The Reader Online

Over the last 18 months or so, one word has figured heavily in the press, on television screens and in social commentary generally – and that word is recession. Who would have even thought to have put together the words ‘credit’ and ‘crunch’ two or three years back? Now it seems strange to prise them apart. Yet the dark clouds of recession may be dissipating to allow a glimmer of light to creep through – in the UK at least, the economic downturn is reversing ever so slightly in the other direction. Across the pond, a poll has revealed that books have been a form of somewhat necessary relief for American citizens in the face of economic adversity; book-buying came out on top of a list of ‘top indulgences’ for US adults during the recession, with three quarters of correspondents prizing books over fine dining, retail therapy or cinema going.

Though I can’t admit to indulging too much in the luxury of buying books myself – being on rather a tight budget, my cost-me-nothing library card is a best friend – it’s really heartening to find that a considerable amount of people are turning to, and indeed turning the pages of books while recession bites. I hope the book love continues as the slow, steady recovery happens. Those behind the poll commented upon how it indicated “a shift back to life’s simplest pleasures” and I think that’s what makes books really stand out amongst other, perhaps more frivolous purchases. Of course reading is rewarding, enlightening and life affirming but at the bottom of it all, it’s enjoyable. I cannot personally think of many easier ways to derive a lot of pleasure and relaxation that to sink into a sofa and absorb myself in a good book. I could quite succinctly sum up what reading does for me in times of confusion or distress using the words of Charlotte Brontë from this week’s featured poem: “Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals/Into your innermost mind;/A quiet aura your spirit feels/A softened stillness kind.” Very apt words indeed, and I find this poem quite peaceful also. Bronte completely embraces life’s simplest pleasures here – in observing nature, hearing a bird singing, watching the skies overhead – and it goes to show, if you have but little in your pocket or purse, you can still find something to amuse, delight and quite likely fascinate you.

Pleasure

True pleasure breathes not city air,
Nor in Art’s temples dwells,
In palaces and towers where
The voice of Grandeur dwells.

No! Seek it where high Nature holds
Her court ‘mid stately groves,
Where she her majesty unfolds,
And in fresh beauty moves;

Where thousand birds of sweetest song,
The wildly rushing storm
And hundred streams which glide along,
Her mighty concert form!

Go where the woods in beauty sleep
Bathed in pale Luna’s light,
Or where among their branches sweep
The hollow sounds of night.

Go where the warbling nightingale
In gushes rich doth sing,
Till all the lonely, quiet vale
With melody doth ring.

Go, sit upon a mountain steep,
And view the prospect round;
The hills and vales, the valley’s sweep,
The far horizon bound.

Then view the wide sky overhead,
The still, deep vault of blue,
The sun which golden light doth shed,
The clouds of pearly hue.

And as you gaze on this vast scene
Your thoughts will journey far,
Though hundred years should roll between
On Time’s swift-passing car.

To ages when the earth was young,
When patriarchs, grey and old,
The praises of their god oft sung,
And oft his mercies told.

You see them with their beards of snow,
Their robes of ample form,
Their lives whose peaceful, gentle flow,
Felt seldom passion’s storm.

Then a calm, solemn pleasure steals
Into your inmost mind;
A quiet aura your spirit feels,
A softened stillness kind.

Charlotte Brontë

(1816-1855)

One recent evening while undertaking my nightly habit of channel flicking, two thirds of myself rather than a more optimistic half being sure that I would find nothing worth investing more than a passing acknowledgement and shrug of the shoulders in, I stumbled across a rather interesting programme on BBC Four entitled Dear Diary. Within minutes I was simultaneously engrossed and proved wrong in my dismissal of an average Monday night’s televisual output. The three part series sought to explore matters including what makes a good diary (and indeed, a good diarist), why diaries are so important the people who write them and, perhaps the most intriguing point of all, what we can take from reading diaries (of course, that is the published variety – I don’t think you could take much from rifling sneakily through another’s secret scribbling other than a major dent in your conscience).

