The Workbox -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem sent in by Jennifer McWhorter

(Poem #1928) The Workbox See, here's the workbox, little wife, That I made of polished oak.' He was a joiner, of village life; She came of borough folk. He holds the present up to her As with a smile she nears And answers to the profferer, ''Twill last all my sewing years!' 'I warrant it will. And longer too. 'Tis a scantling that I got Off poor John Wayward's coffin, who Died of they knew not what. 'The shingled pattern that seems to cease Against your box's rim Continues right on in the piece That's underground with him. 'And while I worked it made me think Of timber's varied doom; One inch where people eat and drink, The next inch in a tomb. 'But why do you look so white, my dear, And turn aside your face? You knew not that good lad, I fear, Though he came from your native place?' 'How could I know that good young man, Though he came from my native town, When he must have left there earlier than I was a woman grown?' 'Ah, no. I should have understood! It shocked you that I gave To you one end of a piece of wood Whose other is in a grave?' 'Don't, dear, despise my intellect, Mere accidental things Of that sort never have effect On my imaginings.' Yet still her lips were limp and wan, Her face still held aside, As if she had known not only John, But known of what he died. -- Thomas Hardy

My closest friend turned me on to this poem about 13 years ago and it has
haunted me ever since. When I first read it, I saw only a surface tale of a
woodworker/coffin maker who made a box for his wife from a leftover bit from
his work. But on a second read I saw a woman whose husband had killed her
lover and who was now giving her a very unmistakable message: "I'm not
fooled, and this is all you have of him now. You might be next."

It's pretty powerful story telling.

Regards,

Jenn

[Links]

Wikipedia on Hardy:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hardy

The Dynasts -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem submitted by Frank O'Shea, an excerpt
from:

(Poem #1749) The Dynasts Yea, the coneys are scared by the thud of hoofs, And their white scuts flash at their vanishing heels, And swallows abandon the hamlet-roofs. The mole's tunnelled chambers are crushed by wheels, The lark's eggs scattered, their owners fled; And the hedgehog's household the sapper unseals. The snail draws in at the terrible tread, But in vain; he is crushed by the felloe-rim The worm asks what can be overhead, And wriggles deep from a scene so grim, And guesses him safe; for he does not know What a foul red flood will be soaking him! Beaten about by the heel and toe Are butterflies, sick of the day's long rheum, To die of a worse than the weather-foe. Trodden and bruised to a miry tomb Are ears that have greened but will never be gold, And flowers in the bud that will never bloom. -- Thomas Hardy

Friday's poem ["The Grass", by Carl Sandburg, Poem #1748 -- ed.] reminded me
of some lines from Thomas Hardy's long verse drama "The Dynasts." As with
Sandburg, he is concerned with the effects of the forthcoming Battle of
Waterloo on the flora and fauna.

It would be nice if I could boast how clever I am to be reading such ancient
and esoteric verse. The truth is that it is one of the Hardy poems used by
Alan Bennett in his wonderful CD "Poetry in Motion" (www.bbcshop.com). The
full text of the Hardy document can be found at
http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/etext03/dynst10.txt

You have sufficient Hardy poems on your site not to need biography. But
least I looked up the meaning of some of the unusual words:
    coney (or cony): a rabbit
    scut: tail
    felloe: the outer part of a wheel to which spokes are attached.

FOS.

Middle-Age Enthusiasms -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem submitted by Hita Adwanikar, as a follow-up
to last week's poem by Gwendolyn Brooks:

(Poem #1631) Middle-Age Enthusiasms To M. H. We passed where flag and flower Signalled a jocund throng; We said: "Go to, the hour Is apt!" - and joined the song; And, kindling, laughed at life and care, Although we knew no laugh lay there. We walked where shy birds stood Watching us, wonder-dumb; Their friendship met our mood; We cried: "We'll often come: We'll come morn, noon, eve, everywhen!" - We doubted we should come again. We joyed to see strange sheens Leap from quaint leaves in shade; A secret light of greens They'd for their pleasure made. We said: "We'll set such sorts as these!" - We knew with night the wish would cease. "So sweet the place," we said, "Its tacit tales so dear, Our thoughts, when breath has sped, Will meet and mingle here!"... "Words!" mused we. "Passed the mortal door, Our thoughts will reach this nook no more." -- Thomas Hardy

