The Cross Roads (or Haymakers Story)

Over the next week or two we will have the chance to enjoy one of Clare's long narrative poems.  Although published several times over the years, it has not been published in a popular collection in the form in which Clare wrote it.  

Here are Clare's own thoughts about the poem, "... the tale often touchd me as I heard it told from the simple old grannys of the village & I have preservd all their simplicity I coud by putting it in their mouths to tag in rhymes" (Letters, p.183)

As this is undoubtedly true, the story as recorded by Clare takes the reader back into another age.  We might think we have somehow 'progressed' from the state of these long-dead characters, but human nature is unchanging.  So simply by reading Clare's wonderful verse, we can immerse ourselves in his agrarian world before the Enclosures.

Stopt by the storm that long in sullen black

From the south west staind its encroaching track
Haymakers hussling from the rain to hide
Sought the grey willows by the pasture side
& there while big drops bow the grassy stems
& bleb the withering hay with pearly gems
Dimple the brook & patter in the leaves
The song & tale an hours restraint relieves
& while the old dames gossip at their ease
& pinch the snuff box empty by degrees
The young ones join in loves delightfull themes
Truths told by gipsys & expounded dreams
& mutterd things kept secrets from the rest
Of sweethearts names & who they love the best
& dazzling ribbons they delight to show

The last new favours of some weigling beau
That with such treacherey trys their hearts to move
& like the highest bribes the maidens love
The old dames jealous of their wisperd praise
Throw in their hints of mans deluding ways
& one to give her counsels more effect
& by examples illustrate the fact
Of innoscence oercome by flattering man
Thrice tappd her box & pinchd & thus began

          ‘Now wenches listen & let lovers lye
‘Yell hear a story ye may profit bye
‘Im your age threble wi some oddments to't
‘& right from wrong can tell if yell but do't
‘Ye neednt giggle underneath yer hats
‘Mines no joke matters let me tell you that
‘So keep yer quiet till my storys told
‘& dont despise yer betters cause they're old
‘I wish ye well upon my soul I do
‘& just another pinch & Ill pursue

(lines 1-34)

Originally published in The Village Minstrel (1821)

Two 'Winter" poems

TO A WINTER SCENE

Hail scenes of Desolation & despair
Keen Winters over bearing sport & scorn
Torn by his Rage in ruins as you are
To me more pleasing then a summers morn
Your shatter'd scenes appear—despoild & bare
Stript of your clothing naked & forlorn
—Yes Winters havoc wretched as you shine
Dismal to others as your fate may seem
Your fate is pleasing to this heart of mine
Your wildest horrors I the most esteem.—
The ice-bound floods that still with rigour freeze
The snow clothd valley & the naked tree
These sympathising scenes my heart can please
Distress is theirs—& they resemble me

EP I 417

A WINTER WISH
My wish nows to sit in a cottage made snug

By a fire burning roozy and bright
With a Friend to make shorter short days by a Jug
And some Books for amusement at night
And could I enjoy such a peaceable lot
I'd ne'er cast on Fortune a frown
Nor would I possesing my Friend, Books, and Cott
Exchange 'em away for a — Crown!

EP I 131

"There is a charm in nature felt and seen"

There is a charm in nature felt and seen
In every season of the varied year
In winters frost in springs reviving green
        'Tis every where

In foreign lands how beautiful the sight
Over a thousand mountains of snow sprey
With nought of green—but mountains pale as light
        And all the way

The springs green herbage full of flowers
And fields where lives the lark mid greener grain
We love and worship them in April hours
        Then wish again

That spring with all her joys would longer last
But summer with young buds is left to cho[o]se
And brings once more in memory of the past
        Flowers of all hues

Then autumn red and yellow quickly pass
Like broods of nestling birds upon the wing
Till all is gone and nothing but the grass
        Remembers spring

The wind the shower, the drapery of the sky
When day cools over meadows into dun
And clouds in gold and crimson glories lie
        In set of sun

A globe of fire and as a table round

Then wastes to half still shutting out the day
Till the curved rim drops quickly in the ground
        And all is gray

The Wood is Sweet (1966)

The Bodley Head

Stingo white froathing oer the polisht can

Stingo white froathing oer the polisht can

Thou boast thou glory of the English man
Thou downright death to every care & strife
Thou best of charms to foil a scolding wife
Known by the name of nappy ale or beer
Nicknamd ‘old stout’ ‘nock down’ & ‘barley cheer’
Tis thee I sing do thou thy strength infuse
& warm my song I ask no better muse
If woes distress me let me charm my soul
Where the bell calls to c---h wi out a knoll

