Moonrise -- Gerard Manley Hopkins

(Poem #260) Moonrise I awoke in the Midsummer not to call night, in the white and the walk of the morning: The moon, dwindled and thinned to the fringe of a finger-nail held to the candle, Or paring of paradisaical fruit, lovely in waning but lustreless, Stepped from the stool, drew back from the barrow, of dark Maenefa the mountain; A cusp still clasped him, a fluke yet fanged him, entangled him, not quite utterly. This was the prized, the desirable sight, unsought, presented so easily, Parted me leaf and leaf, divided me, eyelid and eyelid of slumber. -- Gerard Manley Hopkins

This is one of the many unpublished fragments left behind in Hopkins' notebooks
[1], hence its rather disconnected nature. I'm running it for its rhythms -
they're absolutely beautiful, especially the first two lines. I'm not quite sure
if the verse itself has any meaning, though...

thomas.

[1] Fragment Poem #60, to be precise.

[Minstrels Links]

My favourite Hopkins poem is 'Inversnaid', which you can read at poem #3
 - yes, poem #3, one of the very first poems to be run on this group -
   ancient history, so to speak.

I wrote an essay about Hopkins' use of sound which I was quite pleased with; it
forms part of the commentary which accompanies 'Pied Beauty', at poem #134

Another poem which sounds exquisite but doesn't mean a thing (and intentionally
so) is Algernon Swinburne's wonderful 'Nephelidia', at poem #99

[About 'Maenefa']

Although it sounds like a fantasy world  (Hi Martin!), Maenafa is a real place -
a township in the Welsh parish of Tremeirchion in Flintshire. (The other
townships in Tremeirchion are Bryngwyn Esgob, Llan, Graig and Bachegraig - as
you've no doubt guessed, I include this piece of useless information merely for
the sound of the Welsh words).

"Tremeirchion is a considerable parish in the Vale of Clwyd, chiefly notable for
the splendid Jesuit College (St. Bueno's) which it possesses. The college stands
on an elevation, and a little distance from it on the top of a hill is a neat
little chapel; a charming view of the country for many miles is obtainable here.
Indeed the scenery to be looked upon is of a rich and varied description, and
numbers avail themselves of the luxury during the summer months."
    -- from  'A Postal Directory of Flintshire', 1886.

And it should come as no surprise that Hopkins studied theology at the
abovementioned college and called himself by the Welsh pseudonym 'Bran Maenefa'.

" ... the roots of Hopkins' Welsh pseudonym 'Bran Maenefa' lie in the Hopkins
family's lifelong nicknaming habits, in frequent comparisons of black-gowned
priests to crowish birds, and in the Crows' Nests, seats atop trees near Saint
Bueno's College, where Hopkins studied in Wales."
    --  from 'Hopkins as the Crow of Maenefa' (Hopkins Quarterly vol. 23, nos.
3-4 [Summer/Fall 1996]: pp. 113-120), Norman White .

It's amazing what you can find on the Web, isn't it?

Songs from an Evil Wood -- Lord Dunsany

A doubly appropriate poem...

(Poem #259) Songs from an Evil Wood I. There is no wrath in the stars, They do not rage in the sky; I look from the evil wood And find myself wondering why. Why do they not scream out And grapple star against star, Seeking for blood in the wood, As all things round me are? They do not glare like the sky Or flash like the deeps of the wood; But they shine softly on In their sacred solitude. To their happy haunts Silence from us has flown, She whom we loved of old And know it now she is gone. When will she come again Though for one second only? She whom we loved is gone And the whole world is lonely. And the elder giants come Sometimes, tramping from far, Through the weird and flickering light Made by an earthly star. And the giant with his club, And the dwarf with rage in his breath, And the elder giants from far, They are the children of Death. They are all abroad to-night And are breaking the hills with their brood, And the birds are all asleep, Even in Plugstreet Wood. II. Somewhere lost in the haze The sun goes down in the cold, And birds in this evil wood Chirrup home as of old; Chirrup, stir and are still, On the high twigs frozen and thin. There is no more noise of them now, And the long night sets in. Of all the wonderful things That I have seen in the wood, I marvel most at the birds, At their chirp and their quietude. For a giant smites with his club All day the tops of the hill, Sometimes he rests at night, Oftener he beats them still. And a dwarf with a grim black mane Raps with repeated rage All night in the valley below On the wooden walls of his cage. III. I met with Death in his country, With his scythe and his hollow eye Walking the roads of Belgium. I looked and he passed me by. Since he passed me by in Plug Street, In the wood of the evil name, I shall not now lie with the heroes, I shall not share their fame; I shall never be as they are, A name in the land of the Free, Since I looked on Death in Flanders And he did not look at me. -- Lord Dunsany

I was considering interrupting this week's theme to post a World War I poem,
and will admit to getting carried away by the sheer serendipity of finding
one written by a fantasy author.