Some more of the ubiquitous 'We'. I usually find it difficult to like Thomas
Hardy, although I appreciate his works. There is something very real, and
yet disappointing about his take on life and its experiences. Hardy's 'We'
are older and disillusioned. They pretend to hold on to dreams which they
have already set aside as unreal. The contrast between 'we said' and 'mused
we' suggests a bravado, a mask put on by each of them for the collective.
They have given up, but they still have to accept that they have given up.
And it is difficult for us to decide, whether they have lost enthusiasm or
gained maturity.

- Hita.

Neutral Tones -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem sent in by Cristina Gazzieri

(Poem #1611) Neutral Tones We stood by a pond that winter day, And the sun was white, as though chidden of God, And a few leaves lay on the starving sod, —-They had fallen from an ash, and were gray. Your eyes on me were as eyes that rove Over tedious riddles solved years ago; And some words played between us to and fro-— On which lost the more by our love. The smile on your mouth was the deadest thing Alive enough to have strength to die; And a grin of bitterness swept thereby Like an ominous bird a-wing... Since then, keen lessons that love deceives, And wrings with wrong, have shaped to me Your face, and the God-curst sun, and a tree, And a pond edged with grayish leaves. -- Thomas Hardy

This poem was written in 1890 and published in 1898 and yet, its images and
taste are already those of the twentieth century. The scene proposed by Hardy
is reduced to very few symbolic elements; the pond, the white sun, a few leaves
on the "starving sod" and an ash tree. An image of sterility which foreruns the
best poems by Eliot, though deprived of his intellectual cultivated references
and much more deeply bound to our perception of really experienced failure in
human relationship.

While Eliot is an outside observer of the aridity of man’s life in his age,
Hardy, or his poetic ego, is personally exposing his own scorched bruises. The
poetic voice addresses his woman in the first person and he explores their
mutual feelings without hypocrisy. He indulges on the mean, shabby, ungenerous
words and rancorous considerations, which may typically accompany the end of a
love story. Yet, from line twelve, it becomes evident that what he is relating
was not simply the squalid end of a love story, but a marking experience, a
malediction, which would prevent him from having any kind of love fulfilment in
his life. When I first read the poem I expected some sensual references after
the words "the smile on your mouth" and so, I found the crescendo of sinister
bitterness really striking. I also like the final polysyndeton, which
re-proposes the initial images, but much more pregnant and meaningful, at this
point of the poem.

Cristina

Hap -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem sent in by Ashwin Menon

(Poem #1201) Hap If but some vengeful god would call to me From up the sky, and laugh: "Thou suffering thing, Know that thy sorrow is my ecstasy, That thy love’s loss is my hate’s profiting!" Then would I bear, and clench myself, and die, Steeled by the sense of ire unmerited; Half-eased, too, that a Powerfuller than I Had willed and meted me the tears I shed. But not so. How arrives it joy lies slain, And why unblooms the best hope ever sown? -- Crass Casualty obstructs the sun and rain, And dicing Time for gladness casts a moan ... These purblind Doomsters had as readily strown Blisses about my pilgrimage as pain. -- Thomas Hardy

This is my first submission to the Minstrels list; so far I've only read and
enjoyed the submissions to the list, but the last poem by Stephen Crane
(Poem #1200, "A Man Said to the Universe") reminded me immediately of Hardy's
"Hap", which deals with a similar sentiment.

Crane's Universe (or God) does not feel obligated to acknowledge man's
existence. Hardy's God does the same, but perhaps much more brutally. Even if
someone doesn't actually love you, you might appreciate contempt, or hatred
even, but you can't bear to be ignored.

This is a theme in many of Hardy's poems, and many might dismiss it as
pessimism. But in my opinion, the recognition that there is no God to care
either way about you should actually be a liberating experience, not only for
you, but for God as well!

