The Word Cloud

This is a story I wrote when 'Word Cloud' first started, but I think I only posted the first page on a factual site. I found the story on this computer while I was looking for something else. It is based on Richard Holmes book 'Footsteps' which describes the biographer's relationship with his subject and I wove the story around a poem. I didn't do anything with it as the story as it is rather obscure but I posted the poem separately and it was liked and there has been some sympathy for the poet's fate. Does it work as a summery of the poet's life and a possible dramatization? Of course, the drama can have a different plot - simply an old man recalling the past - but then there is no drama - a such. The story is in the poetry.

I have tried one other story- factually based - on this idea which I cannot find, but I think it would be possible to do the same thing with Shelley's 'Mask of Anarchy' which was written in Italy in response to the 'Peterloo Massacre' iof 1819. Shelley's group always read their poetry aloud to each other.

PlOT. Mary Shelley recalls the time when Shelley wrote it and, in a series of flashbacks, the story of the poem and its fate are told. (One could even go forward and use iit's recital by Ghandi) This would be extremely ambitious, but it is the sort of idea the BBC might now be interested in. i do not recall many plays about the 'Peterloo Massacre' Shelley describes real politicians of the in his poem.

FOOTSTEPS - the alternative scenario

A Christmas horror story - The fate of a romantic biographer. (for RICHARD HOLMES who wrote a book called ‘Footsteps;)

A SYMPHONY IN TREES

I'd sooner be a pagan in this hut,

This leafy freehold city of one door,

And watch the stars dance on my bedroom floor.

What better than to dream, my eyes unshut-

While, on my bedrail, wailing o'er the din,

A gnat sits - playing on its wondrous violin!

‘Biographicus Litoralis’ is a virus that infects English churchyards and, in particular, infests the graves of poets. The virus lies dormant in the earth beneath our feet. It awaits some innocent host in which to implant a bug; it awaits that fatal second when the host’s defenses are down. An anecdote or a few words might suffice; or a line from a poem: ‘I leave to you the far off summer breeze’.

Rapt in fine madness of a super-sense

And robed in the high magic of small things,

That lend imagination their bright wings

'Tis not the universe that seems immense

'Tis I! Alas, too soon I will again

Awake into the dawn that finds me deadly sane.

Once infected, the host can do little but itch and scratch at the bug in the hope that it will depart. There is no known cure.

I've travelled far: blindfolded by strange men,

They led me down their groves that hid the light

And magic splendour of the soul's insight

Of things unseen. And now? - clear to my ken

I hear old forests whispering on the wind

Those harmonies that maestros seek in vain to find.

I have a confession to make. I became infected. Many years ago, one dark fateful night, ignoring the advice of my parents and elderly relatives, who were somewhat bemused by my interest, I took a spade and headed for a South London graveyard, where I began to dig up the remains of my grandfather.

But yesternight those old trees said: "You say

That you composed that strain? - we'd let you know

We sang it here a thousand years ago."

A plagiarist, I crept, in shame, away,

And even the flow'rs beside the lonely track

Said: "Poor brief thing, with tired feet and weary back!"

I found an empty grave - apart from a decaying skull - which I later discovered might not even have belonged to the occupant. The skull was, most certainly, ‘empty of the dream’.

And then a River, old, and full of tears,

Stopped in the hills and asked, inquired of me,

"Comrade, is this the right way to the sea?"

I kissed its breast, and soothed its wand'ring fears

As on I tramped, till, at the close of day,

We parted for ever, each went the destined way.

But the deed had been done. I could not re-bury my grandfather for a phantom, a chimera, had escaped from the open grave and a ghost had begun to haunt the streets of South london.

And now, what melody is this I hear

While constellations, tumbling from the skies,

Take partners, dance before my very eyes?

Nor do I dream at all, for, sitting near,

A gnat plays perfectly a sweeping strain

Such as my high ambition has long sought -- in vain!

But the grave had been empty.

I could weep in my spite: to think, for years

I've sought applause, have bowed to sad old kings.

And now? -- the Universe, of all great things,

Lo, hires a gnat; and they, the dancing spheres,

For their grand Debut practise o'er and o'er-

How best to bow to God - upon my bedroom floor.

