Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Drew Milne scratchpad

Regular readers will know I usually write about poetry in homoeopathic doses, partly influenced by the capsule essays in Edmund Hardy's Complex Crosses, and partly because this reflects conditions of my own time-sliced life in which encounters with poetry tend to be fleeting.

During my recent flu layoff, however, I've had comparatively limitless time to spend reading, and I've tried to put it to some good use. The only snag was, I no longer seemed able to take pleasure in what I was reading, so it all felt like rather a slog.

Everyone knows, sadly,  how illness and other chemical changes in the body wreak havoc with our seemingly stable identities: our personalities, emotions and opinions. Increased irritability is one of the most observable and common outcomes, and I certainly experienced some of that, I haven't used such colourful language since my days of working for a quarry company. But with my beloved books there was not very much irritability, just not much love. I saw, not felt, how beautiful they were.

Anyway, after sucking all sustenance from the Arden Much Ado I went on to Emilia Pardo Bazán's The House of Ulloa and I've got about a third of the way through the massive Fortunata and Jacinta by her sometime lover Benito Pérez Galdós. (I love Galdós and my insensibility to this, his masterpiece, was particularly dismaying.) I continued to grind through Paul Keegan's doorstop anthology of British verse and, to get down to business, I've also read (or at least skimmed) the whole of In Darkest Capital, the recently published collected poems by Drew Milne. The rest of this post is nothing but an ongoing scratchpad of reading notes.


Milne's Lichens for Marxists consists of 35 poems. The one I wrote about before ("Reindeer Lichen") is, in a relatively straightforward way, about a particular lichen. Likewise "Silicon glitch" has some information to impart about edible lichens. The other poems, while they all contain the word "lichen" somewhere, are often much more tangential.

Language and grammar show up quite a lot ("Song of the unknown grapheme", "Preposition stranding", "That Adjectival Lichen" and others). So does political subject matter ("Lichens for levellers", "Vote lichen", "The ballad of liberal moonshine"). So does Scottish local matters ("Sang of the unkent lichen","Alloa lichens", "Letters from Edinburgh". Jokes, both high and lowbrow, are never refused ("No taxonomy without representation"). Stanzas develop phonemically:

a some such so slow wound
in snow toes strung among
proofs to the presence of
the hung gruel done flame  ...   ("Value comb")

Fragments of 17th century language abound in "Lichens for Levellers".

There is a lot of continuity with Milne's earlier work. The comedy, for example, has always been there (Milne prefers the word "wit", but I have a slight difficulty with that, due to not having been able to forget Edward Lucie-Smith's revival of the term "University Wits" to cover such Oxford poets as James Fenton and John Fuller).  There's a feeling of an ongoing conversation so it's not a surprise that in Foul Papers we find "up with which I will not put" which is also the basis of "Preposition stranding" in Lichens for Marxists. And in "The Trojan light" (IV) dwells on the word "azure", as does Go figure; "azure" concerns Milne again in the lichen poem "Outspoken". This reminds me to mention that the frequent word "knives" appears to have special resonance in these poems.

From Carcanet's own description of In Darkest Capital, "An ark of ecological resistances to late capitalism". Those may be Milne's own words, at any rate they seem suspiciously well chosen. Perhaps especially the word "resistances", which seems to capture the refusal of the poems to resolve into clear meaning.

Which reminds me that Karl Marx morphs into "calm arks", alongside other nineteenth-century German thinkers such as  "hay gull" and "shopping hour" in one of the poems here that is just sheer fun (there are a few of them).

As a poetic, that description poses the question whether hunks of text can comprise that kind of ark, or whether the ark can only be vulnerable and languageless nature itself. Can even a critical poetry escape complicity?

Anyway the ark myth commoditizes nature. It turns it into freight.

Of Milne's earlier poems I like "The garden of tears", a very lachrymose poem; Foul Papers (this one already much-read in Conductors of Chaos) , Bench Marks - long stanzaic poems with intent focus, and the poems from Mars Disarmed such as "Pianola" and "The Trojan light".

Resistances to late capitalism...  As the earth keeps getting hotter, the necessity of that resistance is going to seem more pressing. The bizarrely extreme, apparently uncontrollable, drift of wealth towards the already very rich, might provoke a few questions too. Perhaps I might add, most especially under national governments committed to unfettered libertarianism.


As it were comes over to me as a comic portrait of a sunk society putting up with things ("up with which I will not put"?), accepting second best.

...Do me out, my
love, in enough to be going on with.   (end of first poem)

Here's one of  the later poems in full:


The pile driver rings
in late memo flasks,
ristretto fire, in goes
to Monday, when to

a weak shift there's
but a flower in your
open look, a feeble
task force through to

take of day, tasto solo,
this throng of down
sizes jogging holdalls
for a high water clerk

call it a day off


About going to work and pretending it's a day off, as if you can live your own life in the working week. But the work envisaged isn't, of course, the construction crew who operate the pile driver; it's the white-collar "high water clerk" (puns are not refused...)  --- or perhaps university lecturer --- with the ristretto. (Something there about restraining bitterness...). "Tasto solo" is an obscure instruction in baroque musical scores; it means don't harmonize the basso continuo, just play the notes (usually on the cello, if you don't have a pile driver to hand). C.P.E. Bach reported that the Italian musicians he met routinely ignored the instruction.

[Pile drivers, since they make the whole environment quiver to their boom, are typically only allowed to operate, like other noisy construction work, during the hours 0800-1800 Mon-Fri, 0800-1300 Sat.]

[In marine environments pile driving is not allowed in darkness because it's impossible to know if marine mammals (subject to hearing damage) are present in the mitigation zone (0.5km around the pile driving operation).]


Poems by Drew Milne online:

The earliest poems in In Darkest Capital can be read on-line using Amazon's Look Inside! feature.  (and in this case I think the early poems do repay attention)


Sound recordings, from 2006, of "The Trojan Light", "Pianola", some of "Go Figure", etc

You can read some or most of "The Trojan light" here:


"The eclipse of the ear"

"Troubadour unbound: on his belated inauguration"
"To the point of abstraction"
"Seasonal greetings"

Some of the (untitled) poems from Go figure (at this stage called "Ill at these numbers")

"caesurae and ballroom bellinis"

[The above poem is dedicated to Pussy Riot. Before we forget their story, it's interesting to meditate how the group's striking insistence on only performing illegally might be shadowed in western radical poetry. In general, authorities are quite reluctant to make poetry illegal if no-one reads it or understands it. Is there a way that poetry could demonstrate its refusal to countenance the capitalist construct? Obviously this is a bigger issue for Pussy Riot, because the music industry is big commerce. Poetry isn't, and perhaps the impulse to demonstrate clean hands is thereby petty, merely a breeding-ground for timewasting and futile exercises in holier-than-thou-ness. Could poetry be published in the courts of capital as Banksy-like graffiti (and then, of course, by smartphone photos)? Could poetry, perhaps, at least always be made available for free? But as I'm too well aware, publishing freely available poetry on the internet feeds capitalism, though to a miniscule degree, just as much as  (arguably, more than) publishing it through a small press and then levying a fair charge for production; the opportunity to capital comes through the various costs entailed in us poetry fans surfing the internet "for free"; you could argue that even anti-capitalist information and gestures, once published on the internet, essentially promote capitalism by agreably variegating its pleasure-garden. Indeed you could argue, I think this would be Hegelian, that existing anti-capitalism is a sort of confirming foe that prolongs the life of its enemy. Where was I? Another approach would be to publish only through backroom presses whose products aren't on sale through Amazon. But there's something peculiarly self-defeating about obfuscating access to wider audiences for collected poems: and so,  just as you can buy Prynne's Poems through Amazon and have them delivered tomorrow, well, you can also buy In Darkest Capital. That's pragmatic. Poetry is, nearly always, a public art. It's true that the mystique of some poetry is kept alive by cultivating inaccessibility --  Bob Cobbing's legacy comes to mind --- but the upshot is,  it's only the myth that lives, not the work. (At the radical end of the poetry spectrum there can be confusion with subversive political activity that is necessarily secret. Faux secretiveness, however, is just a fashion statement.)]

