The Word Cloud

This is a postcript to my ‘Footsteps’ earlier in the week. The story I had written is a bit obscure, even if could improve on it, but I wanted to write something on my relationship to the biographical subject. Richard Holmes covered this aspect of biography in his book. (Richard Holmes might well be one of the few people who would recognize the problems encountered when researching a ‘dual’ personality.)

The poem ‘A Symphony in Trees’ is in a volume of poems published by the ‘Fortune Press in 1950’ The publisher running the ‘Fortune Press’ ‘had been made famous by Kingsley Amis, as he had been a model for the publisher in ‘Lucky Jim’ The back list of ‘Fabers and Fabers’ now includes the poets published by the company. These poets included Philip Larkin and Dylan Thomas. Years ago I wrote to ‘Fabers and Fabers’ This was about my biography as they has taken an interest in pop music and made their money out of ‘Cats’ - apparently. A composer of military marches does not count and they declined to read my material!

The volume containing a ‘Symphony in Trees’ also contains a poem called ‘My First Poems’ and this, too, follows the plot of the biography I wrote. If you imagine an aged poet, on his own, in a darkened room, reflecting on his past, the poem comes alive a bit. But I, don’t know if the poem works without knowing something of the poet’s life. Perhaps my story would work better with this poem? What does anybody think? ( There is an earlier version of the poem which might be more successful.)

The author faced one problem some ‘Word Clouder’s seem to suffer from. Ie, someone who wanted recognition as a poet and wrote ‘pot-boilers’ to try and earn some money.

MY FIRST POEMS

WHEN I was young, ah, long ago,

I'd flirt - had four strings to my bow;

And then it came, the rise and call

Of passion astronomical :

In that dark glass - imagination,

W’d walk each starry-constellation.

She sang the music of the spheres,

And kept my faith for years and years :

And O the sweet, impassioned nights

Of my ambition's brief delights-

When, in our attic, clasped, her arms

Inspired the beauty of the psalms.

We worshipped them, as one by one

They came and dwelt beneath the sun

I knew the pangs that gave-them birth -

Mv pregnancy was not of Earth.

Sweet children beautiful and fair,

I took them with me everywhere:

They crossed the seas, enjoyed full scope

In Time's Academy of Hope!

I said "O mortals, list to me,

They smack of immortality -

Are flowers of beauty, of this clod -

They are of me, they are of God.'"

Unwanted - I stripped them to the waist

And decked them out to be unchaste.

They stood like slave-girls in the mart,

Great bargains -thus degrading Art!

They ailed, yet laughed. Each was imbued

With my lone soul’s parental mood :

In sickness, like some holy nurse

Coddling the ailing universe

I sat up, counting, bead by bead

My hopes in God: as need by need-

I shaped a rosary of pain

fill all the stars shone in my brain!

I sought to cure each lovely fault

That children have when all untaught

They jump out of the forest track

And ride unbidden, on one's back.

Mv rosary broke, and thus my prayers

Dashed, like a shower, my hopes and theirs

They pined thro' lack of modern thought;

A jazz consumption set in, brought

Me dire distress ; they limped, were maimed,

I wept, but they walked unashamed.

Inferiority complex

Wrecked the stamina of my sex-

As, in my attic, pinched and blue

I read, alas! the bad review !

I sent them out on chosen beats

As painted harlots of the streets:

O Christ forgive me for my sins -

An old Jew bought my virgin twins !

They died, were carried of by night

Their bodies, shrunken, ivory white,

Were piled up high, and set alight.

The stars, attending their sad pyre

Looked just like sparks from a bonfire!

And she, my wife?

I drove a nail high in the wall

And strung her up! - the best of all,

My dear companion of all lands,

Without a groan, died at my hands.

She'd walked the streets of Callao,

Had been the way the fallen go -

Yet faithful was. I loved her so.

Dear God alone knows my full sin,

And how I loved my violin!

And my unpublished songs and words? -

I ofttimes hear them on the wind,

Adrift with all the singing birds,

Haunting the sunset of my mind.

hi mike, i must apologise for appearing a bit dense (it happens a lot) but I'm still a bit confused. Who wrote the above poem? Who is Richard Holmes? Who is the biographical subject you mention? I thought I would check these things before your post slipped off the bottom of my page without a comment to its name.

Apologies for the confusion. The poem had been written by a grandfather and relates the story of his life. I wondered if the poem had much meaning to someone who knew nothing of him.

Hi Mike,

I think the idea of combining verse with narrative is very good. As a viable production, as you infer, it’s a question of ‘what would an audience relate to?’

I imagine the most difficult to get people to engage with would be a straight biography of a-not-too-widely known figure.

Just a few thoughts:

A busking violinist/poet might be a captivating character. You might have his younger self busking at a historical event and, perhaps, talking to his older self, who recites the verses. It might work well in fringe theatre.

In your first post I liked all the incidental imagery that you put in: going to the cemetery with a shovel and digging up your grandfather’s ghost – against family advice. Him getting ‘almost’ world famous on the world service. As genealogical research is so popular these days, a fictional piece characterising the trials and tribulations of ‘the quest’ might be worth considering.

The above are just thoughts. Your grandfather’s poetry is witty and entertaining, as are the creative parts of your narrative. I think it would be well worth looking for a viable combination of the two.

Dear Noel,