The poet’s family recall a man with an uncontrollable imagination who was capable of the most comic and phIlosophical flights of fancy which produced roars of laugher in any audience. He was capable of musical improvisations too, but there was an awful downside. (I suspect bi-polar disorder to have been a factor. The poet mentions his ‘brainstorms’ - and he subtitled one novel ‘a brainstorm symphony’)

And still they dance, and still the moonlit trees

Outside are list'ning; and still that small maestro

Sits on my bedrail - flinging its curved bow

In grandeur o'er the strings. And hark! the breeze

Has flung seven notes out to the Pleiades-

They fall, in meteoric rainbow-splendour,

And shape a rosary from the last cadenza;

As 'neath the sheets my head I hide. 0 Shame

To think that, after all, a gnat achieves true fame!

Part II

I've lived as most men live in their day;

I've heard the night winds whistle and scream

As my thoughts, like swallows in storm and spray,

And lost on the seas, went dream by dream,

Still clinging to the stars on their trackless flight,

And the rigging of ships that went down in the night,

They voyage forever, under full sail,

Beyond my hail!

Some years later, on ‘the internet’ I came in contact with the granddaughter of my grandfather’s twin brother. Her mother is still alive and recalls that her father had spoken of his twin - his double, He had said of his brother that: “he had ‘been touched by genius but then the demons had moved in.” (I recall Joan Plowright saying exactly the same thing about Laurence Olivier on ‘Desert Island Discs’) But what were Arnold’s demons?

Lo, strange men came to this pagan town

And gazed aghast at each "heathen-sight"

They knocked the huts and the idols down

As they raved and raved of "God and right"

Till the aged chief, lifting a withered hand,

Spoke to the skies, cursed the white man's land. "

Twas a sight to see - and sad enough-

His head blown off!

My parents very seldom mentioned my grandfather; though they were proud that he had composed a famous piece of music. This was a military march that had introduced a ‘Radio Newseel’ programme that later transfered to the World Service’ (In a bizarre fashion, the poet become world famous.)

I've heard the parrots say: "So, ho! ho!

You've come to the south to scheme, have you? -

You've built here a hut where our palm trees grow;

And now, what next are you going to do?"

Then they muttered aloud till the thoughts in my head

Chuckled and fluttered as I lay in my bed,

As I schemed, and schemed, alone in my hut-

My eyes unshut!

But my relations were right. I should have let sleeping dogs lie and should not have unleashed the dogs of war or, generally speaking, mixed my metaphors. For what else did I find? “I am the poet of heaven and earth / My passion, kneeling in immortal light’ ? What had happened? Had a tragedy or a comedy occurred? Or, indeed, a comic tragedy? It was all such a change from his early poetry.

A VOICE FROM THE STOKEHOLD.

POM-PE-TE, pom-pe-te, pom-pom,

All thro' the burning night

Shovelling coal for the engine's heart

Down in the blinding light.

Working my passage, penniless,

Over the western Main;

And I know they'll all be sorry

To see me home again!

’‘Leave it well alone,” my uncle urged,” write your own books” Well, I could do both! My aunt, a poet herself, had been more sympathetic. “Poor Arnold went out of his head,’ she had said.

I’ve trekked to the future by the way of the moon

And the bright high road of the Milky Way;

And branches of stars o’er the clear lagoon -

The infinite blue of God’s bright day -

Sighed as the chidren of the night rushed out

Took partners - whirled on their roundabout,

Away! like ghosts on their destined rout,

While I, in the shade of a tree; like sin,

Played Pagannini on my violin -

and tumbling, they shaped those bright creations’

My uncle, who had been extremely literate, pointed out an early poem of his uncle’s that he liked, It was called ‘A Voice from the Stokehold” He also informed me that my great, grandfather had written the first biography of Shelley and, later, my uncle left me the biography his will. An odd bequest. (Charles Sharp Middleton, Shelley and his Writings. 1858)

FIVE years ago, I conceived the idea of writing the Life of Shelley. It would be incorrect to say that I have been engaged upon it ever since; but from that period I have devoted the best energies of my mind to the accomplishment of this object. I have sought diligently for materials, and have lived as it were in almost perpetual communion with the Poet whose character I have endeavoured faithfully to represent, and to whose genius I have desired to pay the tribute of my admiration . Hitherto a Life of the Poet can scarely be said to have existed. The volumes by Captain Medwin are so incomplete, that they appear to me by no means to supply the place of one..’

But were there more ghosts? It later transpired there was a cupboard full of them and when I opened the cupboard door, the skeletons fell in a heap on the floor. But had my grand father been haunted by Shelley’s ghost? Had he spent his life trying to write one successful poem?

