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In Pursuit of Spring:Coleridge.

Coleridge or STC.

Edward Thomas was an admirer and critical student of Wordsworth, Coleridge and the Lyrical Ballads. Surely that volume influenced the thinking, with Frost, that one or the other of them, or both, should write a book on the theory of poetry. He considered Coleridge a great critic. But in In Pursuit of Spring and in his 'A Literary Pilgrim in England ' he insists that Coleridge was a West Country man(originally from Devon) and that all his best work was written there at Nether Stowey in Somerset.
Coleridge had a tremendous benefactor, Thomas Poole, who lived in Nether Stowey in this fine house: the Coleridge's cottage was his and the garden linked with the Poole's.



Poole House, now a B and B.

The Coleridges' cottage, Nether Stowey, Somerset.

Then William Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy moved to a house nearby at Alfoxden, and their 'marvellous year' of 1795 began as Coleridge leaped over the fence to join them on his first visit.

Alfoxden as it was then - now very different.


Once Coleridge had moved to the Lakes, away from what Thomas saw as his natural home: 'His notebooks reveal how much he saw, and thought to use in writing, and never did. '

The In Pursuit pages on Coleridge begin with criticism of the early poems, full of Personification of Abstracts in Capital Letters. But Thomas admires him for overcoming the style of his times and forging the new. Edward gets over-excited, he says himself, about the copious honey-suckle around the village which might have served as 'honeydew' for the poet.

He comments many times on Coleridge's use of the terms 'mild' and 'wild' - the ideal has both qualities for him. This is the first time I have read a real close reading of poems by Edward and it is really enlightening, showing the qualities he valued. As we now know that it was in 1913 that he did make one or two attempts at poetry, before the Frost encounter, it must be that he was at some level arguing for his own potential approach.

For example on an early poem, "the uninspired accuracy of 'pink-silver skin' (of a birch tree)".

He comments on several lines which Coleridge cut out - an essential skill in a poet.

He praises the combination of the sensuous and luxurious with 'the quality which responds to ghostliness and to the wildness of Nature, The Keepsake has it perfect, in this picture of a girl,-

In the cool morning twilight, early waked
By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze
Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
Making a quiet image of disquiet
In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.'

The work of Coleridge's best period unites 'richness and delicacy, sweetness and freshness, sensuousness and wildness, spirit and sense.'

He ends his Coleridge meditation by writing of Christabel and The Ancient Mariner and quoting from the 'May opium dream' of Kubla Khan-

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
By woman wailing for her demon lover!

Of course what we all know about Kubla Khan is the supposed interruption by the Person from Porlock. Edward Thomas doesn't mention it.

Porlock to Nether Stowey is quite a walk - it's now the Coleridge Way of course, taking between 3 and 4 days. Presumably the Person had some means of transport.

.The Walking Holiday comp

From Nether Stowey Edward went on to Holford - almost there at the sea, and with definite signs of spring.

April 1915 was an extraordinarily productive month for Thomas :
Wind and Mist, Lob, Digging, Home, In Memoriam, Health, and half a dozen lesser poems.

I chose In Memoriam(Easter 1915)

The flowers left thick at nightfall in the wood
This Eastertide call into mind the men,
Now far from home, who, with their sweethearts, should
Have gathered them and will do never again.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Cover artist Marc's pictures on www.artweeks.org/festival/2013/marc-thompson-oas

In Pursuit of Spring 4, Three Wessex Poets.
 Please use publishingmyedwardthomas.blogspot from now on.

April 9th tribute below.

Blackmore Vale, Dorset

I had intended to skip this section, a diversion into literary criticism from the journey westwards. But as so often with Edward Thomas, there was more to enjoy and to think about than I had expected.

The three poets chapter moves naturally from the very obscure to the famous - from one Stephen Duck(qui?) to William Barnes, who I've heard of, to Thomas Hardy.

Stephen Duck - well you could have knocked me down with a feather - I found that he features on my favourite pod-cast source, the English Lit Dept, University of Oxford podcasts, Great Writers Inspire Series! (Yes I 'm a Eng Lit junkie) . So you can hear a short lecture about him right now should you wish, but I'll focus on what Thomas had to say.

