I read this poem with one of my open community groups recently, all of whom immediately began to talk enthusiastically about ‘that feeling’ being around nature brings about, agreeing unanimously that it was ‘good’. We were all particularly struck with the parallels between the poem and our current book, The Rainbow, where characters seem to have very strong ties with the natural world. One women commented that she couldn’t help but have green shoots come to mind all through reading of the poem, explaining, ‘they remind you that it’s getting warmer – summer’s on its way’. We then talked about how new flowers – ‘blooms revivified’ – are like a symbol of hope, coming through after the many deaths of winter.

How silence can ‘speak happiness’ provoked some careful thought, with many members reflecting upon the quiet calm found in natural surroundings. Why this might be ‘beyond the reach of books’ gave us a great deal food for thought, especially as we were all in a reading group at the time!

The group was quite perplexed by ‘Its birth was heaven’, unable to attach an exact meaning to these words, but were very keen on ‘There’s nothing mortal in them’. One member commented, ‘to be mortal is to really die, but here there’s no real death’. This was picked up on by the rest of the group, who mentioned ‘the cycle of life’ and how reassuring it was that new life replaces the old. Some people commented on how remembering this ‘bigger picture’ made it easier not to worry about the day to day trials life can bring.

Explanations and ideas were often accompanied by much gesticulating, as if the group couldn’t quite express what they felt the poem was getting at in words alone. One women made small circles in the air to illustrate her point, whilst another drew lines with her hands above one another to show the ‘different levels’ she felt the poem referred to. One group member finished off the session by stating quite firmly, ‘there’s life and then there’s life, y’know, and this is life.’

All Nature has a Feeling

All nature has a feeling: woods, fields, brooks
Are life eternal; and in silence they
Speak happiness beyond the reach of books;
There’s nothing mortal in them; their decay
Is the green life of change; to pass away
And come again in blooms revivified.
Its birth was heaven, eternal is its stay,
And with the sun and moon shall still abide
Beneath their day and night and heaven wide.

John Clare

As the nights were drawing in before Christmas I read the poem The Night is Darkening Round Me with several of the young people I read with. We loved it as a really atmospheric poem – the descriptions of the dark, wild weather are both exciting and menacing:

I enjoyed reading this poem and feeling the contrast between the wild descriptions and the forceful, insistent repetition: “I cannot go.”

There are so many possibilities to explore from this poem. The different ideas we had about where the person is were interesting and quite contentious! I imagine they are standing outside and unable to go home. A 12year old girl disagreed, saying she thought the person was stuck at home, safe, but unable to go where she needs to. A 14 year old lad suggested:

“it’s a ghost – they don’t feel the weather – but something means they’re stuck haunting that place.”

We tried to work out why the person might be unable to move: are they scared? Are they lost? Do they just love that spot? It conveys a very peculiar but particular state of mind, which is difficult to define and explain.

As well as exploring many possible stories behind the poem, some young people also recognised their own more strange experiences. A girl told me:

“thats like me, maybe something happened or they saw something then focussed on it and zoned out from everything else around.”

The Night Is Darkening Round Me

The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me:
I will not, cannot go.

Emily Bronte

This is a wonderful, warming poem to read on a cold winter’s day. Many people in my Get Into Reading groups in care homes talk about the open fires they had in their homes as children. It seems that ‘the fireside’ was a wonderful place to be, and that it was often the place in the home where families came together to rest, talk, sing and even toast their bread on cold evenings.

This poem captures the idea of the fire as a catalyst for memories and imagination, and also the ever changing nature of the flames which don’t allow thoughts to settle, but ‘flicker and flash’ across the mind before disappearing again.

The Fireside

In the ember’s drowsy glow
Fiery figures come and go,
Quiver into crimson light,
Now a goblin, now a knight,
While the winter wind makes moan
And the clock ticks on and on.
Snatches of mysterious rhymes,
(Fairy lore of nursery times)
Long imprisoned in the brain,
Leap to life and sing again;
Dreams forgotten with the waking,
Thoughts that vanished in the making,
Fancies, memories and moods,
Crowded hours and solitudes,
Ancient fears and old distresses,
Childhood’s wanderings and guesses –
Everything that one remembers
Makes a picture in the embers,
Grows to clearness, flickers, flashes
Burns a moment, then is ashes.

