Crossing the Frontier -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1807) Crossing the Frontier Crossing the frontier they were stopped in time, Told, quite politely, they would have to wait: Passports in order, nothing to declare And surely holding hands was not a crime Until they saw how, ranged across the gate, All their most formidable friends were there. Wearing his conscience like a crucifix, Her father, rampant, nursed the Family Shame; And, armed with their old-fashioned dinner-gong, His aunt, who even when they both were six, Had just to glance towards a childish game To make them feel that they were doing wrong. And both their mothers, simply weeping floods, Her head-mistress, his boss, the parish priest, And the bank manager who cashed their cheques; The man who sold him his first rubber-goods; Dog Fido, from whose love-life, shameless beast, She first observed the basic facts of sex. They looked as though they had stood there for hours; For years -- perhaps for ever. In the trees Two furtive birds stopped courting and flew off; While in the grass beside the road the flowers Kept up their guilty traffic with the bees. Nobody stirred. Nobody risked a cough. Nobody spoke. The minutes ticked away; The dog scratched idly. Then, as parson bent And whispered to a guard who hurried in, The customs-house loudspeakers with a bray Of raucous and triumphant argument Broke out the wedding march from Lohengrin. He switched the engine off: "We must turn back." She heard his voice break, though he had to shout Against a din that made their senses reel, And felt his hand, so tense in hers, go slack. But suddenly she laughed and said: "Get out! Change seats! Be quick!" and slid behind the wheel. And drove the car straight at them with a harsh, Dry crunch that showered both with scraps and chips, Drove through them; barriers rising let them pass Drove through and on and on, with Dad's moustache Beside her twitching still round waxen lips And Mother's tears still streaming down the glass. -- A D Hope

This is submitted as a juxtaposition and contrast with Seamus Heaney [1].
Both Hope and Heaney use the frontier metaphor, but each uses it to explore
very different themes. Heaney's concern is the struggle of the writer in
what is experienced as a hostile environment. (I read Heaney's menacing
antagonists as his readers and critics.) Hope is writing about pre-marital
sex, an issue of not much concern today, but one which was more problematic
for an earlier generation. (In particular before the advent of reliable oral
contraceptives.  The poem is dated 1963.)  In Hope's case the menacing
antagonists at the frontier are conventional morality and its upholders
(parents, head-mistress, the parish priest). Interestingly in Hope's poem
the decisive move to break the shackles of conventional morality is taken by
the woman. (John Taber remarked earlier on Hope's characteristically
positive treatment of women in his comment on [2]. This is further support
for Taber's claim.)

The poem was published in [3].

William Grey

[1] Poem #1807, 'From the Frontier of Writing, Seamus Heaney
[2] Poem #1568, 'His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell', A.D. Hope
[3] A.D. Hope, 'Collected Poems (1930-1965)'. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1966.

The Invaders -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1774) The Invaders Coming by night, furtively, one by one They infiltrate according to the Plan, Their orders memorized and their disguise Impenetrable. With the rising sun Our citizens welcome them. Nobody can Think that such charming creatures might be spies. So feeble, so helpless, no one could suspect They come to make this commonwealth their prey; So few, they pose no threat; their cohort grows So imperceptibly that we neglect To notice how it musters day by day And, unalarmed, we watch as they impose Themselves, make friends in all directions, take Impressions of all keys. They gain access To all our secrets; learn to speak our tongue Like natives; profit by each false move we make; Work on our weaknesses; observe and guess The sources of power and study them to be strong. And when it happens, there will be no fuss, No streets running with blood, no barricade. We shall simply wake one morning to discover, As those who ruled this city before us Found by each door a headstone and a spade, That a new generation has taken over. -- A D Hope

This poem by Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000) is based on an utterly
simple idea, with an underlying tension (even menace) beautifully developed,
and brilliantly resolved in the final line. Like Hope's "Ode on the Death of
Pius the Twelfth" [1] this poem deals with the issue of age and death, which
are recurrent themes for Hope (see also [2]) -- as they are, of course, for
many poets.

