to the public in this limited edition book.

Rowe provides an historical introduction to Clare’s work that underpins the poem’s creation and the struggles faced in its exposition (from Ovid to Richard Duke).  As Rowe so rightly suggests, work of such an erotic nature was often bound by circumstance and censored by the adolescent ideology that supported Victorian and Edwardian sensibilities of the middle and upper-classes and, as he continues, ‘[t]he cold hand of Evangelical piety.’ Nonetheless, Rowe has unearthed this significant text from its censorship, for readers whom he believes are mature enough to ‘cope with Clare’s explicit erotic imagery.’ I believe it is so important in fact, that it serves to educate Clare enthusiasts and academics alike.  ‘The Lovers Meeting’ provides anthropological linguistic insight behind what drives basic human instinct - what man aspires to be – to be unafraid of confronting the carnal nature inherent within all humanity.  Clare achieves this through the relationship of man, cognition and language.  For him, the feelings associated with sex are nothing to be ashamed of.  They are a natural portion of our being: ‘burning’ and ‘scorching’ says the speaker in stanza one and, it is in his beloved Nature which provides the blanket to lie down upon.

But Clare always remains the gentleman:

Here rest fond muse – For these thy powers excel

& if thou hadst not thou must cease to tell

Nor try nor venture secrets to reveal

Which she sweet girl could wish thee to consceal 

The speaker's notion is never to be vulgar and never to exploit his muse.  Rowe, a Clare enthusiast for many years, has expertly captured another chapter of Clare's art; as he would wish his work to be shown – unedited and truthfully profound in its simplicity.

The photographic images captured by Anne Lee, flawlessly mirror Clare’s poetry in ‘The Lovers Meeting’.  Stanza by stanza, the model of the near-naked man is framed by silver birch trees and staged at Holme Fen.  This is the perfect setting for an alternative art-form and expression of Clare’s natural poetry.  Like Clare, Lee is never fully revealing; always allowing for the partial concealment by Nature.  The juxtaposition of the photographs, along with the poem, enhances the truth behind the speaker’s carnal urges.  The images (as the poem does), invoke a ‘flush’ of expectancy:

Her lilly hand I prest which fondly burn’d

& soon the fondling taken was return’d

O with what softness heav’d each swelling breast

“Courting the hand & sueing to be prest” 

The example I use here appear to reveal the feelings of human passion, symbolised by the muse clinging onto the silver birch with an outstretched hand.  He is grasping at nature and appears as grounded in his resolution (I’m guessing human desire), just as the tree is grounded within its natural surroundings.  The picture is further embossed with inscriptions (as are all of the pictures), which textualises the image.  It is as if these embellishments amplify the spoken sounds that echo that of the poems speaker.  Lee’s images remain strong, sensual and caressing throughout the entire book; adding another sensory layer to the passion that surrounds ‘The Lovers Meeting’.

Romanticism goes beyond a deep expression of intense feeling and deep emotion.  Rather, it deals with staunch individualistic beliefs that are often concerned with the rights of individuals and the world in which they inhabit.  Romantic poets generate a truculent voice trying to improve the social and political conditions in which they live.  These poets became prophets of a new Romantic spirituality.  John Clare was an outcast amongst many of the elitist readerships and he brought a truculent voice to magnify the inhumanity of staunch beliefs.  

By promoting Clare’s voice, Roger Rowe and Ann Lee not only validate Aristotle’s concept of the ‘pleasure’ of ‘man and nature’, but together, they demonstrate (through John Clare’s work) that there is no ‘object standing between the Poet and the image of things.’ It is the image contained within Clare’s work that is the truth, whether literary or visually.  No-one can truly censor it.  It is a part of humanity.  ‘The Lovers Meeting’ marks a simple truth of the natural force of human desire.  It cannot be quashed.

(Jacqueline Cosby)

O Woman Sweet Witchingly Woman

January 2020 will be the 200th anniversary of the publication of 'Poems Descriptive of Rural Life and Scenery' Clare's first book.  There will be more about that from me in the next edition of the Clare SocietyNewsletter in February.  

Additionally, the 16th of March 2020 marks the 200th Anniversary of John Clare's hasty marriage to Martha (Patty) Turner, she was, of course, six months pregnant at the time.  Patty was 20 on the 3rd March and John 27 years of age.   I have been planning for some years to mark the anniversary of their marriage in an appropriate way and Chapbook Number 15 is the result.

In 1992 Eric Robinson met together with several other notable Clareans – foremost among them Pete Shaw and Noël Staples – to create what became entitled ‘Woman, Sweet Witchingly Woman - An Entertainment’.  At about the same time Professor Robinson had discussions with Nicholas Parry of Tern Press to produce one of their beautiful handmade books to mark Clare’s bicentenary.  Consequently, in 1993, Tern Press published ‘Woman, Sweet Witchingly Woman’ to much acclaim, and ‘An Entertainment’ was duly performed in Peterborough Cathedral to mark the 200^th anniversary of Clare’s birth.

Here is an extract from the introduction to the musical entertainment in the Cathedral :

“The wonder of John Clare is that his work stands up to examination from so many different directions.  The keen naturalist will be fascinated by Clare’s powers of observation in his poems and prose on the birds and animals around Helpston.  The social historian will be delighted by Clare’s equally acute observations of the people of the village, their festivals, their courtships and their business dealings.  Clare is above all the poet of popular culture, and he rejoiced in the songs, the stories, the ceremonies and the customs of his native place. In this role he was also the first collector of song - words and dance tunes in Northamptonshire.