G.F. Bradby

Starting us off is the choice of Lynn Elsdon, Project Worker in Get Into Reading Wirral, who gives us an insight into how one poem can spark off lots of discussion from many different perspectives in a group setting.

I run a Get Into Reading group with recovering addicts, and in my first group after Christmas, I thought I would take along something hopeful. ‘Hope’ by Emily Dickinson really got people talking.

After reading the poem a couple of times, conversation started with people sharing images that had struck them in the poem. Someone liked the idea of hope as a pretty bird ‘that perches in the soul’; another person saw hope as a feathery winged angel in ‘hope is the thing with feathers’. Someone thought it was funny to make something like hope a separate thing from you. We went on to think about what hope means: a few people said that it was something about wanting or imagining better from the future, and faith that things will change. Yet, someone said even if you are completely content, you can still feel hope. Another person responded that it is impossible to feel completely content, that that is unrealistic. A further person said that hope is something basic, fundamental, to being a human being.

After dipping back into the poem, we talked about the idea that hope ‘never stops at all’, that it is always there for us to tap into. A lot of people seemed uplifted by this thought, but one man seemed disturbed. He disagreed. He has been hopeless, and he sees people every day without hope. Another man said to him passionately: still, hope exists even when you can’t feel it! That hope is survival. But the first person stuck to his guns, saying no, there have been times in his life when he has survived just going through the motions, hopelessly. I re-read the lines, ‘And sore must be the storm / that could abash the little bird / that kept so many warm’, and wondered about the word abash. We talked about how that word makes hope sound vulnerable to being knocked, and dampened. The man who was doubtful about the constancy of hope said that perhaps sometimes hope can be dormant but never fully destroyed, that you have to wait and hope it will come back.

We laughed at how we all kept using the word hope as we were talking without realising it, and we were surprised by how commonly used it is in everyday speech. One man re-read the last lines, ‘and never, in extremity, / It asked a crumb of me’, saying it was his favourite bit. He thought there was something very hopeful in it.

Hope Is The Thing With Feathers

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.

Emily Dickinson

Woods in Winter – Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Many of us might have indulged a little too much to feel like moving from the comfort of the sofa but a bracing walk in a winter wonderland has its upsides too – even with ‘chill airs and wintry winds’ there’s still goodness to be found…

The Sleigh-Bells – Susanna Moodie

It’s a little late for Santa’s sleigh now but this conjures up gorgeous images of dashing through the snow (if there is any) – surely it’s the only way to ride…

Snow – Archibald Lampman

The white stuff that falls from the sky divides opinion – some rejoice to see it, others pray it will go away swiftly. Whether or not it’s been a white Christmas, this poem provides a very pretty poetic picture.

Behold, as Goblins Dark of Mien – Robert Louis Stevenson

Pantomimes are part and parcel of a traditional British Christmas; this one is slightly dark in tone but fear not – its goblins are tempered with Fairy Queens…

The Sorcerer’s Song – W.S. Gilbert

What is the Christmas season if not filled with magic? And there’s tons of it here…

The Palace of Humbug – Lewis Carroll

If you’re rather tired of endless Christmas parties then you may be amused to read this poem. Humbug isn’t just the domain of Ebenezer Scrooge…

One Year Ago – jots what? – Emily Dickinson

Twelve months seems like a lot but really, it goes really quite rapidly indeed – as Emily Dickinson observes.

New Year’s Chimes – Francis Thompson

This poem is a veritable feast for the senses with all its superb sights and singing sounds. There’s no better way to close the year and see in the new one with a song – or indeed “with a million songs as song of one.”

A Song for New Year’s Eve – William Cullen Bryant

Keeping on the musical theme – a merry way to welcome the New Year. “The good old year is with the past; Oh be the new as kind!”