I admit to being fascinated with diaries as a form for a number of reasons. The diaries of famous historical and literary figures are rewarding on many levels; they quench voyeuristic thirsts, reveal the first sparks of creative inspiration and open up veritable time portals into the public and private past. While the aspect of immortality – and thus leaving an indelible ink stain on the world – that comes from keeping a diary is appealing to anyone’s sense of vanity, I believe the most worth anyone can get from maintaining their own journal comes via its offering of entirely personal, won’t-cost-you-a-penny therapy. Where else can you be as brutally honest as you dare or come across as self-absorbed without having to worry about being seen as utterly egotistical? Venting using the tools of pad and paper is not only socially preferable to smashing your fist against the nearest inanimate object and/or bursting into uncontrollable tears, it’s pretty damn good for your soul. As a therapeutic tool diaries can be especially useful, being ongoing and allowing us to retrace our steps when needs be. In short, they enable us to look back at segments of our lives and learn more about ourselves through ourselves (even if it is only to realise how utterly misguided and completely cringey you sounded as a teenager).

I’ve chosen this particular poem by Thomas Hardy as I think it relates well to the subject – a diary can be very much like a mirror, reflecting us and perhaps reflecting back more than we realise if we care to revisit. In times afterwards, they do produce ‘moments of vision’, letting us in on secrets about ourselves that at the time we might not have consciously considered. It really does make us transparent. The most interesting question is once it has caught all of our thoughts, onto what else will the ‘mirror’ be reflected?

Moments of Vision

That mirror
Which makes of men a transparency,
Who holds that mirror
And bids us such a breast-bare spectacle see
Of you and me?

That mirror
Whose magic penetrates like a dart,
Who lifts that mirror
And throws our mind back on us, and our heart,
until we start?

That mirror
Works well in these night hours of ache;
Why in that mirror
Are tincts we never see ourselves once take
When the world is awake?

That mirror
Can test each mortal when unaware;
Yea, that strange mirror
May catch his last thoughts, whole life foul or fair,
Glassing it — where?

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

25^th January is a very important date in the literary calendar, and also to the cultural heritage of Scotland as a nation, as it is the birthday of the great bard Robert Burns. It has also become known as Burns’ Night, which stands as an unofficial national day in Scotland but is observed in many countries far and wide, wherever you will find Burns aficionados. Synonymous with Burns’ Night are Burns’ Suppers, which have been the pinnacle of the celebrations for Rabbie since they began over 200 years ago. Other than including a traditional format which includes the mainstay of a haggis main course, there’s only one other steadfast rule of Burns’ Suppers – that they a hugely entertaining affair, as no doubt the man himself would wish.

What’s especially great about Burns Suppers is the fact that they make poetry so central to the festivities. Of course the work of Burns is recited as part of the supper but guests are equally free to join in with Burns inspired poetry, by other established poets or relative literary novices. It’s an event in which the spirit of poetry is brought to life, called into being so it becomes a participant, a guest, the celebration itself. There’s nothing dry or staid about it – it truly is the life and soul of the party. Celebrating the many types of lives that run through every poem is a sentiment extremely close to the heart of The Reader Organisation.

To have our own mini Burns’ Night celebration, here is a poem that is often recited in Burns’ Suppers. While it may not deal with the most merry of subjects – the ‘unco guid’ of the title refers to a Scottish term for those who are considered to be especially strict when it comes to morals and religion – it certainly is spirited, highlighting Burns’ satirical side and particular disdain for those valuing self-righteousness over compassion. And it is the fierce and passionate spirit of Burns that we applaud.

Address to the Unco Guid

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel’,
Sae pious and sae holy,
Ye’ve nought to do but mark and tell
Your neibours’ fauts and folly!
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill,
Supplied wi’ store o’ water;
The heaped happer’s ebbing still,
An’ still the clap plays clatter.

Hear me, ye venerable core,
As counsel for poor mortals
That frequent pass douce Wisdom’s door
For glaikit Folly’s portals:
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes,
Would here propone defences -
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes,
Their failings and mischances.

Ye see your state wi’ theirs compared,
And shudder at the niffer;
But cast a moment’s fair regard,
What maks the mighty differ;
Discount what scant occasion gave,
That purity ye pride in;
And (what’s aft mair than a’ the lave),
Your better art o’ hidin.

Think, when your castigated pulse
Gies now and then a wallop!
What ragings must his veins convulse,
That still eternal gallop!
Wi’ wind and tide fair i’ your tail,
Right on ye scud your sea-way;
But in the teeth o’ baith to sail,
It maks a unco lee-way.

