Spring Hail – Les Murray – analysis

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Spring Hail

We had huddled together a long time in the shed
in the scent of vanished corn and wild bush birds,
and then the hammering faltered, and the torn
cobwebs ceased their quivering and hung still
from the nested rafters. We became uneasy
at the silence that grew about us, and we came out.
The beaded violence had ceased. Fresh-minted hills
smoked, and the heavens swirled and blew away.
The paddocks were endless again, and all around
leaves lay beneath their trees, and cakes of moss.
Sheep trotted and propped, and shook out ice from their wool.
The hard blue highway that had carried us there
fumed as we crossed it, and the hail I scooped
from underfoot still bore the taste of sky
and hurt my teeth, and crackled as we walked.
This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy long ago, and a pony that could fly.
With the creak and stop of a gate, we started to trespass:
my pony bent his head and drank up grass
while I ate ice, and wandered, and ate ice.
There was a peach tree growing wild by a bank
and under it and round, sweet dented fruit
weeping pale juice amongst hail-shotten leaves,
and this I picked up and ate till I was filled.
 sat on a log then, listening with my skin
to the secret feast of the sun, to the long wet worms
at work in the earth, and, deeper down, the stones
beneath the earth, uneasy that their sleep
should be troubled by dreams of water soaking down,
and I heard with my ears the creek on its bed of mould
moving and passing with a mothering sound.
This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy long ago on a pony that could fly.
My pony came up then and stood by me,
waiting to be gone. The sky was now
spotless from dome to earth, and balanced there
on the cutting-edge of mountains. It was time
to leap to the saddle and go, a thunderbolt whirling
sheep and saplings behind, and the rearing fence
that we took at a bound, and the old, abandoned shed
forgotten behind, and the paddock forgotten behind.
Time to shatter peace and lean into spring
as into a battering wind, and be rapidly gone.
It was time, high time, the highest and only time
to stand in the stirrups and shout out, blind with wind
for the height and clatter of ridges to be topped
and the racing downward after through the lands
of floating green and bridges and flickering trees.
It was time, as never again it was time
to pull the bridle up, so the racketing hooves
fell silent as we ascended from the hill
above the farms, far up to where the hail
formed and hung weightless in the upper air,
charting the birdless winds with silver roads
for us to follow and be utterly gone.

This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy and a pony long ago who could fly.

Les Murray (1938 – 2019)
from The Illex Tree (1965)

I had rapport with this poem on first reading. I know Les Murray was born in 1938 and that he lived in a country area so it is quite likely that this reflection is based on personal experience as a boy. In Spring you can easily get a sudden upset in the weather. In Canberra a few years ago I remember snow falling in October and actually laying on the reserve near our Latham home. It was very short-lived of course but the immediate response from local children was to have fun and get out to try and make snowballs. The boy response in this poem to hail was immediate and he was out to have fun riding full speed on his pony back home celebrating the change in landscape expressed with such fast moving dynamic words as he rode his pony.

The repetition of lines –
This is for spring and hail, that you may remember
a boy long ago, and a pony that could fly.

Shows Les Murray experienced joy in articulating this childhood recall.

The title combined with the first stanza defines the storm at its height and the need for shelter. The need for shelter from the pelting is emphasized by vibrating of cobwebs. So they must wait for relief.

What I like about this poem is the description of the transformation of the environment when the young boy ventures out to ride his pony again. The effect is dramatized by the words – fresh minted hills … and when he walks out to reach his pony – the hail I scooped from underfoot still bore the taste of sky.

And this boy of long ago celebrated the change with great joy. And that joy is returned to LM as he again reflects with the words – this is for spring and hail, that you may remember / a boy long ago, and a pony that could fly.

And his ensuing ride at great pace in the hail bruised country is brilliantly described as he rode to shatter peace and lean into spring. The joy of spring and the joy of the hail affect.

Poetry created from personal experience always has increased value. We get to have a deeper insight into the poet especially when we read more of the same poet.