 - Ashwin

The Darkling Thrush -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem sent in by Neha Kumar

(Poem #977) The Darkling Thrush I leant upon a coppice gate When Frost was spectre-gray, And Winter's dregs made desolate The weakening eye of day. The tangled bine-stems scored the sky Like strings of broken lyres, And all mankind that haunted nigh Had sought their household fires. The land's sharp features seemed to be The Century's corpse outleant, His crypt the cloudy canopy, The wind his death-lament. The ancient pulse of germ and birth Was shrunken hard and dry, And every spirit upon earth Seemed fervourless as I. At once a voice arose among The bleak twigs overhead In a full-hearted evensong Of joy illimited; An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small, In blast-beruffled plume, Had chosen thus to fling his soul Upon the growing gloom. So little cause for carolings Of such ecstatic sound Was written on terrestrial things Afar or nigh around, That I could think there trembled through His happy good-night air Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew And I was unaware. -- Thomas Hardy

      (31 December, 1900)

Note: Originally titled "By the Century's Deathbed"

We did this poem in high school, before the turn of the century, and I
recall how we spent quite a bit of time discussing the date the poem was
written. Apparently, at that time it was understood that the 19th century
turned to the 20th on 1st January 1901 (rightly so).

Anyway, here's some additional information for those interested:

"... to commemorate the occasion, Hardy composed a poem originally titled
"By the Century's Deathbed" which was published under that name in the
Graphic on 19 December 1900. It later was renamed "The Darkling Thrush", and
has been published under that title ever since. It is considered by many to
be one of Hardy's finest poems. It is included in his 1901 collection titled
Poems of the Past and the Present, and, though written several weeks
earlier, is dated 31 December 1900.

The year 1900 was not kind to Thomas Hardy. His marriage to Emma had become
strained; she sat in her upper room writing letters and dabbling in poetry;
he sat alone in his Max Gate study writing letters and serious poetry.
Sickness in Emma's family had caused her to be absent from Max Gate for
prolonged periods, upsetting the daily routine so important to Hardy. Two of
Emma's cousins had been resident at Max Gate for several weeks, another
upsetting anxiety in his domestic life.

Thus, at year's end, as the 19th century drew its last breaths, Hardy
composed his thoughts at that time. He portrays a wistfully gloomy, wintry
world, "as fervourless as I". Yet, within that colorless scene, a thrush
sings a joyful, hopeful carol. This is classic Hardy: always hoping for the
best even within the context of a conviction of the worst."

have a great new year!
neha

Channel Firing -- Thomas Hardy

Armistice Day guest poem sent in by Reed C Bowman

[We received this a little too late to run it for the 11th, but I felt it
was worth posting anyway - martin]

(Poem #939) Channel Firing That night your great guns, unawares, Shook all our coffins as we lay, And broke the chancel window-squares, We thought it was the Judgment-day And sat upright. While drearisome Arose the howl of wakened hounds: The mouse let fall the altar-crumb, The worms drew back into the mounds, The glebe cow drooled. Till God called, "No; It's gunnery practice out at sea Just as before you went below; The world is as it used to be: "All nations striving strong to make Red war yet redder. Mad as hatters They do no more for Christés sake Than you who are helpless in such matters. "That this is not the judgment-hour For some of them's a blessed thing, For if it were they'd have to scour Hell's floor for so much threatening .... "Ha, ha. It will be warmer when I blow the trumpet (if indeed I ever do; for you are men, And rest eternal sorely need)." So down we lay again. "I wonder, Will the world ever saner be," Said one, "than when He sent us under In our indifferent century!" And many a skeleton shook his head. "Instead of preaching forty year," My neighbour Parson Thirdly said, "I wish I had stuck to pipes and beer." Again the guns disturbed the hour, Roaring their readiness to avenge, As far inland as Stourton Tower, And Camelot, and starlit Stonehenge. -- Thomas Hardy

           (April 1914)