Like Wodehouse, Dunsany's prose is far better than his poetry; still,
today's poem gives some indication of his style - highly coloured,
imaginative, abundantly supplied with imagery and atmosphere, and fantastic
in every sense of the word.

The last section anchors the poem directly in reality (Dunsany was a WW1
veteran), and involves a fairly noticeable change in style. The images are
quieter, and less 'wild', the tense shifts slightly into reminiscence.
While in no way original (all the images and concepts have been used time
and again, and by a number of poets) it winds up the poem nicely and leaves
the reader with an interesting blend of the more ominous aspects of fantasy
and reality.

Biography:

  Dunsany, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th baron of

   b. July 24, 1878, London d. Oct. 25, 1957, Dublin

  Irish dramatist and storyteller, whose many popular works combined
  imaginative power with intellectual ingenuity to create a credible world
  of fantasy.

  Educated at Eton and Sandhurst, Dunsany served in the South African War
  and World War I. His first book of short stories was The Gods of Pegana
  (1905); his first play, The Glittering Gate, was produced by the Abbey
  Theatre in Dublin in 1909; and his first London production, The Gods of
  the Mountain, at the Haymarket Theatre in 1911. As in his more than 50
  subsequent verse plays, novels, short stories and memoirs, in these works
  Dunsany explored in a richly coloured prose mysterious kingdoms of fairies
  and gods; he also introduced a characteristic element of the macabre.

        -- EB

Links:

For a wonderful site on Lord Dunsany, see
  <[broken link] http://www.interlog.com/~case/support/dunsany.html>

Some WW1 and related poems run previously on Minstrels:

  'In Flanders Fields', probably both the best-known and the best WW1 poem: poem #11
  'Tommy' - not directly WW1 related, but nonetheless relevant: poem #43
  'Dover Beach': poem #89

m.

Macavity: The Mystery Cat -- T S Eliot

This one's a classic.

(Poem #258) Macavity: The Mystery Cat Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw - For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law. He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair: For when they reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there! Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity. His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare, And when you reach the scene of crime - Macavity's not there! You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air - But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there! Mcavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin; You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in. His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed; His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed. He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake; And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake. Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity. You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square - But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there! He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.) And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's. And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled, Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled, Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair - Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there! And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray, Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair - But it's useless to investigate - Mcavity's not there! And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say: `It must have been Macavity!' - but he's a mile away. You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs, Or engaged in doing complicated long-division sums. Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity, There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity. He always has an alibi, and one or two to spaer: At whatever time the deed took place - MACAVITY WASN'T THERE! And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known (I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone) Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime! -- T S Eliot

Sometimes, while reading the Old Possum poems, I find myself wondering why Eliot
ever bothered writing Serious Poetry...

thomas.

[Links]

The complete Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats can be found at
[broken link] http://coral.lili.uni-bielefeld.de/Classes/Summer97/SemGS/WebLex/OldPossum/oldpossumlex/oldpossumlex.html

The Canon (i.e., all the Holmes stories and novels) can be found at
[broken link] http://www.tirkzilla.com/holmes/

[Holmes references in the poem]

"You have probably never heard of Professor Moriarty?" said he.
"Never."
"Ay, there's the genius and the wonder of the thing!" he cried.

"... he is extremely tall and thin, his forehead domes out in a white curve, and
his two eyes are deeply sunken in his head ... "

"...the organizer of every deviltry, the controlling brain of the underworld,
the Napoleon of Crime!"

    -- all three quotations from The Final Problem.

Other hints in the poem include

'And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty's gone astray, '
    -- a reference to The Naval Treaty.

'Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way, '
    -- a reference to The Bruce-Partington Plans.

'Engaged in doing complicated long-division sums.'
    -- a reference to Moriarty's well-known mathematical talent.

I'm sure I've missed a few, though.

Three Rings for the Elven Kings -- J R R Tolkien

This week, I'll be running a series of poems by fantasy authors

(Poem #257) Three Rings for the Elven Kings Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky, Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone, Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die, One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them, One Ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them In the Land of Mordor where the Shadows lie. -- J R R Tolkien

This is undoubtedly the most famous piece of Tolkien's verse, known (or at
least familiar) to many who have never read the books, and memorized by
practically everyone who has. If I had to describe the poem in one word, it
would be 'compelling' - the perfectly measured syllables, the ominous,
brooding atmosphere, the sonorous, chantlike effect, almost lure the reader
into ascribing an intrinsic power to the words themselves.