See Social Life and Glee sit down,
All joyous and unthinking,
Till, quite transmugrified, they’re grown
Debauchery and Drinking:
O would they stay to calculate
Th’ eternal consequences;
Or your more dreaded hell to state,
Damnation of expenses!

Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames,
Tied up in godly laces,
Before ye gie poor Frailty names,
Suppose a change o’ cases;
A dear-lov’d lad, convenience snug,
A treach’rous inclination -
But let me whisper i’ your lug,
Ye’re aiblins nae temptation.

Then gently scan your brother man,
Still gentler sister woman;
Tho’ they may gang a kennin wrang,
To step aside is human:
One point must still be greatly dark, -
The moving Why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark,
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, ’tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;
He knows each chord, its various tone,
Each spring, its various bias:
Then at the balance let’s be mute,
We never can adjust it;
What’s done we partly may compute,
But know not what’s resisted.

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

— — —

The Guardian are currently running a week-long series on Romantic Poets, which will feature Burns, Keats and Wordsworth, amongst others.

I would imagine you’d be hard pushed to find any city, town or village in the UK that hasn’t been affected by what is considered to have been the heaviest snowfall in half a century. Indeed most of us are still waiting for the most stubborn snow to melt away after near enough two weeks, or have experienced more of the white stuff. If nothing else, it has aroused all manner of emotional responses. For the first day, surprise and delight (which continued for kids, both small and big) then afterwards, annoyance and bafflement – just how did the various news outlets manage to get so much mileage out of the sheer fact that it snowed, albeit quite a lot? I have been mainly frustrated as I haven’t been able to venture very far due to a combination of unsuitable footwear, a total lack of co-ordination and an inability to function on ice (which has led me to acquire the nickname ‘Bambi’). I’m sure it hasn’t been much fun for everyone who has been left stranded, snowed in and unable to get about. That’s not to mention the repercussions it’s had here at The Reader Organisation resulting in the postponement of the New Beginnings Conference and Readers’ Day.

I apologise in advance for making another reference to the snow, when everyone is probably sick to the back teeth of it by now, but I thought it’d be rather appropriate to pay homage to one of the things that most of us can enjoy about it – the humble snowman (or maybe that should be snowperson, to be politically correct). Over the last fortnight, I’ve seen ones of all shapes and sizes, snow dogs, snow cats and even snow cartoon characters. The only reason I’m sad to see the snow go is down to the fact that I didn’t get an opportunity to make my own snowman. So it’s nice to stumble across a poem that really celebrates those made of snow who put a smile on many a face. I especially like the closing lines: “And through the Winter’s crystal veil, Love’s roses blossom red, For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard” – a snowman bringing true love? Maybe wishful thinking, but it’s a nice idea… I really wish I’d made one now.

A Snowman in the Yard

The Judge’s house has a splendid porch, with pillars and steps of stone,
And the Judge has a lovely flowering hedge that came from across the seas;
In the Hales’ garage you could put my house and everything I own,
And the Hales have a lawn like an emerald and a row of poplar trees.

Now I have only a little house, and only a little lot,
And only a few square yards of lawn, with dandelions starred;
But when Winter comes, I have something there
that the Judge and the Hales have not,
And it’s better worth having than all their wealth –
it’s a snowman in the yard.

The Judge’s money brings architects to make his mansion fair;
The Hales have seven gardeners to make their roses grow;
The Judge can get his trees from Spain and France and everywhere,
And raise his orchids under glass in the midst of all the snow.

But I have something no architect or gardener ever made,
A thing that is shaped by the busy touch of little mittened hands:
And the Judge would give up his lonely estate, where the level snow is laid
For the tiny house with the trampled yard,
the yard where the snowman stands.

They say that after Adam and Eve were driven away in tears
To toil and suffer their life-time through,
because of the sin they sinned,
The Lord made Winter to punish them for half their exiled years,
To chill their blood with the snow, and pierce
their flesh with the icy wind.

But we who inherit the primal curse, and labour for our bread,
Have yet, thank God, the gift of Home, though Eden’s gate is barred:
And through the Winter’s crystal veil, Love’s roses blossom red,
For him who lives in a house that has a snowman in the yard.

Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886-1918)

As a post-festive ritual, I am currently in the midst of a major ‘sort out’ – call it an immensely early spring clean if you will – in the hope that if I de-clutter my surroundings it will have a similar effect on my mind. Of course, the New Year is the perfect time to gain some fresh perspective and let go of the junk tying you down. So far I have discovered that I have accumulated the equivalent of several small rainforests, mainly in the form of old lecture notes (all of which will be recycled, so I can reverse the damage). But I have also come across many things from times past that I had buried away, some of which had been forgotten about, all of which got me in quite a nostalgic mood. Old notebooks, birthday cards, photographs, even silly stories I’d written years ago… all complete with their own memories. Being a sentimental type I couldn’t consign them to the pile of rubbish – so much for a fresh start.

Inspired by my reminiscence is this week’s featured poem by W.B Yeats. Perhaps it’s more bittersweet, concerned with the somewhat problematic but frequently unavoidable issue of past love. The poem is split into two voices of two current lovers, and it is that of the female that is disconcerted by the ghost-like presence of the male’s past lover (though it is the male who first speaks of the ‘scream from terrified, invisible beast or bird, image of poignant recollection’ – lines I find particularly evocative). It shows that while the past may not always be particularly desirable, it is too idealistic and indeed impractical from us to escape from it completely. On a more simplistic level, it’s a poem I find quite intriguing in its narrative style and beautiful – I hope you do too.

An Image From A Past Life

He. Never until this night have I been stirred.
The elaborate starlight throws a reflection
On the dark stream,
Till all the eddies gleam;
And thereupon there comes that scream
From terrified, invisible beast or bird:
Image of poignant recollection.

She. An image of my heart that is smitten through
Out of all likelihood, or reason,
And when at last,
Youth’s bitterness being past,
I had thought that all my days were cast
Amid most lovely places; smitten as though
It had not learned its lesson.

He. Why have you laid your hands upon my eyes?
What can have suddenly alarmed you
Whereon ’twere best
My eyes should never rest?
What is there but the slowly fading west,
The river imaging the flashing skies,
All that to this moment charmed you?

She. A Sweetheart from another life floats there
As though she had been forced to linger
From vague distress
Or arrogant loveliness,
Merely to loosen out a tress
Among the starry eddies of her hair
Upon the paleness of a finger.

He. But why should you grow suddenly afraid
And start – I at your shoulder -
Imagining
That any night could bring
An image up, or anything
Even to eyes that beauty had driven mad,
But images to make me fonder?

She. Now She has thrown her arms above her head;
Whether she threw them up to flout me,
Or but to find,
Now that no fingers bind,
That her hair streams upon the wind,
I do not know, that know I am afraid
Of the hovering thing night brought me.

W.B Yeats (1865-1939)

Something odd has been happening to the blog – I don’t know if it just doesn’t like the snow – but this poem, which was due to be with you on New Year’s Eve, is only getting to you today (technical problems, don’t ask). Although it’s a little late, I hope you enjoy it all the same…

We’re nearing the end of a cycle of another twelve months; as John Lennon would put it, another year over. The usual reflections, reminiscing and looking with a sense of anticipation – and sometimes, trepidation – to the future that this time of year brings about are somewhat stronger given that we’re also entering not just another year, but another decade. The ‘noughties’ have brought a lot of change, some for the better, some for the worse (have a look at this ‘portrait of the decade’ – interesting to see how the 2000s have been summed up). We can look back fondly at the things that made us smile, and be thankful that the things that didn’t are now consigned to the past.

The ringing in of a new decade makes this poem by Tennyson especially appropriate, as our collective hopes and wishes are amplified. Nothing can be done to alter the time that has passed, little to the time that is passing but what is to come can be shaped. The new year heralds a new start, a clean page. As the wild bells welcome in 2010, we should heed Tennyson’s words and even though it may seem difficult, let go of the old, look to the new and hope only for the best.

Ring Out, Wild Bells

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more,
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

The period between Christmas and New Year is very peculiar indeed. For six days or so, everything seems to have been turned on its head – you aren’t quite sure what day it is, the lazy holiday mood is still lingering and normal service is waiting to be resumed. It’s almost as if the whole of time has been temporarily suspended, somehow (Of course, if you’re already back at work, this most likely does not apply – as a naïve graduate of just on six months, I have yet to experience anything other than a Christmas filled with lie-ins and long hours spent with bottomless boxes of chocolates in my lap).

