The launch of 'The Lovers Meeting'

The video that was made by the Peterborough Telegraph on the launch of "The Lovers Meeting". Three and a half minutes where Anne and I introduce the book. Obviously still available from me at the very special price of £35 + £3 P&P. We have yet to have anything but good reviews, some embarrassingly ecstatic!

Click here to view :
http://www.peterboroughtoday.co.uk/news/community/news/new-edition-of-john-clare-poem-published-video-1-5912424

Peggy

Peggy said good morning and I said good bye, 
When farmers dib the corn and laddies sow the rye. 
Young Peggy's face was common sense and I was rather shy 
When I met her in the morning when the farmers sow the rye. 

Her half laced boots fit tightly as she tripped along the grass, 
And she set her foot so lightly where the early bee doth pass. 
Oh Peggy was a young thing, her face was common sense, 
I courted her about the spring and loved her ever thence. 

Oh Peggy was the young thing and bonny as to size; 
Her lips were cherries of the spring and hazel were her eyes. 
Oh Peggy she was straight and tall as is the poplar tree, 
Smooth as the freestone of the wall, and very dear to me. 

Oh Peggy's gown was chocolate and full of cherries white; 
I keep a bit on't for her sake and love her day and night. 
I drest myself just like a prince and Peggy went to woo, 
But she's been gone some ten years since, and I know not what to do. 

The Poems of John Clare

ed. J. W. Tibble (2 volumes, Dent, 1935)

Sabbath Bells

A poem for Easter Day

Ive often on a sabbath day
Where pastoral quiet dwells
Lay down among the new mown hay
To listen distant bells
That beautifully flung the sound
Upon the quiet wind
While beans in blossom breathed around
A fragrance oer the mind
A fragrance & a joy beside
That never wears away
The very air seems deified
Upon a sabbath day

So beautiful the flitting wrack
Slow pausing from the eye
Earths music seemed to call them back
Calm settled in the sky
& I have listened till I felt
A feeling not in words
A love that rudest moods would melt
When those sweet sounds was heard
A melancholly joy at rest
A pleasurable pain
A love a rapture of the breast
That nothing will explain

A dream of beauty that displays
Imaginary joys
That all the world in all its ways
Finds not to realize
All idly stretched upon the hay
The wind-flirt fanning bye
How soft how sweetly swept away
The music of the sky
The ear it lost & caught the sound
Swelled beautifully on
A fitful melody around
Of sweetness heard & gone

I felt such thoughts I yearned to sing
The humming airs delight

That seemed to move the swallows wing
Into a wilder flight
The butterflye in wings of brown
Would find me where I lay
Fluttering & bobbing up & down
& settling on the hay
The waving blossoms seemed to throw
Their fragrance to the sound
While up & down & loud & low
The bells were ringing round

EP I 295

The Nightingale

This is the month the nightingale, clod brown,
Is heard among the woodland shady boughs:
This is the time when in the vale, grass-grown,
The maiden hears at eve her lover's vows,
What time the blue mist round the patient cows
Dim rises from the grass and half conceals
Their dappled hides. I hear the nightingale,
That from the little blackthorn spinney steals
To the old hazel hedge that skirts the vale,
And still unseen sings sweet. The ploughman feels
The thrilling music as he goes along,
And imitates and listens; while the fields
Lose all their paths in dusk to lead him wrong,
Still sings the nightingale her soft melodious song.

Of Corncrakes and 'The Tweet of the Day'

[Image : The Corncrake – Carry Akroyd]

From 'The Landrail'

How sweet & pleasant grows the way

Through summer time again
While landrails call from day to day
Amid the grass & grain
We hear it in the weeding time
When knee deep waves the corn
We hear it in the summers prime
Through meadows night & morn
& now I hear it in the grass
That grows as sweet again
& let a minutes notice pass
& now tis in the grain
Tis like a fancy everywhere
A sort of living doubt
We know tis somthing but it ne'er
Will blab the secret out

THE CORN CRAIKS RISPY SONG
The corncraik rispt her summer call Just as the sun went down

Copper red a burning ball In woods behind the town
I wandered forth a maid to meet So bonny and so fair
No other flower was half so sweet And cole black was her hair
Upon the grasses stood the dew Bead drop O' clearest pearl
Her hair was black her eyes were blue O what a lovely Girl
Her neck was like the lilly white Her breast was like the swan
She was in heart and loves delight A worship for a Man
The corncraiks rispy song was oer The sun had left the light [alone]
I love dusk kisses on the Moor To lewder life unknown
Hid in the bosom of a flower Its lifetime there to dwell
Eternity would seem an hour And I'd be resting well

Clare lines above -- from his time in Northborough -- are from 'The Landrail', the lines italicised  were quoted on the entry in the BBC Book 'The Tweet of the Day', published on the 10th April 2014, and illustrated by this little linocut by Carry.  The second poem is much later, written during Clare's long incarceration in the Northampton General Asylum.