Stephen Duck(1705 - 1756)

by

Jennifer Batt

'Briefly, in 1730, the most talked about poet in England was an agricultural labourer. The story of Stephen Duck is a remarkable one, as the title page of the unauthorised collection of his verse, Poems on Several Subjects, explains. He was 'lately a poor Thresher in a Barn in the County of Wilts, at the Wages of Four Shillings and Six Pence per Week' until his poems
"were publickly read by The Right Honourable the Earl of Macclesfield, in the Drawing-Room at Windsor Castle, on Friday the 11th of September, 1730, to her Majesty. Who was thereupon most graciously pleased to take the Author into her Royal Protection, by allowing him a Salary of Thirty Pounds per Annum, and a small House at Richmond in Surrey, to live in, for the better Support of Himself and Family."'

I remembered that Thomas had written appreciatively, in 'A Literary Pilgrim in England', about John Clare, much better known, for me, as a farm-worker-poet, 'goose-tending at seven, threshing and following the plough before he was in his teens.'
Duck was born almost a century earlier and was perhaps unfortunately constrained by the then current 'Pastoral' tradition to write about nymphs and shepherds with fancy names rather than what he might have written using his own experience. Sometimes he could, as in his description of threshing, so that Thomas says,
'Somethings he did write that were true and were unlikely to have been written by anyone else. If he could have thrown Cuddy and Chloe on to the mixen and kept to the slighted homely style...Instead of merely writing as if he had been to Oxford, he might have reached men's ears.'

Then there is William Barnes, always called the Dorset dialect poet - I recall he has a statue in Dorchester.
I knew this one - but in another guise entirely - the rather lovely Linden Lea.

William Barnes

My Orcha’d in Linden Lea.

.

'Ithin the woodlands, flow’ry gleäded,

By the woak tree’s mossy moot,

The sheenèn grass-bleädes, timber-sheäded,

Now do quiver under voot;

An’ birds do whissle over head,
An’ water’s bubblèn in its bed,
An’ there vor me the apple tree
Do lean down low in Linden Lea.

When leaves that leätely wer a-springèn

Now do feäde ’ithin the copse,

An’ païnted birds do hush their zingèn

Up upon the timber’s tops;

An’ brown-leav’d fruit’s a-turnèn red,
In cloudless zunsheen, over head,
Wi’ fruit vor me, the apple tree
Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

Let other vo’k meäke money vaster

In the aïr o’ dark-room’d towns,

I don’t dread a peevish meäster;

Though noo man do heed my frowns,

I be free to goo abrode,
Or teäke ageän my hwomeward road
To where, vor me, the apple tree
Do leän down low in Linden Lea.

The 'standardised' version has music by Ralph Vaughan-Williams. You can hear it on YouTube.


I have been hunting for something else - the words of a 70's sea-side postcard which my children used to recite in as comic a 'Darset' accent as they could - I bet they still remember it - it began

'Ave 'e bin on Darset cliff-tops
Looked on lovely coves(?) below?'

and had an old chap, neckerchief and straw in mouth - what stereotyping went on then. I've always assumed it was William Barnes but can't track it down.
ps Just as I thought, and passing down another generation:

'Here it is - the postcard's still going strong as I think Izi and Felix once sent me one. And yes I do know the words! deborah x '

No neckerchief or straw though, and, well, maybe not Barnes after all....

Edward Thomas comments that Barnes was in fact a schoolteacher, then a clergyman and a pillar of the community - none-the-less he thinks Barnes was right to use the dialect and that the poems have a validity of their own.

another version

Then there's Thomas Hardy

Hardy's birthplace & my own old 'Literary Pilgrim' book

What immediately struck me was the date Thomas was writing, Spring 1913.

The poems of Hardy's that he was considering couldn't include what most people regard as Hardy's best, the 'Emma poems' of 1912 - 13, poems of grief and remorse following the death of his wife whom he 'd come to neglect and despise. I assume that Edward never saw them, published as they were in Moments of Vision, 1917. I think he would have understood only too well.