"Letters from Edinburgh"


"Lichen prospectus"


"Value comb"
"Lichen times: golden twenties"

"Vote lichen"
"Reindeer lichen" (text and sound recording)
Three lichen poems (some of this text re-emerges in Lichens for Marxists)


Drew Milne and John Kinsella, from Lip Trills ("Strung out goes hard wired...")


Drew Milne interviewed by Charles Bernstein in 2006:

[The whole interview is worth listening to, but the most key point, in my opinion, comes quite near the beginning, when Milne says that poetry may promote the conditions for a critique of capitalism, but the poetry isn't and can't be that critique. In other words writing poetry is not a substitute for political engagement.]

Interesting review by Brian Kim Stefans of Satyrs and Mephitic Angels


Friday, January 19, 2018

translations from Swedish

Midnatt (Midnight), painting by Anders Zorn (1891)

[Image source: https://sv.wikipedia.org/wiki/Midnatt_(m%C3%A5lning). The painting is in the Zorn Museum in Mora.]

Krus Erik Ersson, the parish cobbler, and his apprentice, Konstantin Karlsson, had sat the whole week and made shoes in the rectory, and now at nine o'clock on Saturday evening were on the way to their home, which was a long way off, on the edge of the parish.

It was autumn, and the sun had gone down long before, but that did not mean they walked in darkness, but through clear air and moonlight. It was as lovely as could be. The lake below the rectory lay mirror-bright, with a track of silver down the middle, and in the fields you could see dewdrops on every grass-stem, like white pearls in the moonlight. It was only when they had to pass through one of the groves of trees that it darkened around them. It wasn't particularly late in autumn, so the branches still had their leaves, and the tree-crowns spread out like a vault of the deepest black over their heads.

(Selma Lagerlöf, Tjänsteanden / The Spirit of Service, first published 1911)

Beredan väg för Herran!
Berg, sjunken, djup stån opp!
Han kommer, han som fjärran
Var sedd av fädrens hopp.
Rättfärdighetens förste,
Av Davids hus den störste.
Välsignad vare han,
Som kom i Herrens namn.

Prepare the way of the Lord!
Sink, ye mountains! And ye deeps, rise up!
He comes, who long since was
the foreseen hope of the fathers.
Foremost in righteousness,
of David's house the greatest.
Blessed be he who
comes in the name of the Lord.

(Frans Michael Franzén (1772 - 1847). First verse of a carol sung at the Sankta Lucia service in St Paul's Cathedral last December.)

Dance in Gopsmor, painting by Anders Zorn (1906)

[Image source: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anders_Zorn#/media/File:%22Dance_in_Gopsmor%22_by_Anders_Zorn.jpg.]

Labels: , , ,

Wednesday, January 17, 2018

Unforgivable Claudio / Benedick and the lads

Claire McEachern's Arden 3rd Series Revised Edition (2015)

I was given this for Christmas, and it has been my joy through a fortnight of flu. Sutchinda Rangsi Thompson's jacket design shows a Venetian mask (with reference to the masked ball in II.1) backed by a bit of sheet music.  In fact it's the first page of the Second Symphony by "Jan Sibellius", which I confess I'd really prefer not to see deployed as mere lorem ipsum , but maybe that's the flu speaking. However Claire McEachern's edition, originally from 2006, is a marvellous edition of a marvellous play.

There was only one moment, I think, when I found myself in protesting dialogue with the editor. The moment was in Act III Scene 2, when Don John stops Claudio and Don Pedro in their tracks.

[Don John] .... Go but with me, tonight you shall see her chamber window entered, even the night before her wedding day. If you love her then, tomorrow wed her. But it would better fit your honour to change your mind.

Claudio: May this be so?

Don Pedro: I will not think it.

Don John: If you dare not trust that you see, confess not that you know. If you will follow me I will show you enough, and when you have seen more and heard more, proceed accordingly.

Claudio: If I see anything tonight why I should not marry her, tomorrow in the congregation where I should wed, there will I shame her. .... (III.2.101-113)

McEachern's note on the highlighted sentence says: "a difficult line, to the effect of 'if you won't believe your eyes, then you must refuse the knowledge they present' ". (And she adds that the two instances of "that" should both be taken as meaning "what".)

But is that really saying anything, other than a rather wire-drawn bit of epistemology? I feel that Don John ought to be saying something far more pertinent, logical, and manipulative: "If you dare not trust exposing your eyes to what they may see this evening, then don't profess that you know (that Hero is innocent)."

I'm not scholar enough to know if Shakespeare's words could support that interpretation (and surely, I can't be the first to propose it). The sentence would certainly be extremely elliptical. But it wouldn't be unprecedented for Shakespeare to dash off words that don't quite manage to nail his meaning, especially in his foul papers, which are agreed to be the source for Q.

There is, however, much in favour of my proposed meaning. Don Pedro and Claudio have not, at this stage, stated that they will go with Don John. It's still in the balance. Don John's next sentence begins "If you will follow me..." It makes sense that the previous sentence should concern itself with the alternative scenario, i.e. If you decline to follow me...

Again, the sentence in question ought to flow from what has just been said by Don Pedro: I will not think it. McEachern's proposed meaning does that, but I consider my proposed meaning is more relevant to the situation. If someone announces in advance what they will or will not think, it sounds like they're about to refuse to look at the evidence. Don John needs to "head that off at the pass", as we say in the office. So he responds: Yes, you can refuse to look, you can will yourself to believe something, but you can't kid yourself that you know.


Well, enough of this speculation. What it does bring into focus is how Claudio's deeds and thoughts are strongly modified by the influence of these high-ups. He's young and Don Pedro's marks of distinction towards him are new, so Claudio is still getting used to these heady heights.

Claudio must have something about him, given these marks of favour. Since it doesn't seem to be intelligence or grace, we assume it's military prowess, courage and good looks.

But he has a genuine pal in Benedick. I say this because Benedick tells Leonato, in the midst of IV.1, "you know my inwardness and love / Is very much unto the prince and Claudio..."  At such a moment this must be the honest truth. But if it weren't for that speech, I really might doubt it, because Benedick has a big issue with openly expressing kind thoughts towards his male pals. In fact he tends to put young Claudio down. In the incessant flow of banter, which Claudio keeps up gamely, it's rare indeed that Claudio gets one over on Benedick, and when he does the latter is not very gracious in defeat. Yet Claudio and Don Pedro seem to understand Benedick. They understand that they can play jokes on him to their heart's content, that there's no real malice in him, that he doesn't bear a grudge.

But Benedick isn't easy company. George Bernard Shaw wasn't quite as astray as usual when he remarked:

From his first joke, "were you in doubt, sir, that you asked her?" to his last, "There is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn," he is not a wit, but a blackguard . . . 
Shaw proceeds to compare Benedick unfavourably with the generally offensive Lucio in Measure for Measure, which I think is nonsense, but the roughness of Benedick's wit when he's in the company of Don Pedro and Claudio is something to ponder on. (He behaves quite differently when they aren't present.) Beatrice is perhaps spot-on when she says "he both pleases men and angers them" (II.1.128-29).

