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The Modern Antiquarian Forum » England » Edward Thomas - centenary year of death |
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tjj 3606 posts |
Edited Feb 25, 2017, 19:54
Feb 24, 2017, 13:09
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After watching the programme about the South Downs recently, I thought about Edward Thomas. Taking his book The South Country down from the shelf I remembered it is almost 100 years since his death. Born 3rd March 1878, he died on at dawn on 9th April 1917 on the first day of the Battle of Arras. A man who loved ancient footpaths and who wrote about them eloquently in language that knows no borders. Here's one of his poems. The Combe by Edward Thomas The Combe was ever dark, ancient and dark. Its mouth is stopped with bramble, thorn, and briar; And no one scrambles over the sliding chalk By beech and yew and perishing juniper Down the half precipices of its sides, with roots And rabbit holes for steps. The sun of Winter, The moon of Summer, and all the singing birds Except the missel-thrush that loves juniper, Are quite shut out. But far more ancient and dark The Combe looks since they killed the badger there, Dug him out and gave him to the hounds, That most ancient Briton of English beasts.
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moss 2897 posts |
Edited Feb 24, 2017, 16:11
Feb 24, 2017, 13:54
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And then there is this, when he was in Cornwall.... "On every hand lies cromlech, camp, circle, hut and tumulus of the unwritten years. They are confused and mingled with the natural litter of a barren land. It is a silent Bedlam of history, a senseless cemetery or museum, amidst which we walk as animals must do when they see those valleys full of skeleton where their kind are said to go punctually to die. There are enough of the dead; they outnumber the living, and there those trite truths burst with life and drum upon the typpanum with ambigous fatal voices. At the end of this many barrowed moor, yet not in it, there is a solitary circle of grey stones, where the cry of the past is less vociferous, less bewildering, than on the moor itself, but more intense. Nineteen tall, grey stones stand round a taller, pointed one that is heavily bowed, amidst long grass and bracken and furze. A track passes close by, but does not enter the circle; the grass is unbent except by the wieght of its bloom. It bears a name that connects it with the assembling and rivalry of the bards of Britain. Here, under the sky, they met, leaning upon the stones, tall fair men of peace, but half warriors, whose songs could change ploughshares into sword. Here they met, and the growth of the grass, the perfection of the stones(except that one stoops as with age), and the silence, suggest that since the last bard left it, in robe of blue or white or green - the colours of sky and cloud and grass upon this fair day - the circle has been unmolested, and the law obeyed which forbade any but a bard to enter it........And the inscription on the chair of the bards of Beisgawen was "nothing is that is not for ever and ever" - these things and the blue sky, the white, cloudy hall of the sun, and the green bough and grass, hallowed the ancient stones, and clearer than any vision of tall bards in the morning of the world was the tranquil delight of being thus ' teased out of time' in the presence of this ancientness,.... The stone circle is Boskawenun of course. And of Avebury.... "the northern downs are totally different, here the land is scooped out into long swells with shallow sliding troughs and folds between them. The queer thing is that Avebury is still the capital of of North Wiltshire as Stonehenge is of the south. The villages mostly hide; visible modern works make ugly faces and only this pair, the rest of man's thoughts on the surface of the chalk, rest seaworthily upon the surge of verdant miles"
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tjj 3606 posts |
Edited Feb 24, 2017, 16:31
Feb 24, 2017, 16:03
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Thanks for those two passages Moss, I hadn't come across the Boscawen-Un one before and didn't know he had been to Cornwall. I guess we have to remember he wrote for a living and lived in poverty a lot of the time - which may account for some of the romanticised prose e.g."Here, under the sky, they met, leaning upon the stones, tall fair men of peace, but half warriors, whose songs could change ploughshares into sword." I wonder just how different the perceptions of the early 20 century were to the way things are experienced today.
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thesweetcheat 6210 posts |
Feb 24, 2017, 18:18
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What lovely writing, I declare complete ignorance of him up until now.
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spencer 3070 posts |
Feb 24, 2017, 20:05
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Happens. No guilt there. I've my grandfather's copy of his collected poems. Only a little A5ish thing, 'been around the block a bit'. Treasures within. Edward Thomas is one of those that should be on a pedestal but is not.
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spencer 3070 posts |
Feb 24, 2017, 20:11
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If his work moves anyone I recommend reading Robert Gibbings too. Wiki, if you've not heard of him. Not a poet, only a forgotten literary genius and well rounded human being.
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spencer 3070 posts |
Feb 24, 2017, 20:17
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..and to divert the thread further, if you love Gibbing's woodcuts try Eric Ravilious and D J Watkins - Pitchford, aka 'BB'. England by the bucketload.
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Evergreen Dazed 1881 posts |
Feb 24, 2017, 21:53
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thesweetcheat wrote: What lovely writing, I declare complete ignorance of him up until now. I've got the faber book of selected poems, I think you might like it. My wife bought me 'The Icknield Way' which is competing with Gunns 'Atom of Delight' for next read.
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thesweetcheat 6210 posts |
Feb 25, 2017, 05:44
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If tjj and Moss's selections are anything to go by, I would. You can really visualise the places he describes.
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tjj 3606 posts |
Edited Apr 07, 2017, 18:00
Apr 06, 2017, 23:46
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Evergreen Dazed wrote: thesweetcheat wrote: What lovely writing, I declare complete ignorance of him up until now. I've got the faber book of selected poems, I think you might like it. My wife bought me 'The Icknield Way' which is competing with Gunns 'Atom of Delight' for next read. Hope no one minds me bumping this up. ED, I remembered you saying you had 'The Icknield Way' and as it is now coming up the centenary anniversary of Edward Thomas's death at the Battle of Arras, 9th April 1917 I've been trying to find a fitting piece of prose from it to commemorate the date. There is a lot of work out there to choose from, unfortunately much of it not available online. However, I did find this book blog which talks honestly about The Icknield Way whilst refraining to eulogise about the work or Thomas. https://emilybooks.wordpress.com/2013/02/04/the-icknield-way/ Edit: The link doesn't seem to work, so here's a small extract: "Though I’d like to, I can’t quote the whole passage here, as it goes on for a few pages. It is such a troubling passage, a nihilistic meditation on not being part of nature, on surrendering everything to the dark rain. These pages will stay with me as indeed they stayed with Thomas, for he returned to them in his poem ‘Rain’: "Rain, midnight rain, nothing but the wild rain On this bleak hut, and solitude, and me ...." Can't help but feel empathy with Thomas who became a parent at the young age of 22. Early on, wrote mainly to make a living and support his family, suffered from severe depression, loved nature and solitude, died at the age of 39 in WWI - where he didn't have to be (he volunteered). He also befriended and helped the 'tramp' poet W.H.Davies, who wrote this simple but sincere little poem on learning of Thomas's death. Killed in action (EDWARD THOMAS) Happy the man whose home is still In Nature's green and peaceful ways; To wake and hear the birds so loud, That scream for joy to see the sun Is shouldering past a sullen cloud. And we have known those days, when we Would wait to hear the cuckoo first; When you and I, with thoughtful mind, Would help a bird to hide her nest, For fear of other hands less kind. But thou, my friend, art lying dead: War, with its hell-born childishness, Has claimed thy life, with many more: The man that loved this England well, And never left it once before.
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