Young Emma

His comments on the poems he has - the Dynasts and the satires, chiefly, relate to what he calls an 'obsession' with the' blindness of Fate, the carelessness of Nature and the insignificance of Man, crawling in multitudes like caterpillars, twitched by the Immanent Will hither and thither .' He deplores this emphasis in Hardy.

This made me think immediately of a poem of Thomas's - it appears in my novel:

'He thought of his sonnet written a year before, February Afternoon, where ploughing still continued in spite of war. It was true even here: a few elderly men were still ploughing in the fields nearby, following the ancient boundaries. Man and the plough and the gulls and starlings that followed them had existed for a thousand years and would for another thousand, while wars were fought and an indifferent, stone-deaf, stone-blind God looked down on it all. '

But now, perhaps because of what he knew of war, Thomas seems to be taking the same position.

Poems:

February Afternoon


MEN heard this roar of parleying starlings, saw,
A thousand years ago even as now,
Black rooks with white gulls following the plough
So that the first are last until a caw
Commands that last are first again,--a law
Which was of old when one, like me, dreamed how
A thousand years might dust lie on his brow
Yet thus would birds do between hedge and shaw.
Time swims before me, making as a day
A thousand years, while the broad ploughland oak
Roars mill-like and men strike and bear the stroke
Of war as ever, audacious or resigned,
And God still sits aloft in the array
That we have wrought him, stone-deaf and stone-blind.

And Hardy's, The Voice or Woman much missed

Woman much missed, how you call to me, call to me,

Saying that now you are not as you were
When you had changed from the one who was all to me,
But as at first, when our day was fair.

Can it be you that I hear? Let me view you, then,

Standing as when I drew near to the town
Where you would wait for me: yes, as I knew you then,
Even to the original air-blue gown!

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness

Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thus I; faltering forward,

Leaves around me falling,
Wind oozing thin through the thorn from norward,
And the woman calling.
-------------------------------------------------------

Publishing Matters - a surprise sent on to me by Frank Egerton.

'Guardian Books, 5th April 2013:Reader reviews roundup

A biographical novel about the poet Edward Thomas

Bardly behaved? … Edward Thomas. Photograph: EO Hoppe/Corbis

Hello and welcome back to our reader reviews roundup, which returns after a two-week easter break. Though the books desk might have been slacking, our reader reviewers have not.

One of the liveliest conversations has been inspired by a novel about the poet Edward Thomas. It was published in February by the Oxfordshire-based "micro-publisher" Streetbooks, whose founder Frank Egerton says: "My interest is in artisan publishing: which involves high quality, regional fiction, marketed locally in person and globally via the Internet. An analogy I like is that of the micro-brewery: a combination of tradition, passion and the opportunities offered by new technology."

Frank of StreetBooks.com

A Conscious Englishman is by former teacher and probation officer Margaret Keeping, and either she has some very conscientious literary friends or her publisher's micro-brewery policy is producing some pretty heady results in the Edward Thomas fan club.
First to review it was ISWilton, who wrote:

What I love most about this book is the voice of his wife Helen. Much of the book is told from her viewpoint and we understand the pain of being married to a struggling, and sometimes, difficult artist.

Next came Georgeed, who felt Keeping conveyed Thomas's love of the English countryside particularly well.
evmason wrote the clincher over Easter weekend:

Her gift is to create in prose the landscapes and moods which Thomas captured in his poems. In showing us the genesis of 'The Manor Farm', 'Old Man', 'In Memoriam (Easter 1915)', she sends us straight back to the poetry, and for a writer who loves Thomas's work, what finer service could she render?
Definitely worth checking out then.'
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Edward Thomas died on the 9th April 1917 on the morning of the battle of Arras.

Agny Cemetary. On either side of him are unidentified soldiers whose headstones say 'Known unto God'.

I was sent this link by Fran Howard-Brown:
Dear Margaret

I have been meaning to send you the link to a video I made when I visited ET's grave, and it seemed appropriate to choose today.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rx6bfeQjZAI

The music I used comes from a film We Were Soldiers, an American film about the Vietnam war. The Scottish lament, which appears in the film as well, was composed by a Sargent Mackenzie, another casualty of April 9th. He is buried north of Arras.