When Claudio asks about Hero, Benedick hints at a potential moral judgment in questioning Claudio's motive, but this rather gives way to mischief. And he is also mischievous and unsupportive during the masked ball, when Don Pedro seems to be stealing Hero from under Claudio's nose. In both scenes, Benedick's implication, if he has one beyond his own self-regard, seems to be: Don't take love so seriously.

Anyway, at this critical juncture in Claudio's journey through the play, Benedick isn't around. Claudio has Don Pedro, who has been far more openly helpful than Benedick. However, Don Pedro is a prince, and sometimes a prince is not the best sort of friend, not even for a Count (for "the right noble" Claudio is repeatedly named as a Count, unlike Benedick who is a mere Signor). Don Pedro is undoubtedly well-meaning, but he has his own way of doing things (and Claudio, when jolted by Don John, had got rather confused about Don Pedro's proxy wooing). Don Pedro also has a prince's temptations, which are not like those of other people.

The presence of Don Pedro as an active figure in the play makes a great difference to the character of Claudio (as compared with his model Timbreo in Bandello). Timbreo never remotely suspects his informant, just as Othello never suspects Iago. But Claudio, Count though he be, is more overawed than unsuspecting. After all Don Pedro does have pretty good reason to suspect his brother, and Don John is bold enough to refer to it (actually he has no choice: if he didn't refer to it, others would). But then it's also a prince's part to take no note of petty causes of suspicion. To do otherwise might seem fearful. Neither of them enquires how Don John comes to know about the assignation and what motives his informants may have had for telling him. In all this royal superiority to pettiness, Claudio doesn't get much of a chance to review any suspicions he might have. Instead he's swept along, and perhaps losing his head in such high company, makes that rash statement about shaming Hero at the church. You get the impression he's trying to be seen to be doing the high, princely (or countly), decisive thing.


It's a sort of tribute to the shock-power of one of Shakespeare's greatest scenes (IV.1), that over the years Claudio has been increasingly viewed as unforgivable. For Claudio, so shy in his courtship of Hero, is apparently more than willing to take centre stage when it comes to calling her a whore (Don Pedro, as he promised in III.2,  adds his own gross insults, but only after Claudio has led the way). We have to accept, which isn't always easy, that Claudio and Don Pedro genuinely believe that Hero has flagrantly betrayed her husband-to-be the day before her wedding day, gullible as this makes them appear. Some of Claudio's words witness to bitter disappointment in love.

Claudio, like Othello, will later use the excuse of "mistaking" but in both cases it rings quite hollow these days. Of course we accept that people do make mistakes, especially when a villain sets out to deceive them. But, maybe bcause of our own era's belief in the law of attraction, we tend to have an inner feeling that if someone's deceived, they somehow contributed to it themselves. And that's especially true with these impertinent accusations, by outsiders, of sexual infidelity. Why (we think) didn't you show a bit more faith in your partner? Why didn't you at least talk to them (in private) before striking out?( And if they were indeed unfaithful to you, why did they feel like that, why were they unhappy and what was wrong between the two of you? ...) Plus, undeniably, ethics have changed since Shakespeare's time, at least on the surface. We don't, most of us, place a value on bridal virginity, and in Shakespeare's time they did. So Claudio also gets blamed for the values of his society.

It's apparent that Claudio doesn't know Hero particularly well, and indeed we never hear them speak together prior to this scene, though they apparently do talk together and they do both speak in the general conversation with Don Pedro about his plan to bring Benedick and Beatrice together (end of II.1). That plan, Don Pedro makes clear, is to be organized along gender lines.  Don Pedro, "with your two helps"  (meaning Leonato and Claudio), is going to gull Benedick;  Hero on the other hand (albeit briefed by Don Pedro) will look after gulling Beatrice. There's an assumption that normal discourse (and presumably normal life) tends to mostly involve hanging around with your own gender.

And Claudio's journey takes place very much within an all-male environment. Even at the altar he more easily addresses Leonato than Hero. Before his lady, he exemplifies the chivalrous shyness that can be so easily converted into spite. Unlike Benedick, he is not a lady's man and is not seen in female company.

There's more that's unforgivable. In V.1, Claudio and Don Pedro have an uncomfortable walk. They pretend to be in haste about something, but this is evidently self-consciousness of being in a false position. No wonder -- what are they doing still here in Messina, having publically shamed their host's daughter? (And didn't Don Pedro say he was only staying for the wedding, anyway?). First they meet Leonato and his brother Antonio, who attempt to challenge Claudio to ill-matched duels.

[What is brother Antonio doing in this play? Shakespeare mysteriously revisits the situation in Titus Andronicus, where it is Titus and, especially, his kindly brother Marcus, who stand up for the raped and mutilated Lavinia. Antonio: God knows I loved my niece. Marcus: gentle niece ... lovely niece... Lavinia's, briefly, is the fearful image that hovers over what Claudio and Don Pedro have done to Hero.]

Being rid of the old men, Don Pedro and Claudio then encounter Benedick, and perhaps the unforgivable thing is that Claudio attempts to be witty at Benedick's expense, which seems tasteless given that (so far as Claudio knows) Hero has died after his shaming of her. Surely some sobriety would be in order, even though Claudio and Don Pedro still believe themselves in the right. As the scene winds on, now with Benedick's very serious challenge and then with the confession of Borachio, that belief is destroyed. (It's curious that Borachio addresses Don Pedro as "Sweet prince", recalling the same address by first Claudio and then Leonato during the shaming scene at the start of IV.1.). Then, indeed, things change.  Claudio remembers "Sweet Hero" spontaneously, and he ends the scene with "Tonight I'll mourn with Hero". It has not been felt to be enough, though McEachern makes a good case for the emblematic importance of the monument scene (V.3). The truth is, Shakespeare's abbreviated time-scheme, essential for gripping theatre, doesn't allow for credible penitence. But Shakespeare could have tried harder if he'd wanted to. Fo instance, Claudio's ease at marrying another, and his rough jesting at Benedick in V.4, before he knows that the other is his Hero, still seem to us to lack acknowledgement of the harm he's done.

Shakespeare apparently doesn't mind. His critique of Count Claudio and the "sweet prince" is explicit. Much Ado About Nothing is a tough little tragicomedy and it isn't concerned that all its principals aren't moral paragons, or that its final dance doesn't securely promise an eternity of well-merited happiness.


Most readings of Much Ado About Nothing accept the romcom theory that Benedick and Beatrice are already in love before they are tricked into thinking so, and I agree. It's apparent from the start that Signor Benedick, who is consistently spiky with his high-up military pals, is only truly at ease in the company of Beatrice. To Leonato (once out of earshot of the aforesaid pals) he is sincerely courteous and polite; and it's Leonato's presence that apparently convinces Benedick that the garden scene isn't feigned. And, markedly in contrast with the Count Claudio, he is at ease in female company (e.g. the little scene V.2, with Margaret). Benedick isn't really one of the lads. But he doesn't much admire insipid females either (such as Hero). Beatrice is the woman who matches him. Their flurries of wit and insult are outrageous, but, looking closely, we see that Benedick does pull his punches. When Beatrice says "I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me" (I.1.125-26), she lays herself open to a more brutal response than Benedick chooses. And though Beatrice complains of it, Benedick's "I have done" (I.1.137) is really an instinctive curb on following up his own victory. Likewise during the masked ball, Benedick is extremely temperate when Beatrice unleashes her cutting remarks about the "prince's jester", which somehow end by turning into flirtatiousness. At some deep level Beatrice allows herself to be vulnerable, she already knows that Benedick won't abuse his advantage. And the conversation ends with a prescient moral agreement (positively Jane Austen-style):

[Beatrice].... we must follow the leaders.
Benedick: In every good thing.
Beatrice: Nay, if they lead to any ill I will leave them at the next turning. (II.1.137-140)

When they do lead to ill, Beatrice indeed declines to follow the leaders. And at that crisis Benedick will go along with her.