I've minted from dreams the impress and gold-

That bought me the hills to the last sunset.

I've fenced in the universe - my freehold!

But 'tis only the dead men who forget.

So I trekked with the stars, and they, Christ-wise-

Pointing their walking-sticks straight to the skies

-Said: "Consider the lilies - for such are we

To Eternity!"

I dug and dug and soon my bottom drawer was filled with my grandfather’s travel books - in which he records many meetings with Robert Louis Stevenson. But I also found novels, poetry, works of philosophy etc - none of which seemed to work. What was I do? ‘Though dead I would relive the hours of pain,” thus the poet speaks. Should I relive the pain myself? But what is this? “God help me when, with wormwood-rot, I’m laid gently on the shelf / Forever - if it be my lot / To choose between the dream and self’

All things seemed to know, in some mystical way,

That I was a child of dreams and grief,

Old trees of the forests sang thro' the day,

Lo, sighing pure wisdom - beyond belief!

They said: "Do you know that we are the sages?

That we sang the songs that enlightened the ages,

And do moan in our hearts o'er each brief plan

Of scheming man?

A choice between the dream and self? Had Stevenson been an influence? Jeckyll and Hyde?

I said: "0 Trees of the forest bright,

I've travell'd this world that is full of woe,

But ne'er did I dream that the prophets of light

Were wise old Trees! - And I'm glad to know

You are truthful things." They bowed to the wind,

And the passing stars in their dark-branched mind

Shone with the wisdom of thought's Empyrean -

Shakespearean!

i dug some more and it became clear that the dream had won. Should I recreate this dream? The ‘id’? (The travel books are written by a street busker - a profession that has an honorable pedigree - an archetype of a sort)

I hurried by the tumbling moonlit seas;

And the dark-plumed palms, on the mountain's top,

All mumbling their tuneless melodies

-Lo, recognised me, and cried: "Friend, stop!-

Do you know that we've stood here, busking together,

Are husky enough thro' the wild night weather?"

Then, lifting their voices, they sang till the spheres

Hummed in my ears.

But what of the ‘self’ - the ego? It has vanished. The grave had been empty. Memories, all that could be recalled, or traced, merely formed a body - a body given a time and a place - out of which the ‘id’ could emerge in the form the young street busker. (Who materializes in dreams that could take fantastical shapes.)

And the bright orchestral-night of Trees

Sighed fitfully - whene'er the wind

Blew tremours of light on the calm night seas-

Like patches of sunset left behind-

As the constellations in their slow Quadrille

Oft passed down the imaged skies - until,

Asleep in my hut, the night grew still

And the stars ceased moving their mighty bows

O'er their 'Cello's.

But I had found a novel called ‘The dreaming Skull’ on my parent’s bookshelf. “Put it back where you found it,’ my relations had said. The novel seemed unreadable, but I persevered. It is subtitled: ‘the terrors of a triple personality.’

Ah, such was my transcendental dream-

And nothing so true as the soul of my verse.

I'd think that life's dream is a nightmare's scheme

That Destiny dreamed - then woke up! a curse,

Some spite of the Fates - who eminently know

That they who ne'er climb can never fall low-

As they watch mortals climb and climb, then fall-

To their loud guffaw.

Who does decide on the success or failure of the ‘id? Who will decide if the ‘id’ is to achieve immortality? A third personality emerges. It is the ‘id’ grown old and mediates between the ‘id’ and the ‘self’ It is the ‘superego’ and the horror! The horror! But what of myself? Quis custodes Ipsos est? Who judges the judges? Had I subsumed my own personality into that of my grandfathers? Had the ‘curse the fates’ infected me too?

'He looked weird enough - with a pancake shaped clerical hat on the apex of his domed head, and robed in that ancient monastic cloak which was moth-eaten. However we chatted agreeably while passing over the threshold, so that when we passed out of the iron gates, my fears were dispelled. I was, however, somewhat perturbed when I noticed that his fine brow was frightfully wrinkled, as if clouded by infinite thought. And I was haunted by the idea that he might secretly be planning the best way to once more outwit me.

I recalled his remarks when I first implored him to depart the mansion 'to get outside' and how he asserted that he was already 'outside' and therefore could not place himself 'outside' anything twice! No - not even in a metaphysical sense. I eyed him covertly; then taking his proffered arm, I said, 'Excuse me, but if, as I understand, you are not truly here, then, of what use is it my asking you to leave, since when you go you will still be here - even though you've gone?'