Taken from Eleanor Farjeon 'The Last Four Years' .1997 Sutton Edition

Edward and Merfyn went on a week's holiday in 1913 on the Norfolk Broads with Eleanor Farjeon and two friends of hers. He went fishing every day without catching a thing, and he and Eleanor walked together. The friends left a day early and Eleanor, Edward and Merfyn spent another night and day together. What must that have been like for Eleanor, I wonder. She says nothing about that.



Edward Thomas on the Water

 

publishingmyedwardthomas.blogspot.com         -  from now on please.

Merfyn took the photo of the four adults - Edward and the other man holding plates behind their heads at Edward's suggestion - pretending to be saints with haloes. And here is Edward Thomas washing up.

'The River Isis

On the right is the gold-and-white barge of Magdalen College undergoing repair. The masts and barges of other Colleges line the side of the river, and Folly Bridge closes the prospect.'
'Oxford', 1903
(One barge remains, upstream from Donnington Bridge. It's someone's home but open during Artweeks, May 4th onwards this year.)

More Boats

Edward was a keen rower when he was at Oxford and would have rowed between the boat-houses near Folly Bridge and Iffley lock. He wrote in 'Oxford' about the races between colleges - it sounds just like today's except that now, of course, there are women.

c.Sarah Lawrence

The Poem - quieter waters -this is quite the most contented poem of Edward Thomas I know.

July

Naught moves but clouds, and in the glassy lake
Their doubles and the shadow of my boat.
The boat itself stirs only when I break
This drowse of heat and solitude afloat
To prove if what I see be bird or mote,
Or learn if yet the shore woods be awake.

Long hours since dawn grew, - spread, - and passed on high
And deep below, - I have watched the cool reeds hung
Over images more cool in imaged sky:
Nothing there was worth thinking of for long;
All that the ring-doves say, far leaves among,
Brims my mind with content thus still to lie.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A local footnote.

I walk from Donnington to Iffley most days even though sadly without our beloved Greg who died in January 2012. (We are still looking out for another dog - ideally a mongrel puppy- hard to find.)

Over the last few months the lock at Iffley has been very unsightly but interesting, as the lock gates are being replaced. I spoke to the carpenters today, asking what wood they were using. It's Ekki and Greenheart - tropical woods that are too dense to become saturated under water. They are Stewardship approved, he told me.

I was surprised that they use wood, not steel these days, and elsewhere they have used steel, but apparently these wooden gates should last sixty years. Steel lasts about forty.

One of the new gates visible.

One more setting, the one I haven't visited - Franconia, New Hampshire, USA

Well, I won't be the first - I remember the novel by Stef Penney, 'The Tenderness of Wolves' set in a bitter Canadian winter so powerful it was almost a character in the novel: people were rather amazed to find that she'd done all the research online. I think that's perfectly fair. What would not be fair would be to use someone else's work of fiction for the same purpose - facts and images, yes, someone else's fictional use of their work, no.

It was very much helped for me that the farmhouse Robert Frost bought in June 1915 still stands. It is now called The Frost Place and is a museum and centre for poetry and Frost Studies.



Genuine or not, this image appears everywhere

There are so many images of it it's hard to choose - do have a look at their website, http://frostplace.org

Photo-Jeannine Atkins'journal

I'm inclined to think, though, that you gain most from visiting writers' locations by looking at the view from their windows, or in this case, the porch. That's certainly what they would have spent a great deal of time doing.

An extract from the novel:

'In July the Frosts moved in to the farm. Robert and Elinor were ready to meet the removers who brought their long-stored goods on a wagon. All their old possessions from the Derry farm piled higgledy-piggledy in the kitchen, and the men clumping about heavily upstairs could not spoil their elation. Elinor did become thoughtful as she looked out of the kitchen window: how well she would come to know that view, those tall weeds where the kitchen water was thrown out, over the years ahead. Many years maybe, even though they were not so young and all their long past years were piled up there, in the chaos of the kitchen at her back.