[notes:
I got this text from http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/hardy7.html
They provide these explanations (among others):
  glebe cow: cow put out to pasture on church land for the vicar
  Stourton Tower: in Wiltshire, a tower built to honour Alfred the Great's
    victory over the Danes
]

This poem was written in April 1914, and beautifully expresses the
feeling of gloomy foreboding that some, at least, felt in the months
before the First World War. Though it's relieved by some oddly light
touches, in a time when across Europe huge masses, especially among the
young men, were looking forward to the war all knew was coming, Hardy
injects a recollection of  what war was to those who fought and died in
bygone years under the thunder of other guns, and how much worse it
might be this time. Probably at the time only by describing the unquiet
of the honored dead at the sound of more guns could a message of gloom
and hesitation be heard. Hardy (1840-1928) was old enough in 1914 to
have perspective on this, was fully adult for the news of the last big
European war in 1870, and in his youth might easily have met or seen
veterans of the Napoleonic wars. I don't know if the gunfire of the land
forces of the Franco-Prussian War was ever heard across the Channel, as
most certainly the guns of the Great War would be in coming months and
years, but big guns by night communicate their threat effectively  both
to the young abed in England who've never heard them, and to the future
enemies and allies listening upon the continent.

The poem effectively evokes the broken quiet of a country churchyard on
a dark night. I was going to say it also effectively described the
bleak, menacing sound of distant naval gunfire coming far over the water
and inland by night, but on rereading it I was surprised to find there's
no description of the sound at all - that is supplied by my own
recollection (as in this poem, it is only the Navy's practice firing
that I've ever heard) and by the description of the reaction of the
nocturnal beasts and the buried dead. But that reaction does clearly
call up the way you feel the gunnery in your spine and muscles, and the
way your body responds to the urgency of its threat, however distant.

The last stanza, taken out of context, or with only a vague reading of
the rest of the poem, might seem like an affirmation that the guns were
being trusted in as guardians, "Roaring their readiness to _avenge_,"
but the fifth stanza shatters this illusion. Having already said the
nations are "striving strong to make/Red war yet redder", he condemns
the threatening fire of the gunnery practice just offshore (where the
Continental powers are sure to hear as well), going so far as to put
words in God's mouth saying that Hell awaits the warriors for their
threatening.

Overall this is a good poem to remind people, in time of slowly igniting
war, that the last time a war was begun to put an end to war and punish
warmongers it merely ushered in a new century of bloodier conflicts than
any in history. Now it is the dead of that same (the twentieth) century's
wars that may stir at the rise of a new century's same old war, and
wonder if their descendents for whose future and way of life they fought
will ever live in a saner world than theirs.

RCB

Links:

  Biography: See Poem #96

  Thomas Hardy on Minstrels:
    [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_3.html

Weathers -- Thomas Hardy

(Poem #813) Weathers (I) This is the weather the cuckoo likes, And so do I; When showers betumble the chestnut spikes, And nestlings fly; And the little brown nightingale bills his best, And they sit outside at 'The Traveller's Rest,' And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest, And citizens dream of the south and west, And so do I. (II) This is the weather the shepherd shuns, And so do I; When beeches drip in browns and duns, And thresh and ply; And hill-hid tides throb, throe on throe, And meadow rivulets overflow, And drops on gate bars hang in a row, And rooks in families homeward go, And so do I. -- Thomas Hardy

There's something comfortable about Hardy's poetry - I can always open up a
collection of his and be assured of finding something quietly contemplative,
familiar but never stale.

Today's poem is another variation on the theme of weather and country
landscape that Hardy was fond of exploring. The poem is rather skilfully
constructed; the main impact is in the first and last two lines of each
verse, the intermediate lines building up a smooth segue from the first 'and
so do I' to the second.