Les Murray on Wikipedia – Les Murray (poet) – Wikipedia

Victoria Falls – Muriel Spark – comments

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The Victoria Falls

So hushed, so hot, the broad Zambesi lies
Above the Falls, and on her weedy isles
Swing antic monkeys swarm malignant flies,
And seeming-lazy lurk the crocodiles.
But somewhere down the river does the hush
Become a sibilance that hints a sigh,
A murmur, mounting as the currents rush
Faster, and while the murmur is a cry
The cry becomes a shout, the shout a thunder
Until the whole Zambesi water pour
Into the earth’s side, agitating under
Infinite spray mists, pounding the world’s floor.
            Wrapped in this liquid turmoil who can say
            Which is the mighty echo, which the spray?

Muriel Spark (1918 – 2006)
Written 1948

This poem created interest for me because many years ago I did spend time working in South Africa but never went to see these famous falls. In contrast Muriel  Spark went to Southern Rhodesia (Zimbabwe) from Scotland at the age of 19 shortly before her marriage and this poem is from personal experience.

The hot docile river sets the scene in the first four lines where the seeming-lazy crocodiles lie. I was also interested in the term sibilance. And the way she used this word to capture the mood of the river.

But somewhere down the river does the hush
Become a sibilance that hints a sigh,
A murmur, mounting as the currents rush

And then personifies the sound from cry to shout to thunder.

Faster, and while the murmur is a cry
The cry becomes a shout, the shout a thunder

Thunder is the appropriate word it has a nature-generated impact and in the Bantu language the Falls are defined as Mosi-oa-Tunya, “Thundering Smoke/Smoke that Rises”.

And the whole flow of the poem like the river increases in momentum to the crescendo.

The rhyming couplet at the end of the sonnet integrates the inseparable echo and spray of the waterfall. The liquid turmoil are apt words to define the chaotic visual confusion. This visual confusion, notably between sky and water, can be seen in the paintings by Turner.

Sibilance is a literary device characterized by the repetition of hissing or hushing sounds, often involving the “s,” “z,” “sh,” and “zh” sounds. It’s used in poetry to create specific moods and effects, ranging from a soft, flowing sensation to a harsh, hissing quality. 

Whereas Onomatopoeia the naming of a thing or action by a vocal imitation of the sound associated with it (such as buzz, hiss)

Dame Muriel Sarah Spark (née Camberg; 1 February 1918 – 13 April 2006)[1] was a Scottish novelist, short story writer, poet and essayist.

Wikipedia – Muriel Spark – Wikipedia

About the Falls …

Victoria Falls – Victoria Falls (Lozi: Mosi-oa-Tunya, “Thundering Smoke/Smoke that Rises”; Tonga: Shungu Namutitima, “Boiling Water”) is a waterfall on the Zambezi River, located on the border between Zambia and Zimbabwe.[2] It is one of the world’s largest waterfalls, with a width of 1,708 m (5,604 ft).. The droplets of spray are profuse and carry oxygen to revitalise the river and surrounds. The region around it has a high degree of biodiversity in both plants and animals

Scottish missionary David Livingstone identified the falls in 1855, naming them Victoria Falls after Queen Victoria.

You – a poetic elaboration

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I have been considering the one-word poem YOU. It is up to the reader or listener to meditate/associate/respond according to the receptive nature of that individual person at the time of reading or hearing. That is, if that person has time to contemplate such a poem in the busy 24 by 7 world of today.

Here are some positives in relation to such a poem to stimulate thought –

Subject and Object: The beloved is both the reason for the poem and its entire content. They are not just being addressed — they are the poem.

Economy of Expression: It says, “Nothing else matters. Only you.”

Devotion: It’s a surrender — the lover reduces the infinite complexity of love to a single, defining presence: you. If it is a lover that is being addressed by this word.

Mirror: It can also be a reflection — the beloved might see themselves in the poem, but also see the lover’s entire being poured into that word.

Timelessness: Unlike longer poems, it doesn’t age or tire; it remains whole and immediate

I have expanded the one-word poem into the following to give more poetic expression. But again, the subject and object of the poem depends on the reader/listener for interpretation.

                                           
YOU

I wrote a hundred lines.
Burned them.
Too many metaphors.
Too many ways to almost say it.
Then I wrote your name.
Once.
Paused.

