I likes dat castle poem.
Judy
2008/8/26 Robin Hamilton <[log in to unmask]>
> Edwin Muir and water, I'll drink to that, and sit it out after, spot on R2.
>>
>> Best
>>
>> Dave
>>
>
> Though at his best, Muir wasn't that bad -- less dilute Yeats than
> Kafka-in-poetry.
>
> Not the too-much-anthologised "The Horses", but the poems about poor sad
> sack things -- hey, dave, what's the one I'm trying to remember?
>
> Of course (and another member of this list would appreciate this, being a
> fan of Fanny Stevenson) yet another Scottish poet who marries, in Willa
> Muir, a powerful wife.
>
> I think a lot of Muir's trouble was he started on poetry late, in his
> forties, and never could quite get his ear round a natural rhythm.
>
> Also, of course, The Curse of the Shadow of McDiarmid.
>
> Rodent
>
> (Bernard de Bear Nicol was fairly lethal about the problems Muir left him
> when he took over Newbattle Abbey.)
>
>
> *****
>
> Oh, right, this is the one ...
>
> The Combat
>
>
> It was not meant for human eyes,
> That combat on the shabby patch
> Of clods and trampled turf that lies
> Somewhere beneath the sodden skies
> For eye of toad or adder to catch.
>
> And having seen it I accuse
> The crested animal in his pride,
> Arrayed in all the royal hues
> Which hide the claws he well can use
> To tear the heart out of the side.
>
> Body of leopard, eagle's head
> And whetted beak, and lion's mane,
> And frost-grey hedge of feathers spread
> Behind -- he seemed of all things bred.
> I shall not see his like again.
>
> As for his enemy there came in
> A soft round beast as brown as clay;
> All rent and patched his wretched skin;
> A battered bag he might have been,
> Some old used thing to throw away.
>
> Yet he awaited face to face
> The furious beast and the swift attack.
> Soon over and done. That was no place
> Or time for chivalry or for grace.
> The fury had him on his back.
>
> And two small paws like hands flew out
> To right and left as the trees stood by.
> One would have said beyond a doubt
> That was the very end of the bout,
> But that the creature would not die.
>
> For ere the death-stroke he was gone,
> Writhed, whirled, into his den,
> Safe somehow there. The fight was done,
> And he had lost who had all but won.
> But oh his deadly fury then.
>
> A while the place lay blank, forlorn,
> Drowsing as in relief from pain.
> The cricket chirped, the grating thorn
> Stirred, and a little sound was born.
> The champions took their posts again.
>
> And all began. The stealthy paw
> Slashed out and in. Could nothing save
> These rags and tatters from the claw?
> Nothing. And yet I never saw
> A beast so helpless and so brave.
>
> And now, while the trees stand watching, still
> The unequal battle rages there.
> The killing beast that cannot kill
> Swells and swells in his fury till
> You'd almost think it was despair.
>
> Edwin Muir
>
>
>
> ... and (shades of Cavafy) ...
>
> he Castle
>
>
> All through that summer at ease we lay,
> And daily from the turret wall
> We watched the mowers in the hay
> And the enemy half a mile away
> They seemed no threat to us at all.
>
> For what, we thought, had we to fear
> With our arms and provender, load on load,
> Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
> And friendly allies drawing near
> On every leafy summer road.
>
> Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
> So smooth and high, no man could win
> A foothold there, no clever trick
> Could take us, have us dead or quick.
> Only a bird could have got in.
>
> What could they offer us for bait?
> Our captain was brave and we were true....
> There was a little private gate,
> A little wicked wicket gate.
> The wizened warder let them through.
>
> Oh then our maze of tunneled stone
> Grew thin and treacherous as air.
> The cause was lost without a groan,
> The famous citadel overthrown,
> And all its secret galleries bare.
>
> How can this shameful tale be told?
> I will maintain until my death
> We could do nothing, being sold;
> Our only enemy was gold,
> And we had no arms to fight it with.
>
> Edwin Muir
>
|