The poem is from A.D. Hope, A Late Picking: Poems 1965-1974. (Sydney: Angus
& Robertson, 1975)

William Grey

[1] Poem #1764, Ode on the Death of Pius the Twelfth -- A.D. Hope
[2] Poem #571, The Death of the Bird -- A.D. Hope

The Perfume -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by "William Grey"

(Poem #1748) The Perfume "... marked males of the silkworm moth have been known to fly upwind seven miles to a fragrant female of their kind ... the chemical compound with which a female silkworm moth attracts mates is highly specific; no other species seem aware of it. In 1959, the Nobel Laureate Adolph Butenandt of the Max Planck Institute for Biochemistry in Munich succeeded in analysing it. He found it to be an alcohol with sixteen carbon atoms per molecule ...." L. and M. Milne: The Senses of Animals and Men. 0 Chloë, have you heard it, This news I sing to you? It's true, my lovely bird, it Is absolutely true! A biochemist probing Has caught without a doubt The Queen of Love disrobing And found her secret out. What drives the Bombyx mori To fly, intrepid male, Lured by the old, old story Six miles against the gale? The formula, my Honey, Is now in print to prove What is, and no baloney, The very stuff of love. At Munich on the Isar Those molecules were found Which everyone agrees are What makes the world go round; What draws the male creation To love, my darling doll, Turns out, on trituration, To be an alcohol. A Nobel Laureatus Called Adolph Butenandt Contrived to isolate us This strong intoxicant. The boys are celebrating And singing at the club: Here's Bottoms up! to mating, Since Venus keeps a pub! My angel, 0, my angel, What is it you suffuse, What redolent evangel, What nosegay of good news? What draws me like a dragnet And holds and keeps me tight? What odds! my fragrant magnet, I shall be drunk tonight! -- A D Hope

The thread of poems on intoxication prompts me to submit a poem  by
Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000) linking intoxication and love. It is
the second in a sextet entitled 'Six Songs for Chloë'. Hope had a thirst
for learning which ranged widely over texts ancient and modern, and which
included contemporary research in science as well as poetry and philosophy.

The poem is from A.D. Hope, New Poems 1965-69, pp. 33-34.

William Grey

Ode On the Death of Pius the Twelfth -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by Eloise Wright

I came across this poem yesterday and though it was an appropriate one to
share, given recent events:

(Poem #1673) Ode On the Death of Pius the Twelfth To every season its proper act of joy, To every age its natural mode of grace, Each vision its hour, each talent we employ Its destined time and place. I was at Amherst when this great pope died; The northern year was wearing towards the cold; The ancient trees were in their autumn pride Of russet, flame and gold. Amherst in Massachusetts in the Fall: I ranged the college campus to admire Maple and beech, poplar and ash in all Their panoply of fire. Something that since a child I longed to see, This miracle of the other hemisphere: Whole forests in their annual ecstasty Waked by the dying year. Not budding Spring, not Summer's green parade Clothed in such glory these resplendant trees; The lilies of the field were not arrayed In riches such as these. Nature evolves their colours as a call, A lure which serves to fertilise the seed; How strange then that the splendour of the Fall Should serve no natural need And, having no end in nature, yet can yield Such exquisite natural pleasure to the eye! Who could have guessed in summer's green concealed The leaf's resolve to die? Yet from the first spring shoots through all the year, Masked in the chlorophyll's intenser green, The feast of crimson was already there, These yellows blazed unseen. Now in the bright October sun the clear Translucent colours trembled overhead And as I walked, a voice I chanced to hear Announced: The Pope is dead! A human voice, yet there the place became Bethel: each bough with pentecost was crowned; The great trunks rapt in unconusming flame Stood as on holy ground. I thought of this old man whose life was past, Who in himself and his great office stood Against the secular tempest as a vast Oak spans the underwood; Who in the age of Armageddon found A voice that caused all men to hear it plain, The blood of Abel crying from the ground To stay the hand of Cain; Who found from that great task small time to spare: - For him and for mankind the hour was late - So much to snatch, to save, so much to bear That Mary's part must wait, Until in his last years the change began: A strange illumination of the heart, Voices and visions such as mark the man Chosen and set apart. His death, they said, was slow, grotesque and hard, Yet in that gross decay, until the end Untroubled in his joy, he saw the Word Made spirit and ascend. Those glorious woods and that triumphant death Prompted me there to join their mysteries: This Brother Albert, this great oak of faith, Those fire-enchanted trees. Seven years have passed, and still, at times I ask Whether in man, as in those plants, may be A splendour, which his human virtues mask, Not given to us to see? If to some lives at least comes a stage When, all active man now left behind, They enter on the treasure of old age, This autumn of the mind. Then, while the heart stands still, beyond desire The dying animal knows a strange serene: Emerging in its ecstasy of fire The burning soul is seen. Who sees it? Since old age appears to men Senility, decreptitude, disease, What Spririt walks among us, past our ken, As we among these trees, Whose unknown nature, blessed with keener sense Catches its breath in wonder at the sight And feels its being flood with that immense Epiphany of light? -- A D Hope