The page stared back —
full.
Complete.
Crowded, even.
Everything empty
nothing
except

… and you read it
                  as if I’d hidden more,
                         but there is no more to say
                                               



What can I say … enjoy being you … whoever and wherever you are. And thanks for reading this Post. You are important; essential in keeping poetry alive.

.

A one-word poem – Boring

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I was on duty trying to entertain my eleven-year-old granddaughter when she came back from school.

She knows I am interested in words and poetry. When I started to broach that subject the response was one word -Boring.

I said to her that words are important. The words that you use say something about you. And of course choosing the best word and placing it in the appropriate location is always the aim of the poet.

Well, the one-word response was Boring. And then as though she wanted to emphasis her response she repeated Boring several times. You could say she created a one-word poem.

I guess this eleven-year-old finds grandfather totally boring. Wendy Cape was in that boring state with nothing creative on her mind. So she used that emotive feeling to create a boring poem.

Being Boring
'May you live in interesting times.' Chinese curse
If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say
Except that the garden is growing.
I had a slight cold but it's better today.
I'm content with the way things are going.
Yes, he is the same as he usually is,
Still eating and sleeping and snoring.
I get on with my work. He gets on with his.
I know this is all very boring.
There was drama enough in my turbulent past:
Tears and passion - I've used up a tankful.
No news is good news, and long may it last.
If nothing much happens, I'm thankful.
A happier cabbage you never did see,
My vegetable spirits are soaring.
If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me.
I want to go on being boring.
I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for,
If you don't need to find a new lover?
You drink and you listen and drink a bit more
And you take the next day to recover.
Someone to stay home with was all my desire
And, now that I've found a safe mooring,
I've just one ambition in life: I aspire
To go on and on being boring.
Wendy Cope (1945 -

Wendy Cape is renowned for her humorous poems. She is happy to be a cabbage. An appropriate metaphor. A cabbage just responds to soil and temperature. It can be a little annoying when the same friend always starts the conversation – “What have you been doing”.

What can I say, I hope you are coping (forgive the pun) with all that is happening in the world.

Wendy Cope on Wikipedia

Exposure – Seamus Heaney – Analysis

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Exposure

It is December in Wicklow:
Alders dripping, birches
Inheriting the last light,
The ash tree cold to look at.
A comet that was lost
Should be visible at sunset,
Those million tons of light
Like a glimmer of haws and rose-hips,
And I sometimes see a falling star.
If I could come on meteorite!
Instead I walk through damp leaves,
Husks, the spent flukes of autumn,
Imagining a hero
On some muddy compound,
His gift like a slingstone
Whirled for the desperate.
How did I end up like this?
I often think of my friends’
Beautiful prismatic counselling
And the anvil brains of some who hate me
As I sit weighing and weighing
My responsible tristia.
For what? For the ear? For the people?
For what is said behind-backs?
Rain comes down through the alders,
Its low conductive voices
Mutter about let-downs and erosions
And yet each drop recalls
The diamond absolutes.
I am neither internee nor informer;
An inner migr, grown long-haired
And thoughtful; a wood-kerne
Escaped from the massacre,
Taking protective colouring
From bole and bark, feeling
Every wind that blows;
Who, blowing up these sparks
For their meagre heat, have missed
The once-in-a-lifetime portent,
The comet’s pulsing rose.

Seamus Heaney (1939 – 2015)

S1 …love the word inheriting as the birch trees take up the evening light … receiving metaphoric money of a golden nature

S2 …a speck of light which weighs a million tons … and to the eye the same size as a rose-hip

S3 …as a poet does SH think himself a falling star?… a metaphoric comparison with his poetry … are the spent flukes of autumn his poetry at a time when he is in descent

S4 … perhaps SH sees his gift as one of much need … how much can words change the actions of people?