‘My, am I glad to have a home of my own again,’ Elinor said.

‘Yes, and such freedom – our own birch woods. No one to tell us what we can and can’t do, where we can and can’t go. I couldn’t have taken that one moment longer. But we had some good times in England, didn’t we, Elly?’

‘Well, some, I guess.’

‘And it’s turned out for the best, you must admit that.’

‘I know.’

A few days later they moved in with the children, the younger three running off together to the Hyla brook. Lesley climbed Ore Hill and after a while ran down towards them.

‘I’ve found a great crop of blueberries all round the wood over there – do come see.’

So they picked blueberries, they fixed up the house and swam in the brook that hot summer. Robert and the children went back to playing baseball. It was Carol, at fourteen, who was to work the farm: Robert believed that a son must earn his father’s love but his mother’s is rightly there for free.

Robert himself began to be busy with writing, organising his work and with Poetry Society matters. The little post-office at Franconia, where their mail was retained for them, had never known such mail as arrived daily for Mr Robert Frost.

But Elinor was not wholly content for long.

Robert would sit out on the white-painted porch, gazing into the autumn morning. He liked to see the mist clear and the mountains take up their true shapes while the last shreds of mist remained only in the deepest valleys.

‘He’s watching the dragon come out of the Notch,’ the children said. It was the Franconia Notch, the saddle of the mountain facing them. He had always believed that you could not get too much winter in winter, something he’d missed in England. He was beginning to wonder, though. Would they pay for their mountain view with too harsh and bitter weather? Would his plan for orchards fail? One late frost would kill the early blossom. '

Robert both composed new poems and revised for publication the work he had done in England. He published Mountain Interval in 1916. It contains many of his best known shorter poems. The Exposed Nest, Locked Out, the Sound of Trees and Putting in the Seed are all Leddington and Ryton work. The 'tricky' Road Less Travelled is part of the collection, and Out, Out, The Hill Wife, The Oven Bird.

Published Henry Holt, 1916

The Frost Copyright has to be respected but I am sure these poems, over 75 years old, are out of copyright. Here is ' Birches' which I think is Franconia inspired.

Birches

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust—

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows—

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It's when I'm weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig's having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

I don't know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

Has anyone been to the Frost Place? It would be so interesting to have comments from you.

Edward Thomas Fellowship Birthday Walk at Steep.

Today, 3rd March, the annual walk at Steep marking Edward Thomas birthday went well. It began in near freezing temperatures but at about 2pm the sun shone, The familiar format is a longish morning walk and a shorter afternoon one, interspersed with readings.
Exceptionally, today we were joined by a Radio 4 reporter and sound engineer who recorded people on the walk, including me. There will be five broadcasts over Easter - whether all Edward Thomas, or walking groups, or South Downs, I'm afraid I'm not sure but with Robert MacFarlane contributing it will be good.

What was very good for me was to meet face to face two people I've known of and wanted to meet, Fran Howard-Brown, wise maternity nurse/adviser, also  a regular Edward Thomas correspondent on dovegreyreaderscribbles to which I've often referred, and Lucy Milner, Edward's great-granddaughter, Merfyn's grandaughter, daughter of Edward Cawston Thomas.

Here is Lucy reading The Brook, the poem  which features her great-aunt, Myfanwy.  I transposed the scene to Leddington in the novel:

'They travelled so speedily that they reached a place they’d never visited, where a stony track forded the Preston Brook. Myfanwy paddled. Edward sat on the bank by the glinting, murmuring stream. A dragonfly suddenly landed on a large stone by the water’s edge and warmed itself, taking heat from the stone and sun together. There it stayed motionless and timeless, as he felt himself to be, sitting there in the sun.

Above the trees he could see March Hill, the last of the Malverns, prominent against the sky, a place of legends and ancient mysteries. He pictured Thomas Traherne, sitting in the Herefordshire sun centuries before, meditating on the boundless potential of man’s mind and spirit and enjoying the easy hours as a child did. He would have to read Centuries, again – such extraordinary and unconventional verses. Traherne’s ‘child’ was a marvellous creature who could wander free of boundaries and had no property to bind him. Traherne saw that we don’t own the world or any part of it, at best we hold it on an everlasting lease.