It is autumn in the southern hemisphere at the moment, and here in Canberra
(where Hope spent much of his life) the autumn leaves are out in force. The
similarity of the careers of Pius XII and John Paul II - a long and highly
active reign followed by a gradual decline into ill-health - completes the
parallel.

Two things I wanted to pull out: the Mary in stanza 13 is, I think, the
sister of Martha and Lazarus (whose 'part' was contemplation rather than
Martha's activity). I was also wondering whether the use of 'Fall' for
autumn, which seems odd to me, given Hope's nationality, might be a
reference to the biblical Fall, said to have introduced death into the
world.

I found this poem a nice contrast to the media merry-go-round which has
seemed almost unavoidable these past days.

Eloise.

[Links]

Bio of A. D. Hope: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A._D._Hope

Bio of Pope Pius XII: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pius_XII

As Well as They Can -- A D Hope

William Grey sends this in as a followup of sorts to
yesterday's poem...

(Poem #1620) As Well as They Can As well as it can, the hooked fish while it dies, Gasping for life, threshing in terror and pain, Its torn mouth parched, grit in its delicate eyes, Thinks of its pool again. As well as he can, the poet, blind, betrayed Distracted by the groaning mill, among The jostle of slaves, the clatter, the lash of trade, Taps the pure source of song. As well as I can, my heart in this bleak air, The empty days, the waste nights since you went, Recalls your warmth, your smile, the grace and stir That were its element. -- A D Hope

An offering for this year's Valentine's Day romantic anniversary by Australian
poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000). Somewhere Hope reported witnessing the death of a
fish -- I think it was when he was a young man in Tasmania. The memory of grit
of sand in the fish's dying eye long haunted him and provided the focal image
for this poem, composed more than forty years later. The blind and betrayed man
struggling with the groaning mill (I think) is an allusion to the biblical
story of Samson. The three stanzas of this subtle, poignant and profound
triptych resonate to perfection. "Human speech", Flaubert famously said (in
Madame Bovary), "is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for
bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars."
Flaubert was able to achieve stellar meltdown. So too was Hope.

The poem was published in A.D. Hope, New Poems 1965-69 (Sydney: Angus &
Robertson, 1969), p. 52.

William Grey

His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1567) His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell Since you have world enough and time Sir, to admonish me in rhyme, Pray Mr Marvell, can it be You think to have persuaded me? Then let me say: you want the art To woo, much less to win my heart. The verse was splendid, all admit, And, sir, you have a pretty wit. All that indeed your poem lacked Was logic, modesty, and tact, Slight faults and ones to which I own, Your sex is generally prone; But though you lose your labour, I Shall not refuse you a reply: First, for the language you employ: A term I deprecate is "coy"; The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill, May simper and be coy at will; A lady, sir, as you will find, Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind, Means what she says and scorns to fence And palter with feigned innocence. The ambiguous "mistress" next you set Beside this graceless epithet. "Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave To wear my heart upon your sleeve? Or to imply, as sure you do, I had no other choice than you And must remain upon the shelf Unless I should bestir myself? Shall I be moved to love you, pray, By hints that I must soon decay? No woman's won by being told How quickly she is growing old; Nor will such ploys, when all is said, Serve to stampede us into bed. When from pure blackmail, next you move To bribe or lure me into love, No less inept, my rhyming friend, Snared by the means, you miss your end. "Times winged chariot", and the rest As poetry may pass the test; Readers will quote those lines, I trust, Till you and I and they are dust; But I, your destined prey, must look Less at the bait than at the hook, Nor, when I do, can fail to see Just what it is you offer me: Love on the run, a rough embrace Snatched in the fury of the chase, The grave before us and the wheels Of Time's grim chariot at our heels, While we, like "am'rous birds of prey", Tear at each other by the way. To say the least, the scene you paint Is, what you call my honour, quaint! And on this point what prompted you So crudely, and in public too, To canvass and , indeed, make free With my entire anatomy? Poets have licence, I confess, To speak of ladies in undress; Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough, In verses this is common stuff; But -- well I ask: to draw attention To worms in -- what I blush to mention, And prate of dust upon it too! Sir, was this any way to woo? Now therefore, while male self-regard Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard, May I suggest, before we part, The best way to a woman's heart Is to be modest, candid, true; Tell her you love and show you do; Neither cajole nor condescend And base the lover on the friend; Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch: A suitor looking at his watch Is not a posture that persuades Willing, much less reluctant maids. Remember that she will be stirred More by the spirit than the word; For truth and tenderness do more Than coruscating metaphor. Had you addressed me in such terms And prattled less of graves and worms, I might, who knows, have warmed to you; But, as things stand, must bid adieu (Though I am grateful for the rhyme) And wish you better luck next time. -- A D Hope