This short entertainment is based on some of his songs about women.  Some are romantic, others are realistic, some are sweet, others are sour – but all of them have their own special authenticity.”

In this Chapbook, I have collected together some of the items from the programme that day, plus poems from the Tern Press publication and several poems from our Handmade trilogy of books.  Included too, are some of those which have not seen the light of day largely because of their sensuous content.

In Clare’s early work, in particular, we find fine poems on subjects that he was ‘encouraged’ to repress to make acceptable to a largely urban book-buying public – the middle and upper classes.  There is little doubt in my mind that Clare’s poetic vision was somewhat more carnal than his publisher thought fitting, as Professor Robinson remarked: “To survey the whole range of his poetry about Woman is to encounter a many-faceted, exhilarating, and erotic sensibility.” 

The book is now ready and is priced at £4 plus £1 (P&P). Just drop me an email to arborfield@pm.me OR drop me a message via facebook, and I will do the rest.

Roger R.

January Birthdays

On the 4th January 1833 Charles was born to Patty and John, two days later on the 7th Frederick was 9 years old - he was born in 1824.

So just some lines from 'The Holiday Walk' in celebration:

Come Eliza & Anna lay bye top & ball

& Freddy boy throw away cart & toys all

Look about for your hats & dispence with your play

We'll seek for the fields & be happy to day

Do but hark at the shouts of the boys by the school

As noisey & merry as geese in a pool

While the master himself is so sick of his thrall

That he laughs like the merriest child of them all

While they race with their shadows he joins in the fray

& leaps oer the “cat gallows” nimble as they

As glad to get out of his school in the sun

As a captive would be from his prison to run

The morning invites us to walk come along

Tis so sweet that the sparrow een tries at a song

The dews are all gone save amid the dark glooms

Neath the woods crowded leaves were the sun never comes

Nor need we regret that the dews linger there

For brambles defye us to come if we dare

Advice to 'Government'...

A lesson for our, and successive Governments from John Clare, written on the 1st February 1830 :

" (...) I cannot help thinking that a paper currency founded upon just principles would still be a very commodious way of traffic much better then gold — but I would have every bank issuing one pound notes (which is but a shadow of a promise for a substance which the promiser has pocketed) dependant as branch banks on the Bank of England (many of the other banks are not worth a capital letter) nay every bank issuing paper at all ought to have that check upon them as I think to prosper the general good of the community rather then to encourage the knavery of individuals (...)

PRESCIENT!  (And they call Clare a simple peasant - what an irony too).

As Stubborn as the Oak

I am starting to create a second volume, after ‘Hidden Treasures’, of Clare obscurities and fragments, no idea as yet what the title might be (I’m open to suggestions).  There are many such ‘fragments’ in the archives, some just a line or two, but many complete poems/prose too.  Here is just one of them.

As stubborn as the oak

As stubborn as the oak that cannot bend

He seeks no master & he has no friend

& round the ground & bawling often goes

& makes a merry feast of roasted sloes

Bawling together all the live long day

A loud & drawling song had all [astray]      

& all is joyous music save that noise

That comes in summered oaths from garden boys

Who run & shout yet cannot drive away

The restless sheep from trespass in the hay

Nor make the crops the shallow fold again

So there the stubborn trespassers remain

Altho the water is so shallow       

That larger pebbles          even lye

Half out of water & their surface dry

Pet MS A61 p54

Two complete verses and a few odd lines, yet this has been ignored as a ‘fragment’.  I think it’s rather beautiful.

A Cag of Small Swipes (Chapbook No.14)

From the Introduction:

I have had it in the back of my mind for some while to produce a book, in the Chapbook series, that concentrates on Clare’s sometimes odd-seeming, or unusual use of language. ‘A Cag of Small Swipes’ if you will.  After all, Clare has a wide acquaintance with specialised vocabularies of all kinds.

Clare’s passion for words was founded on his knowledge of Chapbook nursery-rhymes and fairy-stories, and the games of his childhood.  He was also intimate with the language of the hedger, the ditcher, the thatcher, the ploughman, the shepherd and the cowman - paralleled by the language of the ‘ranter-preacher’, the village school-master and the pretentious local lawyer.  Plus all those words used in the many traditional songs he knew so well.  His language was that of village streets, fairs and fields.  It is the language of proverb and of popular, often vulgar rhyme.  So it is clear that Clare is an important source, one of very few, for finding words that were commonly used in Eastern and Northern England, as well as in Scotland, during his lifetime.

Clare often used words that he employed in his own speech and that he heard every day in the village street, and having great fun writing this way.   He is not looking down at his fellow-villagers for their speech-habits but enjoying, as we should, its vigour and variety.  

So, this as a book full of strange words and phrases, sometimes hiding sexual imagery, yet full of laughter and an ebullient sense of humour. Most especially when describing the love lives of the young people living all around him in Helpston, and the advice they are proffered or choose to reject:

Peggy ye might bin my death wi yer scorning 


Im sure tis yer pleasure to do as ye may 


For ere sin I helpd ye to milk in the morning 


Yeve 'ployd all my thoughts for the rest of the day 


Yer sweet slender body so light & so jimping 


Yer arms so well shapd & yer brown curley hair 


Yer gait so belady like spoilt wi no limping 


Left ye the power to gi joy or despair 


(from Hodges Confession)

A Cag of Small Swipes will be available from me from 1st September 2019 at £5 plus £1 postage and packing.