My illness was love

I peeled bits o straws & I got switches too
From the grey peeling willow as idlers do
& I switched at the flies as I sat all alone
Till my flesh blood & marrow wasted to the dry bone

My illness was love though I knew not the smart
But the beauty o love was the blood o my heart

Willow switches I broke & I peeled bits o straws
Ever lonely in crowds in natures own laws

My ballroom the pasture my music the bees
My drink was the fountain my church the tall trees
Whoever would love or be tied to a wife
When it makes a man mad all the days of his life

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The summer adorning

Sweet are the blossoms the summer adorning

Shed in profusion oer meadow & lea
Deckt wi the charms of the dew bedded morning
Ere the suns spangles dry blossom & tree

While as I wander by wood bank & fountain
Hushing my sorrows wi moments decline
Many selections of blossoms I’m counting
To trace in their beauty some likeness of thine

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Keep their sabbaths

The shepherds & the herding swains

Keep their sabbaths on the plains
For them the church bells vainly call
Fields are their church & house & all
Theyll lie & catch the passing sound
That comes from steeples shining round

Enjoying in the service time
The happy bells delightful chime
& if they sit on rising ground,
To view the landscape spreading round

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Sweet the fragrance

A beanfield full in blossom smells as sweet
As Araby or groves of orange flowers
Black-eyed & white & feathered to ones feet
How sweet they smell in mornings dewy hours
When seething night is left upon the flowers
& when morns sun shines brightly oer the field
The bean bloom glitters in the gems of showers
& sweet the fragrance which the union yields
To battered footpaths crossing oer the fields

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Refuse of Nature

Long my dear valleys long long may ye flourish
Though rush-beds & thistles make most of your pride
May showers never fail the greens daisies to nourish
Nor suns dry the fountain that rills by its side
Your skies may be gloomy & misty your mornings
Your flat swampy valleys unwholesome may be
Still refuse of Nature without her adornings
Ye are dear as this heart in my bosom to me

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Weeds of all sorts

The partridge whirs up frit away from her nest 

& the hare with the morning dew yet on her breast 

Jumps away from his hustle & bustle & noise 

Which he makes in the midst of his rapture & joys

Now singing & tearing up weeds of all sorts 

Showy corn poppys shining like foxhunters coats 

& bluecaps & cockleflowers no matter what 

To make a gay garland to stick in his hat 

& now he struts out what a gesture he wears 

As proud of his colours as soldiers of 

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Droning bee

When it comes a summer shower

It still will go from flower to flower

Then underneath the rushes—

It sees the silver daisy flower

& there it spends a little hour

Then hides among the bushes

But whence they come from where they go

None but the wiser schoolboy's know

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The gay flowret

As oer the gay pasture went rocking a clown 

A gay gaudy buttercups gold fringed gown 
Engaged his attention as passing her bye 
& rudly to gain her he stooped adown 
Its beauty so dazzld his eye 

By outside appearance the sensless are caught 
& beautys gay triumph is foolish & short 
With nothing to gain the attention beside 
Possession soon sickens—& fleet as a thought 
Beauty slips us forgotten aside 

As snufting & snufting the clodhopper goes 
& finding no sweetness for charming his nose 
Frail beauties delusion soon wearied his eye 
& away the gay flowret he heedlessly throws 
To wither unnotis'd & dye

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Butterflye

Then thy starry gems & gold

Admiration would unfold

For what insect is't can vie

With the lovley Butterflye

Lo! the arching heav'nly bow

Does all his dyes on thee bestow

Crimson Blue & watry Green

Mixd with Azure shade between

These are thine—thou first in place

Queen of all the insect race

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Freedoms throne

Ive loved thy being from a boy

The highland hills was once my joy

Then morning mists did round them lie

Like sunshine in the happiest sky

Her hills & valleys seemed my own

When our land was freedoms throne

Her fruitful vales her mountain thrones

Are ruled by natures laws alone

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Fame

Fame blazed upon me like a comets glare
Fame waned & left me like a fallen star
Because I told the evil what they are
& truth & falshood never wished to mar
My Life hath been a wreck — & I've gone far
For peace & truth — & hope — for home & rest
— Like Edens gates — fate throws a constant bar —
Thoughts may o'ertake the sunset in the west
— Man meets no home within a womans breast

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Hopeless Agony & Hell

My Mind Is Dark & Fathomless & Wears

The Hues Of Hopeless Agony & Hell

No Plummet Ever Sounds The Souls Affairs

There Death Eternal Never Sounds The Knell

There Love Imprisoned Sighs The Long Farewell

& Still May Sigh In Thoughts No Heart Hath Penned

Alone In Loneliness Where Sorrows Dwell

& Hopeless Hope Hopes On & Meets No End

Wastes Without Springs & Homes Without A Friend

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Charming Mary

Mary mary charming mary
Now the sun has sunk to rest
& the even breeze so airy
Tries to bare thy snowy breast
How I love wi thee to wander
Mary o how sweet wi thee
Dusky meadows to meander
Where no soul can hear or see

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Child Harold

Another tragic poem from Clare's 'Child Harold', written in the autumn of 1841 when Clare was back in Northborough and vainly seeking Mary Joyce.  My Chapbook 'Child Harold' is the only published book with all of Clare's poems under that title.  Nearly all written in the year of two asylums, 1841.

