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”

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#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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