S5 …well, he is wondering about how he ended up being a poet in relation to both his friends and the anvil brains of those who hate him suggest a strong distaste

S6 …you can become disillusioned … the reception you receive from others … is it worth it … and the reference is to Ovid – sorrow set of poems … you don’t hear what people really think about your work … and does it matter

S7 …rain drops through the leaves and branches have a voice … and yet behind their voice there is a mutter … the cause of erosion … but each drop is a diamond in its own right …

here is a poetic thought …each drop a poem perhaps … but when they are all put together they can invoke a threat … if people are unprepared to take notice … just as those that do not listen to the weather report may find themselves caught in a flood of water … and at the end of art there is peace

S8 …SH has become longhaired and thoughtful …and he likens himself to an Irish outlaw … see the text the definition of “wood-kern” below

S9 …SH has removed himself from Northern Ireland and all the troubles to Wicklow … and yet he still carries a connection and feels the pain … and he hasn’t taken sides

S10 … this is a lament about his poetry … regarding his work as an under-achievement … a meagre heat  … the once in a lifetime chance thwarted … the comet inspiration … if he had stayed in the North then his poetic voice might have been much stronger in adressing the Catholic-Protestant fighting … a direct voice rather than being removed

“Migr” is a root word, commonly found in English vocabulary, that signifies the concept of movement or relocation. It originates from the Latin word “migrare,” which means “to move from one place to another”. Understanding this root can help decipher the meaning of various related words.

“Wood-kern” or “woodkern” refers to an Irish outlaw or bandit who operated in the forests or wild areas of Ireland, particularly during the period of English colonization. They were often native Irish displaced by the Anglo-Norman invasion or subsequent plantations. The term is a combination of “wood” and “kern,” the latter being a term for a type of light infantry soldier in Gaelic Ireland.

And on Exposure – when you are a poet you are exposed … and if you are a famous poet in the eye of the populace … or should I say in the ear … then you have to come to terms with that exposure … and if you are falling from expectations of yourself, and others, there is an adjustment needed on how to cope with such circumstances.

Seamus Heaney – Wikipedia

The spiritual Struggle of Tennyson

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Life is a journey. Life is a spiritual journey. Life is eternal.

Tennyson’s exposure to scientific thought, philosophy, and personal tragedies (especially the death of his close friend Arthur Hallam) caused him to question and wrestle with the Christian doctrine of his day.

Tennyson’s most famous long poem, In Memoriam A.H.H., is a profound meditation on grief, love, and the struggle between faith and doubt. He tries to come to terms with the apparent cruelty of nature and the loss of his friend with a hope in divine purpose and immortality.

He never outright rejected Christianity, but his belief was not simplistic or uncritical. He was spiritually searching, determining for himself his own acceptance of faith and the understanding to the purpose of life.

These lines from In Memoriam reflect his spiritual struggle:

“There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.”

Indicating the importance of working our own understanding of life, without blighly following the religious dictates of others.

And Canto 54 is rich with spiritual questioning. There is a cautious hope in divine purpose. Here are the lines:

Oh, yet we trust that somehow good
         Will be the final end of ill,
         To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood;

That nothing walks with aimless feet;
         That not one life shall be destroy'd,
         Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete;

That not a worm is cloven in vain;
         That not a moth with vain desire
         Is shrivell'd in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another's gain.

Behold, we know not anything;
         I can but trust that good shall fall
         At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.

So runs my dream: but what am I?
         An infant crying in the night:
         An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.

Tennyson hopes that suffering and evil (“ill”) will somehow serve a higher good. He believes — or wants to believe — that life is purposeful, not random (“nothing walks with aimless feet”). He confesses human ignorance — “we know not anything” — yet he still clings to trust in a benevolent divine order.

Toward the end of his life Tennyson identified more openly with a broader Christian theism. On his deathbed, he recited passages from the Bible, indicating a retained comfort in Anglican rites and language. He was buried in Westminster Abbey, with full Anglican rites.

Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
Alfred Lord Tennyson on Wikipedia

Tennyson and “The Muses”

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Tennyson’s most celebrated work is ‘In Memoriam’ and in this work he talks about the ‘the Muses’.

The muses, poetry, the arts – all that made life beautiful here, and which we hope will pass with us beyond the grave.

Originally, muse referred to the Greek goddesses of music, poetry, and the arts. These goddesses, collectively known as the Muses, were believed to inspire poets and musicians.

This was in relation to a dream he had when he moved away from the rectory at Somersby in May 1837 to live at Beech Hill House, Epping.