Song of Hope – Thomas Hardy

All of us go into a New Year with renewed hope for the future. This poem by Hardy sings out with hope for a tomorrow with a hope that is gleaming “dimmed by no gray”. Surely the best outlook to approach 2012.

The first selection is thoroughly and unashamedly all about Christmas itself, with plenty of treats to choose from. Enjoy.

Christmas Fancies – Ella Wheeler Wilcox

A lovely poem that signals how the joy of Christmas can overpower the grey gloom of winter and other everyday troubles – is there any happier sound than the Christmas bells ‘pelting the air with silver chimes?’

Ceremonies For Christmas – Robert Herrick

We all have a number of ‘ceremonies’ to perform at this time of year, many of them involving food in abundance. And this poem contains meat, mince pies, plums and beer…(it’ll either make your mouth water or serve as a shopping list)

Voices In The Mist – Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Something of an eerie scenario is set in the still, silent and misty night before Christmas – but happily, Christmas spirit is not absent.

A Hymn on the Nativity of My Savior – Ben Jonson

No Christmas would be complete without a Nativity scene and this is a particularly eloquent portrayal. “Can Man forget this story?” Jonson asks. We can’t possibly argue.

The Burning Babe – Robert Southwell

Another vision of the Nativity; from an onlooker in the cold who is warmed by the bright glow and love emanating from the infant Christ.

Minstrels – William Wordsworth

Christmas is also a time for music – carolling or otherwise. Here, the air is filled with an enchanting Christmas tune played by a group of minstrels and heard by people far and wide.

The Mahogany Tree – William Makepeace Thackeray

Towering or tiny, authentic or artificial – Christmas trees are one of the most cheering sights of the season; and here, the ideal gathering point for many a Christmas get-together.

This Section Is A Christmas Tree – Vachel Lindsay

Another ode to the Christmas tree – this one loaded with lots of lovely delights and pretty toys…

Christmas In India – Rudyard Kipling

One for globetrotters or perhaps those who fancy escaping the fierce winter chill – a celebration of Christmas in a far hotter clime…

Love Came Down At Christmas – Christina Rossetti

Many different emotions can come to characterise Christmas (not all of them good…), but Christina Rossetti reminds of the one that overrides them all – love.

One of the most recent studies exploring exactly what wonders reading can do comes from an incredibly prestigious source – and has unearthed some astonishing and really quite heartening results . Research carried out by Oxford University has found that poetry is not just, as John Keats would put it, a Thing of Beauty, but also acts as a comforter, makes us feel better and significantly shapes our sense of self and identity; all factors which most certainly count for a lot. In particular it’s the poems that come from our childhood and early adulthood – and especially those we’ve read so much that we’ve committed them firmly to memory and can recite them off by heart – that offer the most consolation to us; and in this way and others, they contribute to making us who we are. Remarkable stuff indeed. The findings of the Oxford study have been backed up by very similar research from the School of Psychology and Clinical Language Sciences at the University of Reading which is looking into the relationship between poetry and memory and specifically, the ways that people remember poems that are personally significant to them. Head researcher Dr Clare Rathbone has identified that poetry that is so well known it could almost be part of our DNA is strongly centred in our individual ‘reminiscence bumps’ – the memories that each of us can most readily recall. Such memories are ingrained into our very beings, and such findings are testament to the ability of poetry to eke them out; most certainly they support the incredibly vital work The Reader Organisation does reading and sharing poems with dementia patients.

It’s not so surprising to discover that poems we know inside out through frequent reading and recitation, ones that we cherish and have poured so much meaning – and of ourselves – into should figure so vividly in our minds and memories, but the fact that collections of words and created images are quite so significant that they connect to or entirely supersede other reminiscences and recollections is quite extraordinary in itself. I know I can let major events pass me by without so much as a second thought months or years down the line (and don’t even attempt to test my long-gone learning of history, science or the solar system), but a line, lyric or vision of a scene glimpsed for a moment can remain as crystal clear as when they first occurred or were happened upon. Summarising what I’d suspect is a rather common occurrence when it comes to what our brain retains is Thomas Bailey Aldrich, in a poem short, sweet and succinct enough to be able to easily commit to memory – which is quite handy, considering.