For a while he lost all sense of present time, of time itself. A walk like this, a place like this, took him meandering through the centuries. It was as if he and the dragonfly were unchanged since Traherne’s days. Or even since the long-dead chieftains were buried in the barrow up on the hill. This was England for him: timeless, the England that had roots far back in the earth of the ancient past and that still in moments like these could be found.

A chaffinch flew down and perched on the wooden rail of the bridge, cocking its head a little and looking into the brook. How contained they are, he thought, the dragonfly, the chaffinch; these creatures aren’t troubled like us, always reflecting and theorising. They have intuition and a wholeness of being. We are cast out from that – the Fall, there’s a real truth in the story. These creatures are still in Eden, they’re in touch with the world, with now, in some immediate way that Man never is. We have history – our awareness of human history, those barrows, the past and what it gives us. And our own pasts.

And along with that is the fact that we’re always thinking of the future too, he thought. Children escape that for a little while, before schooldays at least. He watched Myfanwy building a row of stones across the stream - even she had a clear plan, she couldn’t leave the stream to be itself. It was the nature of Man. But then of course the stream would win. Within minutes of their leaving the little dam would be gone. He could foresee that, but it was his belief that the only certain thing about the future was its unpredictability.'

 

 

 

Next was The Chalk Pit, a rather Frosty, dialogue-based poem:

From The Chalk Pit

'Is this the road that climbs above and bends
Round what was one a chalk pit: now it is
By accident an amphitheatre.
Some ash trees standing ankle-deep in brier
And bramble act the parts, and neither speak
Nor stir.' 'But see: they have fallen, every one,
And briar and bramble have grown over them.'
'That is the place. As usual no one is here.
Hardly can I imagine the drop of the axe,
And the smack that is like an echo, sounding here.'
'I do not understand.' 'Why, what I mean is
That I have seen the place two or three times
At most, and that its emptiness and silence
And stillness haunt me, as if just before
It was not empty, silent, still, but full
Of life of some kind, perhaps tragical.
Has anything unusual happened here?'


And so we continued. March the 3rd, the poem I printed a week ago, was read at the memorial stone.

The Thomas's first Steep cottage, Berryfield, on the right

I noticed a badger- dug hole under a yew - and harts-tongue banks.




Yew Tree cottage, their last Steep home

I sold and signed some books and bought some of the excellent poem/woodcut illustrated cards, which you can see on the ETF website.

There has been the most exciting find, books of Helen and Edward, with inscriptions, lost for eighty years. We will be hearing much more about them before long.

The day ended with the annual meeting in the church and good news that by next year the memorial window which was smashed will be replaced by a replica to the same Whistler design.

The New House - the poem from the broken window to be restored. It is about the Wick Green house where they were never settled or happy. I think of Yew Tree Cottage as having been a happier house on the whole.

NOW first, as I shut the door,

I was alone
In the new house; and the wind
Began to moan.

Old at once was the house,
And I was old;
My ears were teased with the dread
Of what was foretold,

Nights of storm, days of mist, without end;
Sad days when the sun
Shone in vain: old griefs and griefs
Not yet begun.

All was foretold me; naught
Could I foresee;
But I learnt how the wind would sound
After these things should be

'March' and 'Oxford', the book, rerun to complete the Oxford story.   Edward Thomas's Birthday today, 3rd March.

Edward Thomas's 'Oxford', printed in 1903, saved the family from the 'gutter and bankruptcy.'

It was his first major commissioned work and came at a time when they were desperate for money after two years of living mainly from reviewing and single articles.

Words or pictures first? My copy, a rather expensive birthday present, privileged the John Fulleylove paintings above the text., and Edward Thomas was commissioned to accompany them.

Mine is the 'ordinary' edition, priced twenty shillings, and there was a limited Deluxe Edition, each copy numbered and signed by the artist, price two guineas.