The Early Poems of John Clare 1804-1822

ed. Eric Robinson, David Powell and Margaret Grainger

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

Spirit of the woods awake (extract)

A recent finding... only published, as far as I am aware, in the Clarendon Editions.  An early Clare poem virtually impossible to read from the manuscript notebook. Clare wrote all the poems 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 therein have been largely overlooked.  Here is an excerpt, the first two verses.  The poem will figure in its entirety in Anne Lee and my fourth book, "Wood Pictures" which is now some weeks into its planning stage.

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)

Adventures of a Grasshopper (excerpt)

A grasshopper idle the whole summer long
Played about the tall grass with unthinking delight
& spent the whole day with his hopping & song
& sipp'd of the dew for his supper at night
Thus night brought him food & the red rising sun
Awoke him fresh fed to his singing agen
& thus he went on with his frolic & fun
Till winter winds whistled & where was he then

The plain wore no longer the hue of his wing
All withered & brown as a desert could be
In vain he looked round for the shelter of spring
While the longest green sprig scarcely reached to his knee
The rime feathered night fell as white as a sheet
& dewdrops were frozen before they could fall
The shy creeping sun too denied him his heat
Thus the poor silly soul was deserted of all

The ant had forewarned him of what he would be
When he laughed at his toil on the parched summer plain
He now saw the folly he then could not see
But advice taen too late is but labour in vain
If he wished to work now there was nothing to find
The winter told plain twas too late in the day
In vain he looked round in the snow & the wind
Unable to toil & too saddened for play

He looked back & sighed on his singing & racket
& employed the last hope he had left him to beg
So he sought in the woods withered leaves for a jacket
Of a rushe he made crutches & limped of a leg
The winds whistled round him while seeking for pity
Oer the white crimping snows he went limping along
Sighing sad at each cottage his sorrowful ditty
But a song out of season is povertys song  

John Clare, The Rural Muse (1835)

Meet me Tonight

O meet me to-night by the bright starlight,

     Now the pleasant Spring's begun.

My own dear maid, by the greenwood shade,

     In the crimson set of the sun,

                    Meet me to-night.

The sun he goes down with a ruby crown

     To a gold and crimson bed;

And the falling dew, from heaven so blue,

     Hangs pearls on Phoebe's head.

                    Love, leave the town.

Come thou with me; 'neath the green-leaf tree

     We'll crop the bonny sweet brere.

O come, dear maid, 'neath the hazlewood shade,

     For love invites us there.

                    Come then with me.

The owl pops, scarce seen, from the ivy green,

     With his spectacles on I ween:

See the moon's above and the stars twinkle, love;

     Better time was never seen.

                    O come, my queen.

The fox he stops, and down he drops

     His head beneath the grass.

The birds are gone; we're all alone;

     O come, my bonny lass.
                    Come, O come!

J.L. Cherry, Life and Remains of John Clare

(London and Northampton: Frederick Warne and J. Taylor and Son, 1873)

John Clare Poet facebook group

[Holme Fen this year]

In December 2012, poet Angela Topping and I decided it was time to start a proper John Clare Facebook page. As of today (23rd November 2014), my how we have grown, with today no fewer than 473 members. Last year in August we held our inaugural 'group' weekend in the Helpston area, and over 19/20th May this year a gathering remembering our great poet by his graveside, and the gravesides of his wife Patty and muse Mary Joyce.  Over the weekend of the 12th/14th September, initially again in the Helpston area, we visited Holme Fen and Woodwalton Fen.  Lunch at the Admiral Wells at Holme Fen was fun!

We have writers, musicians, painters, photographers & illustrators, film-makers, poets, sculptors, several descendants of Clare, academics, and plain old fans of his work. We have a rolling virtual exhibition of work "John Clare 150" dedicated to Clare (more contributions would be welcomed), and several books have been published from members of the group who met via these pages, as well as other collaborations.

And to add to all that, the weekend of the 11th to 13th July was the 33rd Annual Festival in the village organised by our friends from the John Clare Society (many of us are of course, members of that organisation - one of the largest literary societies in the country).

Our cup runneth over...

Click here to go to the facebook page.