Memory

My mind lets go a thousand things,
Like dates of wars and deaths of kings,
And yet recalls the very hour–
‘Twas noon by yonder village tower,
And on the last blue noon in May–
The wind came briskly up this way,
Crisping the brook beside the road;
Then, pausing here, set down its load
Of pine-scents, and shook listlessly
Two petals from that wild-rose tree.

Thomas Bailey Aldrich (1836-1907)

It does seem to be the case that here in the UK, we have a special affinity with our canine cohorts (I confess to being a little bit biased in this instance, as I am most definitely a dog lover); indeed, one of our national symbols is the rather grumpy looking but dependable and big-softy deep down British Bulldog – when you combine those qualities, it’s almost too accurate that the bulldog should stand to represent the general character of the country. And of course, there’s the undeniable and particularly endearing fact that we just love an underdog (although top dogs are entirely welcome too). The dog was the first animal to have quite literally come into our homes; our relationship with them dates back over some 10,000 years and the bond between hounds and humans is one forged long before any other, becoming ever stronger and certainly with no sign of being severed. The title of ‘man’s best friend’ could surely not be seriously contested by any other creature on earth. Dogs are not only very good friends to poets but also have proven to be their muses in quite a few cases. A great number of poets have produced carefully crafted odes dedicated to dogs; some are enough to bring forth a tear from even the most resolute eyes – thinking in particular of The Power of the Dog by Rudyard Kipling, Epitaph to a Dog by Lord Byron and Fidelity by William Wordsworth, all deeply emotional pieces which are testament to the love and everlasting loyalty dogs provide.

For all the named and anonymous dogs in literature, there is perhaps one that is more famous than all the rest – almost as famed as its literary owner. Flush was a cocker spaniel given to Elizabeth Barrett Browning by author and fellow dog lover Mary Russell Mitford as a gift to relieve the grief Elizabeth felt at the death of her beloved brother in 1840. Flush certainly performed this task well – the poem in particular showing to great effect his patience, quiet comfort and affection. He was not only decorated in this eponymous poem – which many dog owners will find mirrors their own experiences with much-loved mutts – but in another sonnet, Flush or Faunus, was mentioned in letters by both Elizabeth and her future husband Robert Browning (with Robert making reference to Flush during the couple’s courtship) and eventually would have a whole book written about him by Virginia Woolf. Proof that every dog really does have its day.

To Flush, My Dog

Loving friend, the gift of one,
Who, her own true faith, hath run,
Through thy lower nature;
Be my benediction said
With my hand upon thy head,
Gentle fellow-creature!

Like a lady’s ringlets brown,
Flow thy silken ears adown
Either side demurely,
Of thy silver-suited breast
Shining out from all the rest
Of thy body purely.

Darkly brown thy body is,
Till the sunshine, striking this,
Alchemize its dulness, —
When the sleek curls manifold
Flash all over into gold,
With a burnished fulness.

Underneath my stroking hand,
Startled eyes of hazel bland
Kindling, growing larger, —
Up thou leapest with a spring,
Full of prank and curvetting,
Leaping like a charger.

Leap! thy broad tail waves a light;
Leap! thy slender feet are bright,
Canopied in fringes.
Leap — those tasselled ears of thine
Flicker strangely, fair and fine,
Down their golden inches

Yet, my pretty sportive friend,
Little is ’t to such an end
That I praise thy rareness!
Other dogs may be thy peers
Haply in these drooping ears,
And this glossy fairness.

But of thee it shall be said,
This dog watched beside a bed
Day and night unweary, —
Watched within a curtained room,
Where no sunbeam brake the gloom
Round the sick and dreary.