Links:

  There's a biography at poem #96

  And here's just one example of a poem that makes an interesting pair with
  'Weathers': poem #226

-martin

The Roman Road -- Thomas Hardy

(Poem #519) The Roman Road The Roman Road runs straight and bare As the pale parting-line in hair Across the heath. And thoughtful men Contrast its days of Now and Then, And delve, and measure, and compare; Visioning on the vacant air Helmeted legionnaires, who proudly rear The Eagle, as they pace again The Roman Road. But no tall brass-helmeted legionnaire Haunts it for me. Uprises there A mother's form upon my ken, Guiding my infant steps, as when We walked that ancient thoroughfare, The Roman Road. -- Thomas Hardy

There is something ineffably romantic about the old Roman roads, those
enduring remnants of a vanished empire. They spoke then, and speak now, of
the might and organization of that empire, and their present day existence
is a continuing point of contact between Then and Now.

It is the second of these properties that forms the basis of Hardy's poem,
a reflection on the Road, and the way it bridges the past and present -
except that he refers to a far more personal and immediate past, and in
doing so, raises the road to the same level of immediacy. The two images
overlap - the Road of the ancient Romans, that survives even now and recalls
a bygone civilisation, and the road of the poet's youth, recalling a
bygone past.

And finally, the use of 'ancient' in the penultimate line brings the whole
thing into focus - the road not only is ancient, it *was* ancient even in
childhood memory, and so the timeline clicks into place and two roads become
one again.

Links:

You can find a biography at
  poem #96

We've recently done a theme on ancient Rome:
  poem #490
  poem #492
  poem #494
  poem #495

And rather longer ago, one on roads:
  poem #47
  poem #49
  poem #51

And, of course, you can see all the previous Hardy poems we've run at
  [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html

PostScript:

This is, by Hardy's standards, a remarkably cheerful poem :)

-martin

The Man He Killed -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem submitted by Jeff Berndt:

(Poem #479) The Man He Killed "Had he and I but met By some old ancient inn, We should have sat us down to wet Right many a nipperkin! "But ranged as infantry, And staring face to face, I shot at him as he at me, And killed him in his place. "I shot him dead because-- Because he was my foe, Just so: my foe of course he was; That's clear enough; although "He thought he'd 'list, perhaps, Off-hand like--just as I-- Was out of work--had sold his traps-- No other reason why. "Yes; quaint and curious war is! You shoot a fellow down You'd treat if met where any bar is, Or help to half-a-crown." -- Thomas Hardy

I don't know how you feel about Thomas Hardy.  Most people know him as a writer
of novels, but here's a poem of his that I ran across some days ago.  The
message in this poem is obvious--no subtleties here.  But I still like it.  I
don't know anything about when exactly Hardy wrote this poem or in response to
what incident; if anybody does, I wouldn't mind hearing about it.

Jeff.

In Time of 'The Breaking Of Nations' -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem submitted by P. G. Murthy:

(Poem #429) In Time of 'The Breaking Of Nations' Only a man harrowing clods In a slow silent walk With an old horse that stumbles and nods Half asleep as they stalk. Only thin smoke without flame From the heaps of couch-grass; Yet this will go onward the same Though Dynasties pass. Yonder a maid and her wight Come whispering by: War's annals will cloud into night Ere their story die. -- Thomas Hardy

This is a great poem; it stills the heart and makes one pause and think of the
lone farmer standing by his plough watching the years and the centuries go past
with all their futility. How often we see at level crossings when the train
speeds by the farmer and his animals waiting patiently: "He sees with unseeing
eyes".

Hardy saw such a scene in Cornwall in 1870 and for forty years this lay dormant
till 1915 when this sentiment surfaced to take the shape of these three lovely
verses. I can only quote : "In this poem Hardy comments on the permanence of
such simple things as work and love. Man must cultivate the earth so that he can
eat, and he will continue to fall in love. Not even the madness of war can
change these basic certainties ... a great truth, [stated] simply and
effectively."

"Thou art my battle axe and weapons of war : for with thee will I break in
pieces the nations, and with thee will I destroy kingdoms."
        -- Jeremiah 51:20

P. G. Murthy.

[Administrivia]

I'm off on vacation (and away from email) for 2 weeks, starting as soon as I
send this message; however, Martin will cover for me while I'm gone.

thomas.