There are sixty full-page illustrations, of which eleven are reproduced in Lucy Newlyn's 2005 reprint,Signal Books. (I have used her introduction for most of the information in this blog.)

Lucy writes that Fulleylove was an establishment Victorian painter, his trademark being historically important buildings painted with everyday, homely touches,'with a skilful choice of the unexpected as well as the typical aspects.' Hence a cat in a quad, people on bikes, figures coming round the corners of building.

As Edward Thomas was also drawn to the unpretentious and everday, the two works suited each other, though they are entirely independant.

Over a hundred years later the peopled pictures look very Edwardian and dated to my eyes. So many chaps in black gowns, a rarer sight these days, and how different from the French painters of the period, at least those we value most.

I prefer the views of Oxford without people - Magdalen tower for example,(actually that is quite Impressionistic), the view from South Hinksey and the little churchyard of St Peter in the East.

Saint Peter in the East

'It is sweet to enter that peacefullest and homeliest of churchyards, St Peter's in the East, overlooked by St Edmund Hall and Queen's College and the old city wall. There is a peace which only the thrush and blackbird break-'

Magdalen Tower and the Botanic Gardens

The Text of 'Oxford'.

‘At sunset or dawn the city's place in the world, as a beautiful thing, is clearest. Few cities look other than sad at these hours; many, unless hid in their own smoke, look cheap. Oxford becomes part of the magic of sunset and dawn- is, as it were, gathered into the bosom of the power that is abroad. ‘



Oxford' is a strange book, peopled with semi-fictitious characters, half amalgamations of people he knew, half imaginary, and many reflecting himself as a visitor or undergraduate. It is not everyone's cup of tea, although there is a good deal of humour in it.

It’s acity with human influence of streets and architecture, the natural world everywhere intermingled with the buildings and the way the city 'steals out into the fields.' That is as important to him as well as the culture of books and librairies.

He seems to have enjoyed looking back, but the book is not a personal account at all. Oxford gave him time to read and learn and make some friends, but his was not a typical student life because of the separate, secret life he had with Helen throughout.

If you are interested in Oxford it's worth buying Lucy Newlyn's book.

The poem: March -

Edna Longley links this with Robert Frost's urging Edward Thomas to turn the prose of In Pursuit of Spring into poetry. 'March blends several March days and Thomas's perennial pursuit of spring into a quintessential symbol' Longley, The Annotated Collected Poems.
MARCH

Now I know that Spring will come again,
Perhaps to-morrow: however late I've patience
After this night following on such a day.

While still my temples ached from the cold burning
Of hail and wind, and still the primroses
Torn by the hail were covered up in it,
The sun filled earth and heaven with a great light
And a tenderness, almost warmth, where the hail dripped,
As if the mighty sun wept tears of joy.
But 'twas too late for warmth. The sunset piled
Mountains on mountains of snow and ice in the west:
Somewhere among their folds the wind was lost,
And yet 'twas cold, and though I knew that Spring
Would come again, I knew it had not come,
That it was lost too in those mountains chill.

What did the thrushes know? Rain, snow, sleet, hail,
Had kept them quiet as the primroses.
They had but an hour to sing. On boughs they sang,
On gates, on ground; they sang while they changed perches
And while they fought, if they remembered to fight:
So earnest were they to pack into that hour
Their unwilling hoard of song before the moon
Grew brighter than the clouds. Then 'twas no time
For singing merely. So they could keep off silence
And night, they cared not what they sang or screamed;
Whether 'twas hoarse or sweet or fierce or soft;
And to me all was sweet: they could do no wrong.
Something they knew--I also, while they sang
And after. Not till night had half its stars
And never a cloud, was I aware of silence
Stained with all that hour's songs, a silence
Saying that Spring returns, perhaps to-morrow.

'March' and 'Oxford', the book, rerun to complete the Oxford story.

Edward Thomas's 'Oxford', printed in 1903, saved the family from the 'gutter and bankruptcy.'

It was his first major commissioned work and came at a time when they were desperate for money after two years of living mainly from reviewing and single articles.