Roses, gathered for a vase,
In that chamber died apace,
Beam and breeze resigning —
This dog only, waited on,
Knowing that when light is gone,
Love remains for shining.

Other dogs in thymy dew
Tracked the hares and followed through
Sunny moor or meadow —
This dog only, crept and crept
Next a languid cheek that slept,
Sharing in the shadow.

Other dogs of loyal cheer
Bounded at the whistle clear,
Up the woodside hieing —
This dog only, watched in reach
Of a faintly uttered speech,
Or a louder sighing.

And if one or two quick tears
Dropped upon his glossy ears,
Or a sigh came double, —
Up he sprang in eager haste,
Fawning, fondling, breathing fast,
In a tender trouble.

And this dog was satisfied,
If a pale thin hand would glide,
Down his dewlaps sloping, —
Which he pushed his nose within,
After, — platforming his chin
On the palm left open.

This dog, if a friendly voice
Call him now to blyther choice
Than such chamber-keeping,
“Come out!” praying from the door, —
Presseth backward as before,
Up against me leaping.

Therefore to this dog will I,
Tenderly not scornfully,
Render praise and favour!
With my hand upon his head,
Is my benediction said
Therefore, and for ever.

And because he loves me so,
Better than his kind will do
Often, man or woman,
Give I back more love again
Than dogs often take of men, —
Leaning from my Human.

Blessings on thee, dog of mine,
Pretty collars make thee fine,
Sugared milk make fat thee!
Pleasures wag on in thy tail —
Hands of gentle motion fail
Nevermore, to pat thee!

Downy pillow take thy head,
Silken coverlid bestead,
Sunshine help thy sleeping!
No fly’s buzzing wake thee up —
No man break thy purple cup,
Set for drinking deep in.

Whiskered cats arointed flee —
Sturdy stoppers keep from thee
Cologne distillations;
Nuts lie in thy path for stones,
And thy feast-day macaroons
Turn to daily rations!

Mock I thee, in wishing weal ? —
Tears are in my eyes to feel
Thou art made so straightly,
Blessing needs must straighten too, —
Little canst thou joy or do,
Thou who lovest greatly.

Yet be blessed to the height
Of all good and all delight
Pervious to thy nature, —
Only loved beyond that line,
With a love that answers thine,
Loving fellow-creature!

Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861)

Out of a vast menagerie of pets and cuddly (or otherwise) creatures that can share our homes and hearts, there are two faithful friends that seem to stand out from the crowd. Indeed, even if we don’t have one ourselves, we’re categorised by our preferences for one or the other (although, the rivalry is not quite as strong as that between reds and blues). Yes, each of us is either firmly a cat or dog person; a feline fan or a canine enthusiast. First off, we’ll take the side of the cat lovers and pay homage to moggies both slinky, sleek and slightly more dishevelled, mysterious and mischievous, lithe and lazy – but all loving. Not to mention the fact that those nine lives come in very handy – and with the amount of literary cats lurking on pages, with their lives combined surely they’re immortal. Of course, the king of literary cat lovers has to be T.S Eliot, accompanied by his collection of Practical Cats including Shimbleshanks, Macavity and Mr. Mistoffelees (is there any greater name for a feline? If so I don’t think I’ve heard it). And another quite lovely poetic portrait of a puss – one that we’ve picked out especially to celebrate everything about cats – was created by one of Eliot’s closest friends, Harold Monro. From last week’s makers of honey we move on to a consumer of milk – and this cat certainly is on a mission, setting the ‘full moon’ white saucer firmly in its sights. Despite its rather one track mind about one of the most primitive needs in life, this poem is a wonderfully evocative snapshot of a kitty; one you can’t really help falling in love with, cat person or not. Not to mention that I’m sure most of us envy leading such a charmed life fulfilled by simple pleasure, and would rather like to swap places being curled up and the epitome of cosiness on these rather chilly nights…

Milk for the Cat

When the tea is brought at five o’clock,
And all the neat curtains are drawn with care,
The little black cat with bright green eyes
Is suddenly purring there.