Epitaph on a pessimist -- Thomas Hardy

Guest poem submitted by Smitha Rao:

(Poem #414) Epitaph on a pessimist I'm Smith of Stoke aged sixty odd I've lived without a dame all my life And wish to God My dad had done the same. -- Thomas Hardy

Just loved this piece of terse verse. It very deftly manages to portray an
incurable die-hard pessimist. (Also because I'm in love with Hardy).

        -- Smitha Rao

During Wind and Rain -- Thomas Hardy

(Poem #96) During Wind and Rain They sing their dearest songs-- He, she, all of them--yea, Treble and tenor and bass. And one to play; With the candles mooning each face.... Ah, no; the years O! How the sick leaves reel down in throngs! They clear the creeping moss-- Elders and juniors--aye, Making the pathways neat And the garden gay; And they build a shady seat.... Ah, no; the years, the years; See, the white stormbirds wing across! They are blithely breakfasting all-- Men and maidens--yea, Under the summer tree, With a glimpse of the bay, While pet fowl come to the knee.... Ah, no; the years O! And the rotten rose is ripped from the wall. They change to a high new house, He, she, all of them--aye, Clocks and carpets and chairs On the lawn all day, And brightest things that are theirs.... Ah, no; the years, the years; Down their carved names the raindrop plows. -- Thomas Hardy

Hardy's poetry is somewhat more depressing than I usually care for, but it
has a compelling quality that makes up for it. Today's poem deals with some
of his favourite themes - death, oblivion and futility - and does so with his
characteristic elegance and economy. The imagery is vivid and hard-hitting,
the last lines of each stanza stripping away the comfortable mask of life
and order, and hammering in the coffin nails of time. Note the way the
relentless progression is reinforced by the alliteration, and by the
repeated use of the penultimate line. It's interesting to compare Hardy's
poems with those of Christina Rossetti, who expresses some of the same
sentiments, but in a far gentler, more wistful and mistier style.

Biography and Assessment:

  Thomas Hardy was born in 1840, and has for years been famous on both
  sides of the Atlantic as a writer of intense and sombre novels. His
  Tess of the D'Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure are possibly his best
  known, although his Wessex Tales and Life's Little Ironies are no
  less imposing.

  It was not until he was almost sixty, in 1898 to be precise, that
  Hardy abandoned prose and challenged attention as a poet. The
  Dynasts, a drama of the Napoleonic Wars, is in three parts, nineteen
  acts and one hundred and thirty scenes, a massive and most amazing
  contribution to contemporary art. It is the apotheosis of Hardy the
  novelist. Lascelles Abercrombie calls this work, which is partly a
  historical play, partly a visionary drama, "the biggest and most
  consistent exhibition of fatalism in literature." While its powerful
  simplicity and tragic impressiveness overshadow his shorter poems,
  many of his terse lyrics reveal the same vigor and impact of a
  strong personality. His collected poems were published by The
  Macmillan Company in 1919 and reveal another phase of one of the
  greatest living writers of English.
        -- Louis Untermeyer

  Hardy seems always to have rated poetry above fiction, and Wessex Poems
  (1898), his first significant public appearance as a poet, included verse
  written during his years as a novelist as well as revised versions of
  poems dating from the 1860s. As a collection it was often perceived as
  miscellaneous and uneven--an impression reinforced by the author's own
  idiosyncratic illustrations--and acceptance of Hardy's verse was slowed,
  then and later, by the persistence of his reputation as a novelist.
  [...]
  Indeed, there is no clear line of development in Hardy's poetry from
  immaturity to maturity; his style undergoes no significant change over
  time. His best poems can be found mixed together with inferior verse in
  any particular volume, and new poems are often juxtaposed to reworkings of
  poems written or drafted years before. The range of poems within any
  particular volume is also extremely broad--from lyric to meditation to
  ballad to satirical vignette to dramatic monologue or dialogue--and Hardy
  persistently experiments with different, often invented, stanza forms and
  metres.
        -- EB