         (1907-2000)

An effective rejoinder to a great poem requires a poet of greatness, and one
who appreciates and respects the genius under attack. No poet was able to do
this more effectively than Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000). In his
introduction to this rejoinder Hope commented:

  This most famous of all Marvell's poems is deservedly so. Yet it is a
  brilliant tour de force in which the poet's imaginative language triumphs
  over the fact that his arguments to the lady are a set of worn-out clichés,
  which were never very persuasive even when they were new -- but the lady can
  best speak for herself.

Marvell's most famous poem was an early contribution to Wondering Minstrels
(Poem #158). 'His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell' was published in Hope's Book of
Answers (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1978), which includes a number of gems --
though none more brilliant than this Marvell parody. (It includes a fine parody
of Gerard Manley "Hop-skip-jump-kins" -- which I may submit at some future
time.) The power of Hope's language, and the range of genres which he
commanded, were immense. He is a poet of considerable stature not just within
Australia, but globally.

William

The Death Of The Bird -- A D Hope

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor, who was
actually the person who first suggested the Australian theme to us:

With everyone's eyes turning to Sydney, why not do an Australian theme? I
can't think off-hand of too many Australian poems, but there are good poets
like Les Murray and Peter Porter. And there is this one, which has remained
with me ever since I first read it:

(Poem #571) The Death Of The Bird For every bird there is this last migration; Once more the cooling year kindles her heart; With a warm passage to the summer station Love pricks the course in lights across the chart. Year after year a speck on the map divided By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come; Season after season, sure and safely guided, Going away she is also coming home; And being home, memory becomes a passion With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest; Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession And exiled love mourning within the breast. The sands are green with a mirage of valleys; The palm-tree casts a shadow not its own; Down the long architrave of temple or palace Blows a cool air from moorland scraps of stone. And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger, The delicate voice, more urgent with despair, Custom and fear constraining her no longer, Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air. A vanishing speck in those inane dominions, Single and frail, uncertain of her place. Alone in the bright host of her companions, Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space. She feels it close now, the appointed season: The invisible thread is broken as she flies; Suddenly, without warning, without reason, The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies. Try as she will the trackless world delivers No way, the wilderness of light no sign, The immense and complex map of hills and rivers Mocks her small wisdom with its vast design. And darkness rises from the eastern valleys, And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath, And the great earth, with neither grief not malice, Receives the tiny burden of her death. -- A D Hope

A simple poem, but one that has always impressed me for the quiet way it
builds up in force. Starting from the small presence of the bird getting the
migratory itch, it slowly expands to show her smallness against the
immensity of what she sets out to do.

Then suddenly, without any warning, the thread is terrifyingly cut and it is
our worst nightmare of being totally lost in a blind, indifferent world. And
the last verse is hugely impactful as the the immensity of the world rises
up to overwhelm the bird.

(There is something almost pagan about it, since this is literally as far as
you get from the Biblical "not a sparrow shall fall...").

Vikram.

[thomas adds]

Les Murray wrote 'An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow', a guest poem submitted by
Ron Heard (who's from Queensland, if I remember correctly): poem #387

Peter Porter has featured several times on the Minstrels (I happen to like
his work); check out
'Instant Fish', poem #64
'Japanese Jokes', poem #198
'Your Attention Please', poem #222