Monday, January 01, 2018

a meeting

I thought ..... it was the hat!

You're smiling!

I might have replied that Kalle was smiling too.

It's been so long. So very long!

Long enough, my friend.

Where had we met? I couldn't bring it to mind. I wanted to refer to something from our past and to see the sly understanding on Kalle's face. But was it that this seemed unnecessary, given the roundness of our grins.... or was it, that I feared some disappointment?

Come and sit here, by me. I don't hear so good these days.

Nor me!

And I must ask you.... but settle yourself first.

Now I looked at him for the first time. The face with its untidy beard, its generosity, its anger. A little wintry. Thinner than in my memory. Perhaps my feelings showed.

I have not been very well. We won't go into that. But I have not been been well.... for rather a long time. My friend. (He smiled at me again.) Are you well?

I dismissed myself with a wave.

As it happens, I am a bit better today.

In illustration of this point Kalle suddenly raised the tips of his elbows like wings, rose from the café table and, ignoring other customers, sang out the words Vi ska ställa till en roliger dans, accompanying himself with dance movements.

His energies exhausted, he sat down abruptly. I applauded, much relieved that the performance had lasted only a single line. Years spent knocking around with Kalle had made me familiar with the song. The chorus crescendo of Hej hopp! would have caused dismay, I thought.

Do you know how it feels, that first morning when you rise and something at last feels right within your breast, and you know you are truly on the mend? Perhaps it will only last a week, or a month... at our age we don't know. But life has returned, something in all its gentle fullness. I felt the gratitiude and the humility -- of Beethoven. You know? For example, I took a shower this morning. In my shower there hangs a fern. ... a potted plant.  And I thought to myself, Ah, how I do love ferns!  Yes! I thought it in all sincerity. Yet the truth is,  in all my life I've never spent two minutes thinking about ferns. I don't even know their names. Even this one in the bathroom, I had nothing to do with it.   

I like ferns too, but yes, I know... it's only with the back of my mind that I notice them. I know some of the names. Not many.

You had better tell me the names of the ferns.

Oh! Well.... maybe when I've mugged up a little, we could --

No. I shan't be interested then. Only now, is the time for naming the ferns.

And indeed, Kalle betrayed no great enthusiasm. As for me, my beetroot flush of pleasure at the incredibly rare experience of actually being invited to talk about something I was interested in, was followed at once by a short period of utter mental blankness, in which I couldn't remember any names at all, nor even what we were talking about. It didn't bode well for my idea of taking up teaching.

Ok... well, for example, there is the Hart's-tongue Fern, which has a simple leaf like a pointed tongue, and grows in the wet woods of the south-west. And then, well there's Bracken of course, that's easy to recognize because of the tough smooth stems which elevate the leaves above the ground. Actually they're not really leaves, or stems come to that, but never mind. Erm...  those little ones that grow on walls.... oh well, how about Polypody? That's a nice fern. Quite small, with simplistic wavy fingers. It grows on logs and things. Oh, there are actually three sorts, I think. Maybe, if I just check on my smartphone....?

NO! commanded Kalle, really alarmed. Please don't, I beg of you. Pardon an old man's vagary.

Yes, of course. Well, let me see.... Ah yes, the Male Fern and the Lady Fern, two common ferns of woodland.

I imagine they differ, Kalle smiled, by the former having some sort of appendage.

No, not at all. No appendage. They both look, well,  like normal ferns. Actually they look about the same as each other.

This didn't go down well with Kalle. He buried his head in his hands. No wonder, he said, no-one bothers about ferns.

I mean you can tell the difference, if you look at the underside of the leaf, the shape of the spores....

Kalle was not placated.

So let me get this straight. I find myself in a wood where there are about a thousand ordinary-looking ferns. I turn over the leaf of the nearest fern and I see it is a Male Fern. Good. I look at another fern that is growing ten meters away. It is another Male Fern. I examine a third, and a fourth, and a fifth, and a sixth. They are all Male Ferns. Yet, I say to myself, that still leaves 994 ferns who might be Lady Ferns. Maybe only one in twenty is a Lady. That would still make the Ladies quite common. So I turn over the leaves of another twenty ferns, and then another twenty, and they are all Male. But perhaps the Lady Ferns are all together in a different spot? Perhaps I should hike to the other end of the wood and begin all over again? God, what a wretched existence! What an absolute nightmare!

I had the impression we were done with ferns for the time being.

The sky was a uniform colour, too pale for grey. White with a touch of ash in it, maybe. I kept eyeing the corners of the sky as if searching anxiously for some variation in it. Meanwhile, the street before us was busy with big hard-faced women in puffer-coats, dogs, push-chairs, anxious male halves, men who liked a drink or a bet, naughty boys on scooters, shop-staff outside for a smoke, thin men in trackies, pretty plump girls, young Asian men in near-identical clothes from TopShop, mop-haired students home for the holidays, a Big Issue seller, couples who may have been in love, fat African ladies in headscarfs, three local characters around a colonnade, musicians, sweet smiling girl toddlers resembling their mum, gawky Christians with partings, short-cropped bulky girls with piercings, bodybuilders and runners in lycra revealing too much anatomy.

I couldn't see it any differently. Like every man of my generation, my conceptions were veined with sexism and racism. My reason and my beliefs were better than that, they were quite up to the mark, I thought. But my eyes! They were unregenerate. And how did I see Kalle? First and foremost, as a foreign man. That meant many things to me, most of them positive. But the fact was, I stereotyped him.

A man came by picking up litter with a grabber. Everyone had a reason to be here. It was all a comprehensible pattern. But I never took any notice of it, usually.

Nature, said Kalle, doesn't want us to know its names.

People who say that are usually about to justify dirty fuels or hacking down a rainforest.

I spoke more sharply than I intended, because I was feeling so disgusted with myself. Kalle, however, was not offended.

I am not talking about science. I am not putting a blot on the great Linnaeus.

Relieved, I found myself smiling again.

I mean only this. Those who live closer to nature, people of instinct as you may say, are careful about revealing their names. They know that a name can be like a photograph and gives away some power to the one who knows their name. On the other hand you, my friend, would tell your name to anyone, with relish! For you pursue fame.  But nature is unobtrusive.

And once again, I blessed Kalle's hat. How lonely, I thought, my life has become.

Saturday, December 30, 2017

verse in the shires

During the last and most unhinged phase of Xmas shopping I found myself in W.H. Smith buying Lego sets. Standing in the queue to check myself out, I glanced at the books on display, and noticed this doorstop, brusquely revalued, which for some reason I found funny. And then I thought, I really can't pass it up at that price,  I'll get it as a present for .... um... um... well, I'll decide later...  Waking up the next morning, it no longer seemed a bright idea to fob it off on a loved one;  I realized that I'd simply have to keep it for myself.