The quote below illustrates the point beautifully

  " Ash nazg durbatulúk, ash nazg gimbatul,
  ash nazg thrakatulûk agh burzum-ishi krimpatul."

  The change in the wizard's voice was astounding. Suddenly it became
  menacing, powerful, harsh as stone. A shadow seemed to pass over the high
  sun, and the porch for a moment grew dark. All trembled, and the Elves
  stopped their ears. "Never before has any voice dared to utter the words
  of that tongue in Imladris, Gandalf the Grey," said Elrond, as the shadow
  passed and the company breathed once more. "And let us hope that none will
  ever speak it here again," answered Gandalf.

        - JRRT

Notes:

Like much of the poetry in the Lord of the Rings, 'Three Rings...' refers
not to the book itself, but to the deeper body of history and mythology
underlying it. It outlines the creation of the Rings of Power, in whose
history tLotR is but the final chapter, and more about which can be found in
the Silmarillion.

For a picture of the One Ring, and the inscribed couplet, see
  <http://www.nationalgeographic.com/ngbeyond/rings/images/ring_image.jpg>

For a nice page on the Rings of Power, see
  <http://www.daimi.au.dk/~bouvin/tolkien/ringsofpower.html>

The following is an excerpt from a Tolkien Linguistics site:

  Our sole example of pure Black Speech, then, is the inscription on the
  Ring: Ash nazg durbatulûk, ash nazg gimbatul, ash nazg thrakatulûk agh
  burzum-ishi krimpatul. "One Ring to rule them all, One Ring to find them,
  One Ring to bring them all and in the Darkness bind them." (LotR1/II ch.
  2) Nazg is "ring", also seen in Nazgûl "Ring-wraith(s)". Ash is the number
  "one", agh is the conjuction "and", disturbingly similar to Scandinavian
  og, och. Burzum is "darkness", evidently incorporating the same element
  búrz, burz- "dark" as in Lugbúrz "Tower-dark", the Black Speech name that
  Sindarin Barad-dûr translates. Hence, the -um of burzum must be an
  abstract suffix like the "-ness" of the corresponding English word
  "darkness". Burzum has a suffix ishi "in". In the transcription it is
  separated from burzum by a hyphen, but there is nothing corresponding in
  the Tengwar inscription on the Ring, so this may be considered either a
  postposition or a locative ending. (It is remarkably similar to Quenya
  -ssë and may support the theory advanced by Robert Foster in his Complete
  Guide to Middle-earth, that the Black Speech was to some extent based on
  Quenya and a perversion of it. The element burz- "dark" is also vaguely
  similar to the Elvish stem for "black", MOR.) Though burzum-ishi is
  translated "in the darkness", there does not seem to be anything
  corresponding to the article "the", unless it is somehow incorporated in
  ishi. But the evidence is that the Black Speech does not mark the
  distinction between definite and indefinite nouns; see below.

                -- <http://www.uib.no/People/hnohf/orkish.htm>

For more on Tolkien, see the previous poems in the archive at
  <http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels>

And finally, a very tangential aside - if, like me, you enjoy Tolkien for
the sheer poetry of his language, you might enjoy Patricia McKillip too.
Her plots lack gripping power, IMO, but her language is truly beautiful.

m.

Funeral Blues -- W H Auden

Strange, when you consider the width of his poetic range, that my two favourite
Auden poems are both elegies...

(Poem #256) Funeral Blues Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone, Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone, Silence the pianos and with muffled drum Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead. Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves, Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves. He was my North, my South, my East and West, My working week and my Sunday rest, My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song; I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong. The stars are not wanted now; put out every one, Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun, Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods; For nothing now can ever come to any good. -- W H Auden

First published as "Song IX" from 'Twelve Songs' (1936); reprinted under the
present title in 'Tell me the Truth about Love' (1976). Most famous appearance?
In the movie 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' (which fact does not, surprisingly
enough, detract from the quality of the poem one bit).

thomas.

[Minstrels Links]

We've run two Auden poems before (Only two? Yup, difficult as it may be to
believe... the fact is, most of Auden's work leaves me a bit cold --  feel
welcome to rectify the situation by means of guest submissions).

First, that beautiful elegy in praise of one of my favourite poets - In Memory
of W. B. Yeats, at poem #50

And second, the almost equally good Musee des Beaux Arts, at poem #68

Both sites contain a fair bit of critical analysis, biographical info and the
like.