At first she pretends, having nothing to do,
She has come in merely to blink by the grate,
But, though tea may be late or the milk may be sour,
She is never late.

And presently her agate eyes
Take a soft large milky haze,
And her independent casual glance
Becomes a stiff, hard gaze.

Then she stamps her claws or lifts her ears,
Or twists her tail and begins to stir,
Till suddenly all her lithe body becomes
One breathing, trembling purr.

The children eat and wriggle and laugh;
The two old ladies stroke their silk:
But the cat is grown small and thin with desire,
Transformed to a creeping lust for milk.

The white saucer like some full moon descends
At last from the clouds of the table above;
She sighs and dreams and thrills and glows,
Transfigured with love.

She nestles over the shining rim,
Buries her chin in the creamy sea;
Her tail hangs loose; each drowsy paw
Is doubled under each bending knee.

A long, dim ecstasy holds her life;
Her world is an infinite shapeless white,
Till her tongue has curled the last holy drop,
Then she sinks back into the night,

Draws and dips her body to heap
Her sleepy nerves in the great arm-chair,
Lies defeated and buried deep
Three or four hours unconscious there.

Harold Monro (1879-1932)

On first thought, it’s perhaps rather strange that out of all the creatures on Planet Earth, it is the bee that should be incorporated so seamlessly into a phrase defining what it means to be unstoppably busy. But actually, giving it greater consideration, there is no other creature that is truly busier, more endlessly hardworking and productive – all this as well as being amazingly efficient too; so our furry, buzzing friends most certainly deserve the title. (Fun, fascinating and really rather relevant fact: the simile ‘as busy as a bee’ was derived from Chaucer in The Squire’s Tale: “Lo, suche sleightes and subtilitees/In wommen be; for ay as busy as bees/Be thay us seely men for to desceyve,/And from a soth ever a lie thay weyve.”) Even when our workloads are at their heaviest, they don’t come a fraction close in comparing to that of bees, either in scale of output of importance of impact upon the world; as we rush about with our day-to-day tasks those incredible insects are almost single-handedly saving our environment, yet in an ironic twist the very same environment is rapidly turning against them. Yet through all the adversity that stacks up against them they battle on, providing us much bigger beings with an admirable example of work ethics – as well as more besides. What’s more, literature has long held bees in high regard; their immortalisation certainly didn’t begin and end with Chaucer. Emily Dickinson, Sylvia Plath, Rudyard Kipling, W.S Merwin, Ralph Waldo Emerson; all have paid tribute to the small but strong, hardy and humble bee. They’re so influential in the literary world that there’s even been a whole lecture dedicated to bee poetry – almost un-bee-lievable (yes, we’ll stop with the puns now). Adding to the wealth of bee-related material with her latest anthology – entitled The Bees – is Carol Ann Duffy, a work praising and striving to protect, at least in verse, the world of the bee. And as if to show recognition to the subject as much as to the poet, the anthology has been nominated for a Costa Book Award (as has The Unforgotten Coat).

So to further salute our ‘winged saviours’ – and to give anyone who might need to be shaken out of procrastination a shining example and boost to get busy (without unleashing an actual sting) – is yet another poetic ode to the simple but significant work that the bee carries out by Isaac Watts. We can ponder their painstaking process with awe and perhaps feel inadequate next to their labouring – especially when ‘mischief’ is made for our ‘idle hands’ – but rest assured, if we keep consistently busy – as much as our individual stamina levels will allow, on a scaled-down level to that of the little busy bee – eventually, we’ll get our pot of honey (or some other kind of reward, if you’re not keen on the nectar).

How Doth the Little Busy Bee

How doth the little busy bee
Improve each shining hour,
And gather honey all the day
From every opening flower!

How skilfully she builds her cell!
How neat she spreads the wax!
And labours hard to store it well
With the sweet food she makes.

In works of labour or of skill,
I would be busy too;
For Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.

In books, or work, or healthful play,
Let my first years be passed,
That I may give for every day
Some good account at last.

Isaac Watts (1674-1748)