Paul Keegan's 1100-page anthology, first published in 2000, is notable for organizing the poems not by author but by publication date. (Publication in a collection, not in a magazine.) It doesn't really make a lot of sense in earlier centuries, and even in the 20th century it's surely only the very cream of the mainstream whose book publications, well-signalled to national media, can be envisioned as causing a public stir. (Those are, indeed, just the type of poets that populate the final part of Keegan's anthology.) The sequencing may be tough to justify rationally but it has a nice effect. Passing between Wyatt and Surrey and Wyatt and Surrey, is a reading experience that illuminates both, perhaps especially the less extrovert Surrey. Pieces by Sir Walter Raleigh come to us widely separated, under the years 1590, then 1592, then 1600, then 1618. I think Keegan is right to claim that this freshens our response to each poem; we're no longer so intent on placing it within the context of an oeuvre.

Keegan ended the millennium by trying, for perhaps the final time, to encapsulate the whole canon of poetry into a single paper-printed book. The sacrifices were necessarily drastic. The sequencing cunningly disguises the gaps:  poets who, we eventually realize, aren't going to show up at all: Lydgate, Hawes, Lindesay, Gascoigne....  On the other hand, he includes verse translations, which is great. So in this early period we can enjoy bits of Douglas's Virgil, Surrey's Virgil, and Harrington's Ariosto (personally, I have never succeeded in enjoying Golding's Ovid*). The anthology is limited to poets from the British Isles, and to poets born before 1950 -- its final years, therefore, seem particularly thin, with no young voices and no sense of how poetry in English has been transformed in our times into a world poetry, and how modern poetic communities traverse continents.

Keegan seems to think that his pragmatic geographical restriction might "maintain the pressure on a chronology defined in local rather than global ways. In the twentieth century there have been terminal pressures upon the idea of the local, only the echo of which can be heard in these pages." But reading through the anthology I keep reflecting how poets in English have always pushed beyond localism.

Nevertheless, let's end with a few local onions that I pulled up on my way past, finishing up in my home county of Wiltshire.


Come and daunce with me
    In Irlande.                             (Anon)


Ac Gloton was a greet cherl and greved in the luftynge
And cowed up a caudel in Clementis lappe;
Ys none so hungry hounde in Hertfordshyre
Durste lape of that lyvynge, so unlovely hit smauhte.  (Langland)


Had he no fere but his fole by frythes and downes,
Ne no gome bot God by gate with to carp,
Til that he neghed ful negh into the North Wales.
All the iles of Anglesay on lyft half he holdes
And fares over the fordes by the forlondes,
Over at the Holy Hede, til he had eft bonk
In the wyldrenesse of Wyrale ....     (The Gawain-poet)


He has tane Roull of Aberdene
And gentill Roull of Costorphin --
Two bettir fallowis did no man se;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

In Dunfermlyne he has done roune
With Maister Robert Henrisoun ....   (Dunbar)


And whereto serve that wondrous trophei now,
That on the goodly plaine neare Wilton stands?
That huge domb heap, that cannot tel us how,
Nor what, nor whence it is, nor with whose hands,
Nor for whose glory, it was set to shew
How much our pride mockes that of other lands? (Daniel)

* I could also have lived without Barnabe Barnes' repellent rape-fantasy sestina, here positioned just before Sidney's "Ye goteheerde gods", whose Mozartian qualities have no chance of being heard.  To be fair, the plot of  Arcadia is pretty morally hideous too, but that's why we excerpt the poems...  Rape was generally on (male) poets' minds at the time. Shakespeare's Two Gentlemen and Titus, we have written about before.  Hero likes Leander, but you'd have a hard job demonstrating consent when Leander, bold, deaf and pitiless, climbs into her bed in Marlowe's poem. Marlowe's Amores poems delight in amplifying the rape elements in its Ovidian source.  Does Drayton's "No and I" sonnet attempt to demolish the whole validity of a woman withholding consent?

Thursday, December 28, 2017

Winter Heliotrope (Petasites fragrans) - revised

[I originally wrote this post in January 2010, but I've just discovered that I confused two quite different Mediterranean plants. This is the corrected version!]

Like most flower-fans I pay excessive attention to the first flowers of the year. We always notice these harbingers. (This same distortion occurs among the non-botanist public: they can all recognize snowdrops, daffs, primroses and bluebells but they can't name the plants that flower later on.)

 I feel a bit rueful about my comparative neglect of the plants who crowd into midsummer, when there's so many kinds that we working folk are lucky even to notice them, never mind write about them. It's somehow part of the tantalizingly sweet character of, say, Grass Vetchling,  that we'll nearly always miss out on it.

Anyway I'm still grateful -- no, I'm more than grateful, I'm delighted -- for the chance to be seasonably excessive about Winter Heliotrope, a plant introduced from North Africa and seen here flowering in the very un-African surroundings of Weston-super-Mare in January. [nb I also saw these plants in bloom on Jan 1st 2011, after an unusually cold December]

Like other butterburs, it is dioecious and there is an odd discrepancy between the distribution of the male and female plants. Only the male plant is known here. Likewise our common native butterbur: the male plant is found throughout England but the female plant is seen only in the north. I don't fully understand how such plants get distributed outside their heartland: mainly by human activity I suppose, plus I imagine they regenerate tenaciously from small fragments.

The other curious thing about the plant, aside from its own slight charms (which include a vanilla-like scent), is the name "heliotrope" which means growth or movement towards the sun.

The name was originally applied to two common Mediterranean plants, both of which may be said to "follow the sun" in their own ways.

Heliotropium europaeum

[Image source: http://floraofgibraltar.myspecies.info/dicots/heliotropium-europaeum-l]

1. Heliotropium europaeum. It's part of the borage family. The inflorescence is bowed over, with the small white flowers all developing along the upperside (a helicoid cyme, for any botanists out there).
Culpeper called it the Greater Turnsole.

Chrozophora tinctoria

[Image source: https://www.floravascular.com/index.php?spp=Chrozophora%20tinctoria]

2. Chrozophora tinctoria.  A spurge relative. Pliny had called it Heliotropium tricoccum, and Gerard called it Heliotropium minus, the Lesser Turnsole. Dull-looking in itself but once important as a source of the dye turnsole or folium, used in the beautiful illuminated manuscripts of the Middle Ages. It was also used to dye Turkish carpets; as a cosmetic dye for fingernails etc (like henna), and as a food colouring; it turned acid foods red and alkaline foods blue, like litmus paper.  (It: tornasole comune) (As a result, litmus itself, which is actually a lichen, has sometimes been named turnsole.)

[For lots more about this, I recommend the 2002 article by New Zealand dyeing enthusiast Belinda Sibly aka Mistress Rowena Le Sarjent:



According to the Spanish Wikipedia entry (https://es.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chrozophora_tinctoria) these two plants were assumed to be related because of their grey-hairy appearance from a distance.

I'm not aware of anything especially heliotropic about Petasites fragrans, which is happy to bloom stolidly in shade. Most likely the transference of the pretty name is down to a superficial visual resemblance to one of the above species.

"Heliotrope" is too good a word to resist. Among many other things it's the name of a kind of decorative stone (a bloodstone), classically dark green with mysterious flecks of red; the stone's name is owed to certain ancient theories about how the sun gets into the stone and produces these flecks.

Heliotrope is also the name for a vivid purple colour; this use is fairly modern (1882) and it refers to the intense colour of the garden heliotrope (Heliotropium arborescens, from Peru).

Slime as art, in Weston woods. (In all probability, this was Velvet Shank.)

The derelict roof-line of the Royal Pier Hotel in Weston-Super-Mare (plus Brean Down in the distance).