I have to say I rather enjoy these slightly weird but ever so satisfying days, and to revel in their topsy-turviness even more so here’s an especially nonsensical poem from the master of marvellous nonsense, Lewis Carroll. It doesn’t serve much purpose but to rattle a head already made slightly slushy by too much turkey and Christmas pud, but it is a bit of a fun. Besides, if you can’t have some silliness at this time of year, then really – when can you?

The Mad Gardener’s Song

He thought he saw an Elephant,
That practised on a fife:
He looked again, and found it was
A letter from his wife.
‘At length I realise,’ he said,
The bitterness of Life!’

He thought he saw a Buffalo
Upon the chimney-piece:
He looked again, and found it was
His Sister’s Husband’s Niece.
‘Unless you leave this house,’ he said,
“I’ll send for the Police!’

He thought he saw a Rattlesnake
That questioned him in Greek:
He looked again, and found it was
The Middle of Next Week.
‘The one thing I regret,’ he said,
‘Is that it cannot speak!’

He thought he saw a Banker’s Clerk
Descending from the bus:
He looked again, and found it was
A Hippopotamus.
‘If this should stay to dine,’ he said,
‘There won’t be much for us!’

He thought he saw a Kangaroo
That worked a coffee-mill:
He looked again, and found it was
A Vegetable-Pill.
‘Were I to swallow this,’ he said,
‘I should be very ill!’

He thought he saw a Coach-and-Four
That stood beside his bed:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bear without a Head.
‘Poor thing,’ he said, ‘poor silly thing!
It’s waiting to be fed!’

He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again, and found it was
A Penny-Postage Stamp.
‘You’d best be getting home,’ he said:
‘The nights are very damp!’

He thought he saw a Garden-Door
That opened with a key:
He looked again, and found it was
A Double Rule of Three:
‘And all its mystery,’ he said,
‘Is clear as day to me!’

He thought he saw a Argument
That proved he was the Pope:
He looked again, and found it was
A Bar of Mottled Soap.
‘A fact so dread,’ he faintly said,
‘Extinguishes all hope!’

Lewis Carroll (1832-1898)

The tree is up and decorated to within an inch of its life, the cards and Christmas greetings have been sent and the fridge is well stocked with indulgent food. There’s not much more to be done but to make the most of the season. So why not, just for now, put your feet up in front of the fire, grab a glass of mulled wine or a snowball (or whatever other tipple pleases your pallet) and enjoy this poem by George Wither. There are Christmas Carols a-plenty in the world of literature and poetry, but I find this one particularly enjoyable and encapsulating of Christmases gone by and those present. Its underlying message to simply be merry is something we can all identify with. From all at The Reader Online and The Reader Organisation, we wish you a peaceful and very happy Christmastime.

A Christmas Carol

So now is come our joyful’st feast,
Let every man be jolly.
Each room with ivy leaves is drest,
And every post with holly.
Though some churls at our mirth repine,
Round your foreheads garlands twine,
Drown sorrow in a cup of wine,
And let us all be merry.

Now all our neighbors’ chimneys smoke,
And Christmas blocks are burning;
Their ovens they with bak’d-meats choke,
And all their spits are turning.
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die,
We’ll bury ‘t in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.

Now every lad is wondrous trim,
And no man minds his labor;
Our lasses have provided them
A bag-pipe and a tabor.
Young men and maids and girls and boys
Give life to one another’s joys,
And you anon shall by their noise
Perceive that they are merry.

Rank misers now do sparing shun,
Their hall of music soundeth,
And dogs thence with whole shoulders run,
So all things there aboundeth.
The country folk themselves advance,
For crowdy-mutton’s come out of France.
And Jack shall pipe and Jill shall dance,
And all the town be merry.

Ned Swash hath fetch’d his bands from pawn,
And all his best apparel;
Brisk Nell hath bought a ruff of lawn
With droppings of the barrel;
And those that hardly all the year
Had bread to eat or rags to wear,
Will have both clothes and dainty fare,
And all the day be merry.

Now poor men to the justices
With capons make their arrants,
And if they hap to fail of these
They plague them with their warrants.
But now they feed them with good cheer,
And what they want they take in beer,
For Christmas comes but once a year,
And then they shall be merry.

Good farmers in the country nurse
The poor, that else were undone.
Some landlords spend their money worse,
On lust and pride at London.
There the roisters they do play,
Drab and dice their land away,
Which may be ours another day;
And therefore let’s be merry.