The dream, which took place the night before the move, is recorded in section CIII of the poem. He seems to be living in a hall, and maidens with me singing of what is wise and good and graceful. In the centre of the hall stands a statue and to which they sing and which, though veiled, is recognised by Tennyson. The statue is thought to represent Arthur Hallam. His great lost love from student days.

The shape of him I loved, and love
For ever.

A dove brings in a summons from the sea. The maidens weep and wail when they realise he must go, and lead him down to a little boat moored at the side of the river below. They all get into the boat and as they glide down the river, the maidens become even more splendid, while he grows in stature, too, as the maidens continue to sing of that great race that is to be.

 As they draw out to sea, they approach the shinning sides of a great ship:

The man we loved was there on deck,
      But thrice as large as man he bent
      To greet us. Up the side I went,
And fell in silence on his neck;

Whereat those maidens with one mind
      Bewail'd their lot; I did them wrong:
      "We served thee here," they said, "so long,
And wilt thou leave us now behind?"
So rapt I was, they could not win
      An answer from my lips, but he
      Replying, "Enter likewise ye
And go with us:" they enter'd in.
And while the wind began to sweep
      A music out of sheet and shroud,
      We steer'd her toward a crimson cloud
That landlike slept along the deep.

Tennyson (1809 – 1892)
The last stanzas from section CIII

As we can see from these lines the Muse, the metaphorical maidens, went with him on his move to Beech Hill House. As well as the memmory connection with Arthur Hallam.

Tennyson later said of the dream:
I seemed to see, as it were, the spirit of the place, and the spirit of my past poetry, rise and wave me farewell.

This vision deeply moved him and contributed to his belief that Somersby was a spiritual wellspring for his poetry. A place where his creativity flourished. It also exemplifies the Romantic ideal of inspiration as something external and almost divine.

The dream marked the end of an era for Tennyson — the end of his youth and his intimate connection with the pastoral, poetic world of Somersby. It also reflects a kind of melancholy and reverence for the creative past.

This dream is often cited in biographies and literary studies because of its poetic resonance and its connection to his self-conception as a poet and to his muse.

 

September Day – Sara Teasdale

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September Day
Pont De Neuilly

The Seine flows out of the mist
and into the mist again;
The trees lean over the water,
The small leaves fall like rain.

The leaves fall patiently,
Nothing remembers or grieves;
The river takes to the sea
The yellow drift of the leaves.

Milky and cold is the air,
The leaves float with the stream,
The river comes out of a sleep
And goes away in a dream.

Sara Teasdale (1884 – 1933)

It is autumn in Australia, so I have chosen this autumn poem from the northern hemisphere. Poetry rapport is more likely if the images portrayed by words can generate mind images in the reader by association. Mists do occur in Canberra typically in June and of course close to water. I remember one year when we had a week of dull skies and frequent mists settling around Lake Burley Griffin. An unusual week for the sun was like an old, defaced coin giving little value to the day. I must say that as I type this we are having wonderful full blue skies and a bounty of colours from the abundance of deciduous trees planted around the Capital, including many oak trees planted from the time Canberra was first established.

Sara Teasdale’s work, an American poet, has been characterized by its simplicity and clarity, and her use of classical forms.  She was very adept at describing the natural scene in this fashion.  Presumably, as a visitor she had time to watch the early morning Seine at Pont De Neuilly as it flowed out of the mist before disappearing again.

In the second stanza we can envisage a still morning with the leaves taking their time to fall to the water as she watches. She indirectly personifies the leaves to be without thought living in the moment as nature happens. This contrasts with the way people spend time reflecting and regretting, fogging their appreciation. In this regard, The Orange Tree poem by John Shaw Neilsen comes to mind The Orange Tree – John Shaw Neilsen – Analysis | my word in your ear.

In the last stanza the river is born in the morning and dies in the morning, so to speak. Again, we can relate to human existence. Her poetry is known to flow a deeper meaning; and poets are conditioned to look below the surface in metaphorical fashion.

For those in the Northern Hemisphere, enjoy the approach to summer. I hope some sun filled days start to engender activity.

Sara Teasdale on Wikipedia