Labels: ,

Thursday, December 21, 2017

wipers, and no wipers

[Image source: http://sawmengzhi.blogspot.co.uk/2011/02/how-to-have-good-vision-while-driving.html]

Forty miles in light misty rain, round about midnight, when the windscreen wipers aren't working, isn't great. The cabin heating wasn't working either, but that was a minor consideration. I stopped regularly to wipe the windscreen. After each wipe the rain showed only as diamond pin-pricks, but soon this water reformed into the same veil of heavy drops as before.

Visibility wasn't so bad when I could put the headlights on full beam, except when road-signs reflected the light straight back.  Whenever there was on-coming traffic I had to slow to a crawl. When I joined the motorway I couldn't use full beam so instead I got close up behind a well-lit HGV doing a steady 55 and tailed it all the way to Swindon. The driver may have felt a bit haunted. At speed, the raindrops furled up the windscreen and on to the van roof.

[According to Meng Zhi (link above), in this scenario you can see better if you put on sunglasses.]

Windscreen wipers are one of those parts of a vehicle that are so clearly essential that they haven't changed much in a century. I started to wonder about the origin of windscreen wipers.

The original designs, such as Mary Anderson's in 1903, were manual; the driver operated a lever inside the cabin to clear the wind-shield. Automated wipers arrived in the 1920s. The associated windscreen washer was an idea of the 1930s. Wipers for headlights (remember those?) appeared in the 1970s.

 I didn't have much headspace for thinking as I drove along; most of the time I was peering in case a night walker or parked car suddenly loomed up ahead of me. But I did remember Louis MacNeice's poem "The Wiper". His film noir allegory seemed quite desirable.

The Wiper

Through purblind night the wiper
Reaps a swathe of water
On the screen; we shudder on
And hardly hold the road,
All we can see a segment
Of blackly shining asphalt
With the wiper moving across it
Clearing, blurring, clearing.

But what to say of the road?
The monotony of its hardly
Visible camber, the mystery
Of its invisible margins,
Will these be always with us,
The night being broken only
By lights that pass or meet us
From others in moving boxes?

Boxes of glass and water,
Upholstered, equipped with dials
Professing to tell the distance
We have gone, the speed we are going,
But never a gauge nor needle
To tell us where we are going
Or when day will come, supposing
This road exists in daytime.

For now we cannot remember
Where we were when it was not
Night, when it was not raining,
Before this car moved forward
And the wiper backward and forward
Lighting so little before us
Of a road that, crouching forward,
We watch move always towards us,

Which through the tiny segment
Cleared and blurred by the wiper
Is sucked in under the axle
To be spewed behind us and lost
While we, dazzled by darkness,
Haul the black future towards us
Peeling the skin from our hands;
And yet we hold the road.

(from his book Solstices, published in 1961).

That lulling rhythm, with its few masculine endings -- the word "road" three times, plus a couple of others near the end -- is a little narrative about doing some activity that is sort of automated, but with those stray reminders that there's a world beyond the automation, and an overview in which the road is not just something experienced but something that exists and has significance.

Interesting that the poem always speaks of "the wiper" in the singular. Most 1950s cars had twin windscreen wipers, just as they do today.

On the other hand, the driver is always in the plural, not "I" and "me", but "we" and "us".  So the poem speaks of us as a collective who all share this experience, but it also emphasizes that the experience is a solitary one, each of us staring at his/her driver's side wiper. The individuals are isolated from each other in their "boxes of glass and water".

But are "we", nevertheless, embarked on a communal enterprise, and buoyed, at least a little bit, by a sense of shared experience?  That's the nub of it, I think. Are we really moving forward together with a collective purpose, or is that just sentimentality, really we're on separate consumerist journeys, each trying to get our own best deal in terms of indulgence vs effort ?


Monday, December 18, 2017

Epideixis and the Lord Chancellor

Portrait of Sir Edward Hyde, after Sir Peter Lely

[Image source: Wikipedia ]

My budget copy of the Poetical Works of Dryden, published by Wordsworth Editions in 1995, is basically an eye-wearying reprint, on cheap paper, of a double-column edition from way back -- it looks like one of the old Oxford Standard Authors Collecteds (not that it divulged anything about the original edition or its editor(s)).

It did, however, add a punchy introductory note, by Dr David Marriott. (I can't help wondering if this was an early piece by D.S. Marriott, the brilliant poet and author of the cultural studies On Black Men and Haunted Life.)  The note's emphasis is on Dryden as a potent player in the political and cultural spheres; and that seems to me the right emphasis. Dryden's poetry is actively political in a very different sense from just giving vent to opinions. Dryden occupies the public sphere and contests it; he attempts, mostly on behalf of the ruling powers, to wrest the narrative.

One of several phrases I've lingered on is Dryden's "epideictic elegance".  Epideictic can mean rhetorical in an empty way -- all style and no content.  "Epideictic" can also refer to the rhetoric of praise and blame, referring to the typically commendatory, encomiastic and celebratory poems. Either way, the elegance is for use (as John Carey, if I remember correctly, said about Hooker).

That Dryden is, if you like, a propagandist, doesn't stop me caring very much for his poems and indeed toying with the thought that a political poetry of today could learn from him.


One of his early poems following the restoration of Charles II is addressed To my Lord Chancellor, presented on New-Years-Day, 1662. The Lord Chancellor was Sir Edward Hyde, first Earl of Clarendon; effectively the Chief Minister of Charles' government, also Chancellor of the University of Oxford (whence "the Clarendon Press"), also the author of that marvellous if nauseous History of the Rebellion that Hugh Trevor-Roper called "the historical bible of the Tory Party".

Dryden says to him:

You have already wearied Fortune so,
She cannot farther be thy Friend or Foe ;
But sits all breathless, and admires to feel
A Fate so weighty that it stops her Wheel.

As it turned out, Fortune didn't sit breathless for very long. The first attempt to impeach Clarendon came in 1663, ill-health and bereavement followed, government colleagues didn't doubt his loyalty but found his peremptory opinions intolerable, he fell out of favour with Charles and was dismissed in 1667.


Those ironies of hindsight are inescapable for such engaged poetry. Yet Dryden's poem has an honest clarity that at least recognizes possibilities of downfall (his propagandism is not about obfuscation).

Let Envy then those Crimes within you see
From which the happy never must be free ;
Envy that does with Misery reside,
The Joy and the Revenge of ruin'd Pride.

Those lines encapsulate a repeated leitmotiv of Clarendon's History, as for instance in its early pages on the Duke of Buckingham. "Malice" always means attempts to topple the Great, by gossip that may or may not be true. We're slightly taken aback by Dryden's use of the bare unvarnished word "Crimes" -- he must, we think, mean imputed crimes, but for the blink of an eye he seems to mean real crimes -- yet this too is true to the spirit of the History, where the Royalist courtiers have always a variety of faults (Clarendon calls them "infirmities") that a captious public might consider crimes.

The whole poem is like the cogs of a watch, and some damage is done by extracting, but here's a couple of favourite passages.  The first is about the relationship between minister and monarch, drawing on the imagery of science:

The Nation's Soul, our Monarch, does dispense
Through you to us his vital Influence ;
You are the channel where those Spirits flow
And work them higher as to us they go.
    In open Prospect nothing bounds our Eye
Until the Earth seems join'd unto the Sky :
So in this Hemisphere our utmost view
Is only bounded by our King and you.
Our Sight is limited where you are join'd
And beyond that no farther Heav'n can find.
So well your Virtues do with his agree
That, though your Orbs of different Greatness be,
Yet both are for each other's use dispos'd,
His to enclose, and yours to be enclos'd :
Nor could another in your Room have been,
Except an Emptiness had come between.