I fancied that he unduly tapped his queer walking stick, and looked annoyed.

The young troubadour -‘the id’ , the author - the ‘ego” and the ‘old man” the ‘superego’ all exist in the same body. Or was it a comedy? A comedy of errors? But who were the demons? Were the demons - the ones who haunted the poet - these otherselves?

0 heart!- are the fugitive dreams that we dream

But clouds o'er the mind's wide ocean-light?-

Turbulent thoughts of the brain's gulf-stream,

Hiding heaven's bright calm from the fog-bound night?

Will the flowers and trees, by the hills and the sea,

And the stars on the banks of infinity,

Be one shining wreath, for the end of me?-

Or of springs to be?

My grandfather survived the second world war - during which he wrote this bizarre gothic novel - and he even wrote a final travel book written by a posthumous author, it was a the triumph of the ‘id’

‘..I am weary, my pen trembling In my hand. Another day has gone and now another night and yet another morrow. But I am content. My orange trees are ready for abundant harvest, are rich with blossom brought on by the moist heat of the last few sunny days. I still have much ripe orange fruit and pomegranates stored in my cellar, and only wish I could hand some of it to you. They have a special flavour, the oranges that grow near the southern wall of the monastery, near the pomegranates, which makes them delicious blood oranges... ‘

I've cast my bread on the waters wide.

I've watched an age for its sweet return,

But the blinding spray and the wind and the tide,

Came ramping and shouting: "Lo, watch and learn:

Thou hast thrown, to the ocean wide, a crust

For the birds that are your long lost dreams and trust-

They will fly on for ever. If God knoweth the cost:

"Twas bread well lost."

Then I met a River, high up in the hills:

It was hurrying off to the distant seas;

And I said: "0 River, your sad song fills

My soul with the saddest of melodies.-~

Stay!-- why is your song so plaintive-sweet?"

It lifted my face and kissed my feet,

Then murmur'd: "Dear brother, you are even as I-

Good bye! Good bye!

I enjoyed this very much, although it has taken me several reads through to begin to get a feel for it. I read it very much as a piece for voices - was that your intention?

There were some aspects that I had difficulty with. For instance, some of the plain text between the verses is comic and has something in common with the the poetry with it's C19th gothic flavour -

'I have a confession to make. I became infected. Many years ago, one dark fateful night, ignoring the advice , of my parents and elderly relatives, who were somewhat bemused by my interest, I took a spade and headed for a South London graveyard, where I began to dig up the remains of my grandfather. '

Other passages are deadpan straightforward -

'My grandfather survived the second world war - during which he wrote this bizarre gothic novel - and he even wrote a final travel book written by a posthumous author, it was a the triumph of the ‘id’ '

My feeling is that this mixture detracts from the overall rhythm. By contrast, there is a marvellous section, actually the section beginning 'I have a confession...' where verse and prose blend extremely well.

I'm not opposing a variety of voices, it's just a hard act to pull off.

The verse is beautifully done by the way. I think you must love words.

Hello Mike,

I've read once through, and although I feel I need to read it through again, already I can see the quality in your writing. The poetry is smooth and flowing, and at times made me smile, particularly this phrase: "Took partners - whirled on their roundabout". The passages in between seemed abrupt and harsh and I liked the contrast.

That doesn't answer your question "Does it work as a summary of the poet's life and a possible dramatization?" On first read through I don't yet have a view on that.

Ron

Thank you for your comments. The poetry had not been written by me - but by a grandfather. At least it gives his voice. I wrote an earlier version of the story using an earlier poem but it really didn't convey his life. The poem 'A Symphony Trees' does. Further to this, it does seem to work as a poem in its own right.

Hi Mike, sorry I got the wrong end of the stick as I thought you'd written the poetry too. I am a relative nincompoop in your sphere of writing, nevertheless I could easily picture this atmospheric piece being dramatised. The opening six paragraphs particularly grabbed me. I love the unusual and challenging nature of your writing. Good luck with it. Ron

Hello Mike. A challenging piece for intellectuals - so outside my sphere also. Because it is so different, there could be a market for it. Is there any way you can treat it as a non-fiction piece of work ? I mean something like memoirs (which could include any number of 'fictional' memories).

kind regards
stephen