The Owl -- Edward Thomas

Guest poem sent in by David Mckay

(Poem #1577) The Owl Downhill I came, hungry, and yet not starved; Cold, yet had heat within me that was proof Against the North wind; tired, yet so that rest Had seemed the sweetest thing under a roof. Then at the inn I had food, fire, and rest, Knowing how hungry, cold, and tired was I. All of the night was quite barred out except An owl's cry, a most melancholy cry Shaken out long and clear upon the hill, No merry note, nor cause of merriment, But one telling me plain what I escaped And others could not, that night, as in I went. And salted was my food, and my repose, Salted and sobered, too, by the bird's voice Speaking for all who lay under the stars, Soldiers and poor, unable to rejoice. -- Edward Thomas

Here's a holiday poem of sorts. There are a few poems by Edward Thomas on
the website, but not this one. I once read "The Owl" in an anthology and
then lost track of it for years, but every once in a while one of its
well-turned lines would come back to haunt me: "An owl's cry, a most
melancholy cry".

Reading the poem again, I was especially taken with the rich, ambiguous
image of the owl's cry "salting" the narrator's food and repose. Throughout,
the economy of language is exceptional -- consider the phrase "soldiers and
poor", which says all that needs to be said and no more.

Best regards,
David McKay

Adlestrop -- Edward Thomas

(Poem #1192) Adlestrop Yes, I remember Adlestrop -- The name, because one afternoon Of heat the express-train drew up there Unwontedly. It was late June. The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat. No one left and no one came On the bare platform. What I saw Was Adlestrop -- only the name And willows, willow-herb, and grass, And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry, No whit less still and lonely fair Than the high cloudlets in the sky. And for that minute a blackbird sang Close by, and round him, mistier, Farther and farther, all the birds Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire. -- Edward Thomas

Adlestrop is a village in the Cotswolds, lying just off the road between two
equally charmingly-named towns - Chipping Norton and Stow-on-the-Wold. Its
claim to fame, apart from today's poem of course, is that Jane Austen was
often a guest at the Rectory (her uncle was the rector), and Adlestrop Park
may have been the setting for Mansfield Park.

As for the poem... it's a little gem. It doesn't attempt too much (always a
good thing, unless you're Milton), but what it sets out to do it does
perfectly: it captures place and season to a nicety. Especially refreshing,
given the weather we've been having lately.

thomas.

[Links]

Ah, the wonders of the internet: http://www.adlestrop.org.uk/

Edward Thomas:
Poem #1032, Words
Poem #1174, No One So Much As You

Places:
Poem #3, Inversnaid  -- Gerard Manley Hopkins
Poem #5, Chicago  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #60, Byzantium  -- William Butler Yeats
Poem #128, London, 1802  -- William Wordsworth
Poem #235, Pennsylvania  -- Carl Sandburg
Poem #361, Cologne  -- Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Poem #1021, Matsushima -- Matsuo Basho

[Afterword]

The Scrabble player in me would like to point out that ADLESTROP is a
fertile source of 8-letter words: DROPLETS PETROSAL POLESTAR PROLATES
ADOPTERS ASPORTED PASTORED READOPTS PORTALED PROLATED LEOPARDS TADPOLES
DELATORS LEOTARDS LODESTAR. So now you know.

No One So Much As You -- Edward Thomas

Guest poem submitted by Nitesh Dixit:

(Poem #1174) No One So Much As You No one so much as you Loves this my clay, Or would lament as you Its dying day. You know me through and through Though I have not told, And though with what you know You are not bold. None ever was so fair As I thought you: Not a word can I bear Spoken against you. All that I ever did For you seemed coarse Compared with what I hid Nor put in force. My eyes scarce dare meet you Lest they should prove I but respond to you And do not love. We look and understand, We cannot speak Except in trifles and Words the most weak. For I at most accept Your love, regretting That is all: I have kept Only a fretting That I could not return All that you gave And could not ever burn With the love you have, Till sometimes it did seem Better it were Never to see you more Than linger here With only gratitude Instead of love - A pine in solitude Cradling a dove. -- Edward Thomas

I came across this poem while going through a battered book, an anthology of
English poems from the mid-20th century, and just fell for it. I like this
poem for the simple reason that it seems so honest in its presentation. How
often do we find ourselves responding to someone and not actually having
those same emotions... or so we feel to be the case. Perhaps it's the  same
for both the parties, perhaps all of us are merely responding to the other
and not recognising our own emotions.

nitesh.

Words -- Edward Thomas

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1032) Words Out of us all That make rhymes Will you choose Sometimes - As the winds use A crack in a wall Or a drain, Their joy or their pain To whistle through - Choose me, You English words? I know you: You are light as dreams, Tough as oak, Precious as gold, As poppies and corn, Or an old cloak: Sweet as our birds To the ear, As the burnet rose In the heat Of Midsummer: Strange as the races Of dead and unborn: Strange and sweet Equally, And familiar, To the eye, As the dearest faces That a man knows, And as lost homes are: But though older far Than oldest yew, - As our hills are, old, - Worn new Again and again: Young as our streams After rain: And as dear As the earth which you prove That we love. Make me content With some sweetness From Wales Whose nightingales Have no wings, - From Wiltshire and Kent And Herefordshire, - And the villages there, - From the names, and the things No less. Let me sometimes dance With you, Or climb Or stand perchance In ecstasy, Fixed and free In a rhyme, As poets do. -- Edward Thomas

I liked this poem because the image of a poet beseeching words to accept
him, and using a poem as a medium to do so, appealed to me. I also liked the
way he describes words in the second section of the poem.

Zenobia.