This second one considers the arts of peace.

Shown all at once, you dazzled so our Eyes
As new-born Pallas did the Gods surprise ;
When, springing forth from Jove's new-closing Wound,
She struck the warlike Spear into the Ground ;
Which sprouting leaves did suddenly enclose,
And peaceful Olives shaded as they rose.
    How strangely active are the Arts of Peace,
Whose restless Motions less than War's do cease !
Peace is not freed from Labour, but from Noise,
And War more Force, but not more Pains, employs.
Such is the mighty Swiftness of your Mind
That like the Earth's, it leaves our Sense behind,
While you so smoothly turn and roll our Sphere
That rapid Motion does but Rest appear.

[I feel a slight chagrin to discover that Johnson in his Lives of the Poets picked out just the same extracts as I have. According to Johnson and subsequently Scott, this early poem is Dryden's most metaphysical performance.]


Clarendon's History of the Rebellion was published posthumously in 1702-04 by his younger son Lawrence, disgusted by Whig histories of the civil war that sympathised with the Roundheads. Lawrence's fierce introduction was a rallying cry for the Tories. His father wrote intimately but temperately. He knew that the history could never be published during his lifetime. He wanted to record the truth of extraordinary times and he did not give vent, much, to invective.

I have the more willingly induced myself to this unequal task, out of the hope of contributing somewhat to that blessed end [sc. "the binding up of wounds"]: and though a piece of this nature (wherein the infirmities of some, and the malice of others, must be boldly looked upon and mentioned) is not likely to be published in the age in which it is writ, yet it may serve to inform myself, and some others, what we ought to do, as well as to comfort us in what we have done. For which work, as I may not be thought altogether an incompetent person/ having been present as a member of parliament in those councils before and till the breaking out of the rebellion, and having since had the honour to be near two great kings in some trust, so I shall perform the same with all faithfulness and ingenuity ; with an equal observation of the faults and infirmities of both sides, with their defects and oversights in pursuing their own ends ; and shall no otherwise mention small and light occurrences, than as they have been introductions to matters of the greatest moment; nor speak of persons otherwise, than as the mention of their virtues or vices is essential to the work in hand : in which I shall, with truth, preserve myself from the least sharpness, that may proceed from private provocation, and in the whole observe the rules that a man should, who deserves to be believed.

Its author's scrupulous veracity and humane nature were admitted even by opponents. What took them aback, and modern readers are likely to agree with them, is the entirely genuine tones in which Clarendon sings the praises of self-seeking courtiers and politicians, whose appalling behaviour he has just laid out for us in unstinting detail.  [Catherine Macaulay, for instance, wrote: "the author's conclusions are so much at war with his facts that he is apt to disgust a candid reader with his prejudices and partiality".]

The history was begun at Scilly and continued during exile in Jersey, while the war was still going on. After his downfall he worked on it further, weaving in part of his own memoirs, originally a separate work.

I suppose no-one would call Clarendon, a lawyer with a love of immense sentences, an unputdownable storyteller. Nevertheless, when the story starts (in 1628, with James' favourite the Duke of Buckingham egging on Prince Charles to make a clandestine visit to Madrid), it really is thrilling. Scott, another Tory lawyer, must have imbibed a lot from this, and not just when it came to his own portrayal of James I in The Fortunes of Nigel.)

Clarendon's is also one of the earliest prose narratives I know in which the realistic delineation of character is attempted. He shared with Aubrey and Pepys the age's new interest in the minutiae of individual psychology and mannerisms.

Here's some extracts, beginning with the aged King James I, now bitterly regretting his consent to the scheme.

These reflections were so terrible to him, that they robbed him of all peace and quiet of mind; insomuch as when the prince and duke came to him about the despatch, he fell into a great passion with tears, and told them that he was undone, and that it would break his heart, if they pursued their resolution ; that, upon a true and dispassionate disquisition he had made with himself, he was abundantly convinced, that, besides the almost inevitable hazards of the prince's person, with whom his life was bound up, and besides the entire loss of the affections of his people, which would unavoidably attend this rash action, he foresaw it would ruin the whole design, and irrecoverably break the match...

The prince and the duke took not the pains to answer any of the reasons his majesty had insisted on ; his highness only putting him in mind of the promise he had made to him the day before, which was so sacred, that he hoped he would not violate it; which if he should, it would make him never think more of marriage. The duke, who better knew what kind of arguments were of prevalence with him, treated him more rudely ; told him, nobody could believe any thing he said, when he retracted so soon the promise he had so solemnly made ; that he plainly discerned, that it proceeded from another breach of his word, in communicating with some rascal, who had furnished him with those pitiful reasons he had alleged ; and he doubted not but he should hereafter know who his counsellor had been : that if he receded from what he had promised, it would be such a disobligation to the prince, who had set his heart now upon the journey, after his majesty's approbation, that he could never forget it, nor forgive any man who had been the cause of it.

[James calls in Sir Francis Cottington, much to Buckingham's annoyance...]

They told him, that being to have only two more in their company, as was before resolved, they had thought (if he approved them) upon sir Francis Cottington and Endymion Porter, who, though they might safely, should not be trusted with the secret, till they were even ready to be embarked. The persons were both grateful to the king, the former having been long his majesty's agent in the court of Spain, and was now secretary to the prince; the other, having been bred in Madrid, after many years attendance upon the duke, was now one of the bedchamber to the prince : so that his majesty cheerfully approved the election they had made, and wished it might be presently imparted to them ; saying, that many things would occur to them, as necessary to the journey, that they two would never think of; and took that occasion to send for sir Francis Cottington to come presently to him, (whilst the other two remained with him,) who, being of custom waiting in the outward room, was quickly brought in ; whilst the duke whispered the prince in the ear, that Cottington would be against the journey, and his highness answered he durst not.
The king told him, that he had always been an honest man, and therefore he was now to trust him in an affair of the highest importance, which he was not upon his life to disclose to any man alive ; then said to him, " Cottington, here is baby Charles and " Stenny," (an appellation he always used of and towards the duke,) " who have a great mind to go by post into Spain, to fetch home the infanta, and will have but two more in their company, and have chosen you for one. What think you of the journey?" He often protested since, that when he heard the king, he fell into such a trembling, that he could hardly speak. But when the king commanded him to answer him, what he thought of the journey, he replied, that he could not think well of it, and that he believed it would render all that had been done towards the match fruitless : for that Spain would no longer think themselves obliged by those articles, but that, when they had the prince in their hands, they would make new overtures, which they believed more advantageous to them; amongst which they must look for many that a would concern religion, and the exercise of it in England. Upon which the king threw himself upon his bed, and said, " I told you this before," and fell into new passion and lamentation, that he was undone, and should lose baby Charles.

There appeared displeasure and anger enough in the countenances both of the prince and duke ; the latter saying, that as soon as the king sent for him, he whispered the prince in the ear, that he would be against it ; that he knew his pride well enough ; and that, because he had not been first advised with, he was resolved to dislike it ; and therefore he reproached Cottington with all possible bitterness of words ; told him the king asked him only of the journey, and which would be the best way, of which he might be a competent counsellor, having made the way so often by post : but that he had the presumption to give his advice upon matter of state, and against his master, without being called to it, which he should repent as long as he lived ; with a thousand new reproaches, which put the poor king into a new agony on the behalf of a servant, who he foresaw would suffer for answering him honestly. Upon which he said, with some commotion, " Nay, by God, Stenny, you are very much to blame to use him so. He answered me directly to the question I asked him, and very honestly and wisely : and yet you know he said no more than I told you, before he was called in." However, after all this passion on both parts, the king yielded, and the journey was at that conference agreed on, and all directions given accordingly to sir Francis Cottington ; the king having now plainly discovered, that the whole intrigue was originally contrived by the duke, and so violently pursued by his spirit and impetuosity.
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham, portrait by Michiel J van Miereveld (1625)

[Image source: Wikipedia.]