Available from me this weekend at the Festival of course.

Song

I think of thee at early day

& wonder where my love can be

& when the evening shadows grey

O how I think of thee

Along the meadow banks I rove

& down the flaggy fen

& hope my first & early love

To meet thee once agen

I think of thee at dewy morn

& at the sunny noon

& walks with thee—now left forlorn

Beneath the silent moon

I think of thee I think of all

How blest we both have been—

The sun looks pale upon the wall

& autumn shuts the scene

I can't expect to meet thee now

The winter floods begin

The wind sighs through the naked bough

Sad as my heart within

I think of thee the seasons through

In spring when flowers I see

In winters lorn & naked view

I think of only thee

While life breaths on this earthly ball

What e'er my lot may be

Wether in freedom or in thrall

Mary I think of thee

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Hidden Treasures

A little excerpt from 'Hidden Treasures' available from me this weekend at the Festival. Its contents cannnot be found in any other Clare publications.  They are the fruit of many hours research in the Clare Archives.

Have a go at transcribing Clare’s handwriting from the photo above...

I often felt my lowly lot

As couzin unto thine

& oft thy nameless sprigs have got

To wish it well with mine

When trodden down where cuddys went

Ive propt thee up agen

& tyed thee with a propping bent

Like worthless scorning men

When moles their new hills threw about

& hid thy flowers from day

Ive stooped to get my couzin out

& bared the moulds away

& know I meet thee still the same

Supprise grows warm agen

Thou little friend with out a name

Behind the hills as then

Thy little chickweed gently flowers

& out of every wind

While cows & sheep all blooms devours

They [s]till leave thee behind

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Church-yard stone

From my Chapbook No.30 ‘Mary Joyce’, available from me over next weekend at the John Clare Society Festival, as will most of my 35 published books.

A shattering poem, written 7 years after his incarceration in Northampton.  Clare's mind is ranging back to the death of his muse, Mary Joyce.

To come upon in line 9 the line “Lord how young bonny Mary burnt”, even if he is speaking of her blushes at their first meeting, is an astonishing shock for readers of Clare’s work.  Clare, possibly unconsciously, recording the manner of her death in the most shocking way imaginable.

Mary had, as Clare had been avoiding for so long, perished in the fire at her parent’s farm-house in Glinton on the 14th of July 1838.  Her grave in the churchyard of St. Benedict’s Church, Glinton was, and is, clear for all to see.

A Ballad

Love is past and all the rest
Thereto belonging fled away
The most esteemed and valued best
Are faded all and gone away

How beautiful was Mary's dress
While dancing at the meadow ball

—'Tis twenty years or more at least
Since Mary seemed the first of all

Lord how young bonny Mary burnt
With blushes like the roses hue
My face like water thrown upon't
Turned white as lilies i' the dew

When grown a man I went to see
The school where Mary's name was known
I looked to find it on a Tree
But found it on a low grave stone

Now is past—was this the now
In fine straw-hat and ribbons gay
I'd court her neath the white thorn bough
And tell her all I had to say

But all is gone—and now is past
And still my spirits chill alone
Loves name that perished in the blast
Grows mossy on a church-yard stone

(11^th November 1848)

The photo?  Mary’s church-yard stone.

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Golden groves

The new spring grass was high
The new pinks nest was seen
Where little padded lanes went bye
In hedges warm & green

When the golden evening came
& the tree tops like a flame
Glittered on the gazing eye
Like golden groves in a golden sky

The shepherd seeks the field
Where the awthorn hedges shield
The lane way to the open plain
& sets his fold of trays again

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Bonny & stout

Bonny & stout and brown without a hat
She frowns offended when they call her fat
Yet fat she is the merriest in the place
& all can know she wears a pretty face
But still she never heeds what praise can say
But does the work & oft runs out to play
To run about the yard & ramp & noise
& spring the mop upon the servant boys
When old hens noise & cackle every where
She hurries eager if the eggs are dear
& runs to seek them when they lay away
To get them ready for the market day
She gambols with the men & laughs aloud
& only quarrels when they call her proud

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The timid hare

The timid hare seems half its fears to lose
Crouching & sleeping neath its grassy lair
& scarcely startles though the shepherd goes
Close by its home & dogs are barking there
The wild colt only turns around to stare
At passer by then knaps his hide again
& moody crows beside the road forbear
To fly though pelted by the passing swain
Thus day seems turned to night & tries to wake in vain

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Image by my friend Carry Akroyd

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