Divine Inspiration - A Travelog Part 2

Hereford 

When I think of Hereford I think of the poet Thomas Traherne    

A detail from the Tom Denny window in Hereford Cathedral inspired by the life and writings of Thomas Traherne. 

This could be a self-portrait.

Thomas Traherne - a remarkable seventeenth century poet, scholar, clergyman and religious writer believed that Hereford was a blessed city.  I am inclined to agree with him.

As I strayed quite far from poetry in the last blog post I am going to jump straight in and share this Traherne poem with you:

Consider the Extent of Love

Thomas Traherne

(1636 or 1637, Hereford, England -  1674) 

  

You are as prone to love as the sun is to shine;

it being the most delightful and natural employment

of the soul of man; without which you are dark and miserable.

Consider therefore the extent of love, its vigour and excellency.

For certainly he that delights not in love makes vain the universe,

and is of necessity to himself the greatest burden.

The whole world ministers to you as the theatre of your love.

It sustains you and all objects that you may continue to love them.

Without which it were better to have no being.

Life without objects is sensible emptiness,

and that is a greater misery than death or nothing.

Objects without love are the delusion of life;

the objects of love are its greatest treasures:

and without love it is impossible there should be treasures.

Hereford Cathedral is a treasure.

No one demands money with menaces as you go inside; no implication that it might fall down on your head if you don't cough up a fiver, It is a welcoming and busy place full of life and colour. It is a beautiful building that is being constantly renewed and revived for the twenty-first century. It feeds both body (good cafe and little sheltered garden) and soul and lifts the spirits. You don't have to be religious to value such a special place. For me it is an object of love and it was wonderful to visit it again and watch the Magna Carta exhibition going up.


  
If you'd like to know more about Thomas Traherne your very best guide is Denise Inge - another inspirational scholar and religious writer who died far too young.  I recommend Happiness and Holiness on Thomas Traherne published in 2008 by Canterbury Press.

I also visited Ledbury (home to an annual Poetry Festival) http://www.poetry-festival.co.uk/

And of course, birthplace of the 19th century poet John Masefield. I will spare you the ubiquitous Sea Fever and offer this instead: 

JOHN MASEFIELD

An Epilogue

I have seen flowers come in stony places,

And kind things done by men with ugly faces,

And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,

So I trust, too.

Much of his writing seems dated to me now and often gloomy, but this frivolous little poem cheers me.

                                                    1936 Gold Cup winner Golden Miller ridden by Evan Williams

Of course the Gold Cup he refers to is the famous Race Meeting at Cheltenham and this is a good way of taking us across the border to Gloucestershire and the village of Dymock.

The Dymock Poets  

The 'Dymock Poets' are generally held to have comprised Robert Frost, Lascelles Abercrombie, Rupert Brooke, Edward Thomas, Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, and John Drinkwater, some of whom lived near the village in the period between 1911 and 1914. Eleanor Farjeon, who was involved with Edward Thomas, also visited. They published their own quarterly, entitled 'New Numbers', containing poems such as Brooke's "The Soldier".

Which ones to choose?

Edward Thomas is probably the most local poet and maybe we'll take one from Eleanor Farjeon so a woman poet gets an outing. Thomas famously volunteered to fight in the First World War in 1915 and was killed in 1917 - this led to the break-up of the group.#123 on

The Glory

by Edward Thomas

The glory of the beauty of the morning, -
The cuckoo crying over the untouched dew;
The blackbird that has found it, and the dove
That tempts me on to something sweeter than love;
White clouds ranged even and fair as new-mown hay;
The heat, the stir, the sublime vacancy
Of sky and meadow and forest and my own heart: -
The glory invites me, yet it leaves me scorning
All I can ever do, all I can be,
Beside the lovely of motion, shape, and hue,
The happiness I fancy fit to dwell
In beauty's presence. Shall I now this day
Begin to seek as far as heaven, as hell,
Wisdom or strength to match this beauty, start
And tread the pale dust pitted with small dark drops,
In hope to find whatever it is I seek,
Hearkening to short-lived happy-seeming things
That we know naught of, in the hazel copse?
Or must I be content with discontent
As larks and swallows are perhaps with wings?
And shall I ask at the day's end once more
What beauty is, and what I can have meant
By happiness? And shall I let all go,
Glad, weary, or both? Or shall I perhaps know
That I was happy oft and oft before,
Awhile forgetting how I am fast pent,
How dreary-swift, with naught to travel to,
Is Time? I cannot bite the day to the core. 

His strange, discontented personality shows through this poem and perhaps helps to explain his decision to enlist.

The poem below - very different from Eleanor Farjeon's well-known children's poems and her theme tune Morning Has Broken, may be a reaction to the death of Edward Thomas.

Peace

Eleanor Farjeon

I am as awful as my brother War,

I am the sudden silence after clamour.

I am the face that shows the seamy scar

When blood and frenzy has lost its glamour.

Men in my pause shall know the cost at last

That is not to be paid in triumphs or tears,

Men will begin to judge the thing that's past

As men will judge it in a hundred years.

Nations! whose ravenous engines must be fed

Endlessly with the father and the son,

My naked light upon your darkness, dread! -

By which ye shall behold what ye have done:

Whereon, more like a vulture than a dove,

Ye set my seal in hatred, not in love.

II.

Let no man call me good. I am not blest.

My single virtue is the end of crimes,

I only am the period of unrest,

The ceasing of horrors of the times;

My good is but the negative of ill,

Such ill as bends the spirit with despair,

Such ill as makes the nations' soul stand still

And freeze to stone beneath a Gorgon glare.

Be blunt, and say that peace is but a state

Wherein the active soul is free to move,

And nations only show as mean or great

According to the spirit then they prove. -

O which of ye whose battle-cry is Hate

Will first in peace dare shout the name of Love? 

The famous wild daffodils in Dymock Woods 

We saw the famous lent lilies - wild daffodils on our way to May Hill in Gloucestershire.

Red May Hill - Valerie Maclean 

May Hill is known for its crown of trees (supposed to number 99 but this is a poetic truth only) and this makes it very easy to identify. 

John Masefield describes May Hill in his poem "The Everlasting Mercy" eulogised "May Hill that Gloucester dwellers 'gainst every sunset see".   But I'll spare you that one as it is beyond bad.

Suffice it to say that a walk over May Hill on a spring morning is poetry in motion. 

A final word for Ross on Wye - where I lived for almost 30 years.

Ross is famous for its beauty and its connection with hedgehogs. This seems to relate back 1500 years when the Celts invaded Ross on Wye and called the area "Ergyng" which meant "Land of the Hedgehog"  My daughters' school badge was made special by the hedgehog peering over the top.

There is even an annual Hedgehog Festival and Ode to the Hedgehog poetry competition.  Can you think of any good rhymes for hedgehog ?

I leave you with a Scottish poem about a hedgehog as I bring myself back home.

Hedgehog, Hamnavoe

Jen Hadfield

Flinching in my hands

this soiled and studded but good heart, 

which stippling my cupped palms, breathes –

a kidney flinching on a hot griddle, 

or very small Hell's Angel, peeled from the verge 

of a sweet, slurred morning.

Drunk, I coddle it like a crystal ball, 

hellbent the realistic mysteries 

should amount to more than guesswork

                        and fleas. 

This began as an inspirational blog post so rather than leaving you with the idea of fleas I offer another aspect of the hedgehog.

You can knit your own - guaranteed no fleas!  

Next Post - Scottish sea poems.