The book, published by Saltyard Books is by Stephen Moss and Brett Westwood with lots of illustrations by Carry.

The Lovers Meeting

Hot was the noon in summers sultry hour


The sun then raging with meridian power


When I more burning with the scorching heat


Of hot desire - lay hid in close retreat


Beneath the covert of a secret shade


Flush'd "with expectance of the lovley maid"


Sweet was the spot no one throughout the grove


Was better suited to the sports of Love

An opportunity to buy a Hand Made, limited edition, signed copy of our first book "The Lovers Meeting", edited by Roger Rowe, designed and illustrated by Anne Lee. (See pictures below)

This beautiful book has been printed by The Logan Press and hand bound by The Fine Book Bindery -- The same company produces books for The Folio Society.

This is the first time John Clare's "The Lovers Meeting" - a reworking of Ovid's Fifth Elegy, has been published outside Oxford University Press ‘Clarendon’ edition.  Authenticity has been at the heart of our volume.  The poem is presented exactly as Clare wrote it and has been typeset in a font designed in Northamptonshire in Clare's time (the Founder's Caslon type of Justin Howes).  A beautiful calligraphic ampersand has been specially created by Patrick Roe of The Logan Press to acknowledge its characteristic use by Clare.  Background information about the poem and its context is included. The book is bound by hand in two cloths of complimentary colours with gold blocked titles and has hand printed end papers designed by Anne Lee.

We do hope that many will feel able to support us in this by acquiring one of these signed and numbered books from the edition of 200 copies.

"The Lovers Meeting" is now available from me at the special price of £20 post free.  Please contact arborfield@gmail.com to order a copy, or by leaving a comment on my facebook page.  Feel free to share this posting to spread the word as far as possible.

Roger

Child Harold - The Summer Canto: High Beech (A darker extract)

My life hath been one love—no blot it out

My life hath been one chain of contradictions


Madhouses Prisons wh---re shops—never doubt


But that my life hath had some strong convictions

That such was wrong—religion makes restrictions

I would have followed—but life turned a bubble


& clumb the jiant stile of maledictions


They took me from my wife & to save trouble


I wed again & made the error double


Yet abscence claims them both & keeps them too

& locks me in a shop in spite of law


Among a low lived set & dirty crew


Here let the Muse oblivions curtain draw


& let man think—for God hath often saw


Things here too dirty for the light of day


For in a madhouse there exists no law—


Now stagnant grows my too refined clay
I envy birds their wings to flue away

Adam Foulds "The Quickening Maze" -- Shortlisted for the 'Man Booker' prize in 2009, is a wonderful exploration, in fiction, of this period.  In some ways illustrating over a 259-page novel these two verses.

Child Harold - The Spring Canto: High Beech (extract)

The Paigles Bloom In Shower's In Grassy Close

How Sweet To Be Among Their Blossoms Led
& Hear Sweet Nature To Herself Discourse
While Pale The Moon Is Bering Over Head

& Hear The Grazeing Cattle Softly Tread

Cropping The Hedgerows Newly Leafing Thorn
Sounds Soft As Visions Murmured Oer In Bed
At Dusky Eve Or Sober Silent Morn
For Such Delights Twere Happy Man Was Born

Now Come The Balm & Breezes Of The Spring

Not With The Pleasure's Of My Early Day's
When Nature Seemed One Endless Song To Sing
A Joyous Melody & Happy Praise
Ah Would They Come Agen—But Life Betrays
Quicksands & Gulphs & Storms That Howl & Sting
All Quiet Into Madness & Delays
Care Hides The Sunshine With Its Raven Wing
& Hell Glooms Sadness Oer The Songs Of Spring

At this period in 1841 Clare capitalised every word in his manuscripts.  No one has yet come up with a convincing explanation as to why.

Ballad : "Young Chloe..."

Young Chloe looks sweet as the rose

And her love might be reckoned no less

But her bosom so freely bestows

That all may a portion possess.

Her smiles would be cheering to see

But so freely they’re lavished abroad

That each silly swain well as me

Can boast of the smiles she bestowed.

Her smiles and her kisses so free

Blesses all like the rain from the sky

As the blossoms love is to the bee

Each swain is as welcome as I.

And tho’ I my folly can see

Yet still must I love and adore

Tho’ I know the love whispered to me

Is a lie told to many before.

’Tis sad that a bosom so fair

And red lips so seemingly sweet

Should study false ways to ensnare

And breath in their kisses deceit.

But beauty’s no guide to the best

The rose that out blushes the morn

While it tempts the glad eye to its breast

Will pierce the fond hand with a thorn.

Yet still must I love silly swain

And put up with all her deceit
And try to be jealous in vain
For I cannot help thinking her sweet,
When I see other swains in her bower.
I sigh and excuse what I see
And say to myself ‘is the flower
Any worse when its kissed by the bee’?