Words or pictures first? My copy, a rather expensive birthday present, privileged the John Fulleylove paintings above the text., and Edward Thomas was commissioned to accompany them.

Mine is the 'ordinary' edition, priced twenty shillings, and there was a limited Deluxe Edition, each copy numbered and signed by the artist, price two guineas.

There are sixty full-page illustrations, of which eleven are reproduced in Lucy Newlyn's 2005 reprint,Signal Books. (I have used her introduction for most of the information in this blog.)

Lucy writes that Fulleylove was an establishment Victorian painter, his trademark being historically important buildings painted with everyday, homely touches,'with a skilful choice of the unexpected as well as the typical aspects.' Hence a cat in a quad, people on bikes, figures coming round the corners of building.

As Edward Thomas was also drawn to the unpretentious and everday, the two works suited each other, though they are entirely independant.

Over a hundred years later the peopled pictures look very Edwardian and dated to my eyes. So many chaps in black gowns, a rarer sight these days, and how different from the French painters of the period, at least those we value most.

I prefer the views of Oxford without people - Magdalen tower for example,(actually that is quite Impressionistic), the view from South Hinksey and the little churchyard of St Peter in the East.

Saint Peter in the East

'It is sweet to enter that peacefullest and homeliest of churchyards, St Peter's in the East, overlooked by St Edmund Hall and Queen's College and the old city wall. There is a peace which only the thrush and blackbird break-'

Magdalen Tower and the Botanic Gardens

The Text of 'Oxford'.

‘At sunset or dawn the city's place in the world, as a beautiful thing, is clearest. Few cities look other than sad at these hours; many, unless hid in their own smoke, look cheap. Oxford becomes part of the magic of sunset and dawn- is, as it were, gathered into the bosom of the power that is abroad. ‘



Oxford' is a strange book, peopled with semi-fictitious characters, half amalgamations of people he knew, half imaginary, and many reflecting himself as a visitor or undergraduate. It is not everyone's cup of tea, although there is a good deal of humour in it.

It’s acity with human influence of streets and architecture, the natural world everywhere intermingled with the buildings and the way the city 'steals out into the fields.' That is as important to him as well as the culture of books and librairies.

He seems to have enjoyed looking back, but the book is not a personal account at all. Oxford gave him time to read and learn and make some friends, but his was not a typical student life because of the separate, secret life he had with Helen throughout.

If you are interested in Oxford it's worth buying Lucy Newlyn's book.

The poem: March -

Edna Longley links this with Robert Frost's urging Edward Thomas to turn the prose of In Pursuit of Spring into poetry. 'March blends several March days and Thomas's perennial pursuit of spring into a quintessential symbol' Longley, The Annotated Collected Poems.
MARCH

Now I know that Spring will come again,
Perhaps to-morrow: however late I've patience
After this night following on such a day.

While still my temples ached from the cold burning
Of hail and wind, and still the primroses
Torn by the hail were covered up in it,
The sun filled earth and heaven with a great light
And a tenderness, almost warmth, where the hail dripped,
As if the mighty sun wept tears of joy.
But 'twas too late for warmth. The sunset piled
Mountains on mountains of snow and ice in the west:
Somewhere among their folds the wind was lost,
And yet 'twas cold, and though I knew that Spring
Would come again, I knew it had not come,
That it was lost too in those mountains chill.

What did the thrushes know? Rain, snow, sleet, hail,
Had kept them quiet as the primroses.
They had but an hour to sing. On boughs they sang,
On gates, on ground; they sang while they changed perches
And while they fought, if they remembered to fight:
So earnest were they to pack into that hour
Their unwilling hoard of song before the moon
Grew brighter than the clouds. Then 'twas no time
For singing merely. So they could keep off silence
And night, they cared not what they sang or screamed;
Whether 'twas hoarse or sweet or fierce or soft;
And to me all was sweet: they could do no wrong.
Something they knew--I also, while they sang
And after. Not till night had half its stars
And never a cloud, was I aware of silence
Stained with all that hour's songs, a silence
Saying that Spring returns, perhaps to-morrow.