The client now his suit forbears,
The prisoner’s heart is eased,
The debtor drinks away his cares,
And for the time is pleased.
Though others’ purses be more fat,
Why should we pine or grieve at that?
Hang sorrow, care will kill a cat,
And therefore let’s be merry.

Hark how the wags abroad do call
Each other forth to rambling;
Anon you’ll see them in the hall
For nuts and apples scrambling.
Hark how the roofs with laughters sound!
Anon they’ll think the house goes round,
For they the cellar’s depth have found,
And there they will be merry.

The wenches with their wassail bowls
About the streets are singing,
The boys are come to catch the owls,
The wild mare in is bringing.
Our kitchen boy hath broke his box,
And to the dealing of the ox
Our honest neighbors come by flocks,
And here they will be merry.

Now kings and queens poor sheepcotes have,
And mate with everybody;
The honest now may play the knave,
And wise men play at noddy.
Some youths will now a-mumming go,
Some others play at rowlandhoe,
And twenty other gameboys moe,
Because they will be merry.

Then wherefore in these merry days
Should we, I pray, be duller?
No, let us sing some roundelays
To make our mirth the fuller.
And, whilst thus inspir’d we sing,
Let all the streets with echoes ring,
Woods and hills and everything,
Bear witness we are merry.

George Wither (1588-1667)

Today is the Winter Solstice and with it comes the official start of the longest (or so it seems) season of all. Although it really does seem like we’ve been in the thick of it for a little while, what with the plummeting temperatures, arctic winds and windows that drip with condensation greeting me each morning. Depending on which part of the UK you’re in, there’s a chance you’ve received your first flurry of snowfall. I know winter has really hit home when the heating system is switched on of a nightly basis and when I begin living in my biggest of jumpers and snuggliest of socks – and that has happened without me even realising.

So, this week’s featured poem has a wintry theme – although it’s the notion of an untold secret that arouses more interest. Yes, Christina Rossetti has certainly intrigued many with this poem and there have been any number of speculative guesses of what the secret she speaks of could possibly be. I have to admit that it was not what lay at the heart of said ‘secret’ that grabbed my immediate attention on first reading but the intertwining of the winter with the secret. The idea of keeping something secret seems to somehow fit quite comfortably with the season, with everything being wrapped up tight and hidden away more easily than it would usually be; the shawl, veil and cloak that Rossetti surrounds herself in keeps out the outer cold and protects the inner secret from the prying attention of others. Conversely, winter could also be the thing that threatens to expose a secret – note the draughts that ‘come whistling thro’ my hall…Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all’, as well as the mask that is worn for ‘warmth’ and perhaps too for self-preservation. I also just love the idea of a secret being frozen that appears in the third line and the image it conjures up, of something forever held as it is, unknown and producing an endless quest for knowledge from those who see it. Much like any singular poem, I suppose, whose meaning remains a secret to everyone but its author.

Rossetti keeps us hanging, never revealing her secret – or indeed confirming that there is one to begin with – just giving us an estimated time of when we may know more, far off into the summer months when things and people alike generally are freer. Winter is a time to keep things close to your chest, to gather all the warmth you can. I think that this poem exudes a playful energy in its teasing and ambiguity, and hope it serves as a winter warmer.

Winter: My Secret

I tell my secret? No indeed, not I:
Perhaps some day, who knows?
But not today; it froze, and blows and snows,
And you’re too curious: fie!
You want to hear it? well:
Only, my secret’s mine, and I won’t tell.

Or, after all, perhaps there’s none:
Suppose there is no secret after all,
But only just my fun.
Today’s a nipping day, a biting day;
In which one wants a shawl,
A veil, a cloak, and other wraps:
I cannot ope to everyone who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling thro’ my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping thro’ my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.

Spring’s an expansive time: yet I don’t trust
March with its peck of dust,
Nor April with its rainbow-crowned brief showers,
Nor even May, whose flowers
One frost may wither thro’ the sunless hours.

Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still nor loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.

Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

There seem to be a few techinical hitches on the blog this morning (has it, like Eurostar, been affected by the cold weather too?), which means that the Featured Poem hasn’t been published yet. I’m looking intothe problem and hope to have it sorted out very soon, please accept my apologies for the delay.