Sir Francis Cottington, anonymous portrait
[Image source: Wikipedia. The painting is in the National Portrait Gallery (NPG 605).]

Endymion Porter, portrait by Daniel Mytens (1627)
[Image source: Wikipedia. In the National Portrait Gallery (NPG 5492).]


A chance discovery today was this comprehensive and helpful introduction to Dryden's work, on the Poetry Foundation site.


The site has equally detailed introductions to most other canonical poets of English Literature. This one, like a good many of the others, has no by-line.

Lawrence Hyde, Earl of Rochester (Clarendon's younger son): Portrait by Willem Wissing, c. 1685

[Image source: Wikipedia. Gotta be one of the most insane swagger portraits ever...]

Labels: ,

Friday, December 15, 2017

gold wires

Illustration by Frank Cheyne Papé (1910)

[Image source: https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/173107179407437470/]

This post begins in a witch's hovel. Florimell, as you can see, seeks refuge there. The witch's son obsesses about their new visitor. Florimell starts to get a creepy feeling about the place, and clears off in the night without saying goodbye. The "accursed Hag" sends a monster in pursuit of her, and the monster returns with a bloodied girdle. The witch thinks her demented son will be consoled by this indication of Florimell's demise, but instead he loses it completely and now threatens to slay his mother. So she decides to knock up a fake Florimell for his use.

The substance, whereof she the bodie made,
  Was purest snow in massie mould congeald,
  Which she had gathered in a shadie glade
  Of the Riphoean hils, to her reueald
  By errant Sprights, but from all men conceald:
  The same she tempred with fine Mercury,
  And virgin wex, that neuer yet was seald,
  And mingled them with perfect vermily,
That like a liuely sanguine it seem'd to the eye.

In stead of eyes two burning lampes she set
  In siluer sockets, shyning like the skyes,
  And a quicke mouing Spirit did arret
  To stirre and roll them, like a womans eyes;
  In stead of yellow lockes she did deuise,
  With golden wyre to weaue her curled head;
  Yet golden wyre was not so yellow thrise
  As Florimells faire haire: and in the stead
Of life, she put a Spright to rule the carkasse dead.

(Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, Bk III Canto 8, Stanzas 6-7)

The witch's son is delighted with this apparent return of a newly compliant Florimell, but is far too clownish to be able to hang on to her once a gentlemanly swaggerer happens along. In fact the False Florimell proves to be the source of much contention among the testosterone-fuelled knights of fairyland.

The False Florimell seems not to be able to fasten the girdle of chastity
[Image source: http://falsemachine.blogspot.co.uk/2017/12/so-forged-things-do-fairest-shew-fq.html. Illustration by Walter Crane, from the Chiswick Press edition of 1894-1896.]

Spenser's story casts a critical glance at Petrarchan conventions of celebrating a woman's external attributes by reifying them (as snow, roses, jewels, etc). A couple of years after this was published, Shakespeare came at the same topic from a different angle.

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare. (Sonnet 130)

The wire to which both Spenser and Shakespeare allude was produced by the medieval technique of wire-drawing. In those days wire was made of precious metals and its use was ornamental, as a component in jewellery and rich costumes.

Twisted gold wire in Elizabethan necklace

[Image source: http://www.elizabethancostume.net/va/jewelry/ch-enamelchains.jpg]

"Grape" pendant of amethyst and gold wire

[Image source: http://www.elizabethancostume.net/va/jewelry/ch-grapependant.jpg]

Both of the above, now in the Victoria and Albert Museum, came from the Cheapside Hoard, an extraodrinary collection of jewellery discovered by builders in 1912. It was probably the stock of a Jacobean goldsmith.

Wires were gold-coloured, of course. Shakespeare's point about "black wires", in the fourth line of his poem, is that there's no such thing. His mistress, in all her stark, unapologetic reality, makes a bonfire of all these stale conceits. Though as it transpires, Shakespeare himself found her a good deal too hot to handle.

 [Image source: http://thedarklady3327.blogspot.co.uk/]


Nobody knows who this mistress of Shakespeare's was, supposing his poem was modelled on a real mistress, but various names have been thrown around and one of the most interesting is Emilia Lanier (aka Æmilia Lanyer, Æmilia Bassano), who published her own book of poetry Salve Deum Rex Judaeorum in 1611, a couple of years after Shakespeare finally published his sonnets.

In the dedication of her work to Margaret, the dowager countess of Cumberland, Lanier too reflects on the reification of beauty.

Thou faire example, live without compare,
With Honours triumphs seated in thy breast;
Pale Envy never can thy name empaire,
When in thy heart thou harbour'st such a guest:
Malice must live for ever in dispaire;
There's no revenge where Virtue still doth rest:
All hearts must needs do homage unto thee,
In whom all eies such rare perfection see.

That outward Beautie which the world commends,
Is not the subject I will write upon,
Whose date expir'd, that tyrant Time soone ends,
Those gawdie colours soone are spent and gone:
But those faire Virtues which on thee attends
Are alwaies fresh, they never are but one:
They make thy Beautie fairer to behold,
Than was that Queenes for whom prowd Troy was sold.

As for those matchlesse colours Red and White,
Or perfit features in a fading face,
Or due proportion pleasing to the sight;
All these doe draw but dangers and disgrace:
A mind enrich'd with Virtue, shines more bright,
Addes everlasting Beauty, gives true grace,
Frames an immortall Goddesse on the earth,
Who though she dies, yet Fame gives her new berth.

That pride of Nature which adornes the faire,
Like blasing Comets to allure all eies,
Is but the thred, that weaves their web of Care,
Who glories most, where most their danger lies;
For greatest perills do attend the faire
When men do seeke, attempt, plot and devise,
How they may overthrow the chastest Dame,
Whose Beautie is the White whereat they aime.

[The full text is available here:

Emilia Lanier, portrait by Nicholas Hilliard

[Image source: http://www.projectcontinua.org/aemilia-lanyer/ ]

Labels: , ,

Thursday, December 14, 2017

Pocket Litter

Extracts from this month's Pocket Litter (a Writers Forum magazine, published irregularly since 2011) :


Been hope of old.
Been led of pooh.

Beep fond.
Beep fond loo.
Beep fool nod.
Beep eon fold.
Beep flood
Beep hold of one.
Beep hole nod of.  Beep.

Bop. Won dring. Bop flee.
Debone fool nob.
Deep lob.
Deepen hoof.

Do flee. Hope?
Dole eel end.
Feed noble pooh.
Fen hope lob ode.
Fled oboe.
Fondle hobo pee.

(from Phone: That Buzzing Noise)


(from Score - 1B)

This piece is connected to Xavier's Me & My Whale project -- see


he has been kicking the ball well tonight

he's been good

looking for two

measures a kick to the top of the square

not a good fifty to give away

so too thomas

switches through the middle

well taken care of in the end

well the conversation goes on

(from Transcript 04/04)


Re Pocket Litter :

For futher information contact infoATwfuk.org.uk

Labels: , , ,

Powered by Blogger

Nature Blog Network