As I remarked last Sunday, I came across an article on A. E. Housman in The New Yorker and, so to speak, it kicked me in the shins and reminded me how, as a young schoolboy, I had been rather taken with his poetry. Alas, adolescence and all that sort of thing filled my mind with lower thoughts although, about 20 odd years ago, I did go to see Stoppard's brilliant play 'The Invention of Love' based on Housman's life and even wrote about it here in 2011. Anyway, as I am feeling a bit 'crook' today I thought I would give you all a bit of a taster of his poetry and from time to time I will drop a few more before you.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
Now, of my threescore years and ten,
Twenty will not come again,
And take from seventy springs a score,
It only leaves me fifty more.
And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.
This next poem was written well before WWI but for those who lived through it the resonance is palpable. For the benefit of my foreign readers Ludlow is the ancient county town of Shropshire.
THE RECRUIT
Leave your home behind, lad,
And reach your friends your hand,
And go, and luck go with you
While Ludlow tower shall stand.
Oh, come you home of Sunday
When Ludlow streets are still
And Ludlow bells are calling
To farm and lane and mill,
Or come you home of Monday
When Ludlow market hums
And Ludlow chimes are playing
"The conquering hero comes,"
Come you home a hero,
Or come not home at all,
The lads you leave will mind you
Till Ludlow tower shall fall.
And you will list the bugle
That blows in lands of morn,
And make the foes of England
Be sorry you were born.
And you till trump of doomsday
On lands of morn may lie,
And make the hearts of comrades
Be heavy where you die.
Leave your home behind you,
Your friends by field and town
Oh, town and field will mind you
Till Ludlow tower is down.
http://www.ludlow.org.uk/
From the write up, the history and size of the town plus it's perfect location would suit me to a tee. Must check the fishing there.
Posted by: Whitewall | Friday, 14 July 2017 at 15:44
It is nice to see we do not disagree about everything. Your taste in poetry is not dissimilar from mine. As to Stoppard, I prefer Rosencrantz And Guildenstern Are Dead, but Tomáš Straussler, is nevertheless a witty and able playwright. And one of your finer imports.
Posted by: Peter G | Friday, 14 July 2017 at 16:14
A very attractive town, Whiters, and surrounded by superb countryside. Alas, I can't speak for the fish!
Well, I have been exceedingly lucky, PeterG, to have directed three of his plays. I just wish I had done more.
Posted by: David Duff | Friday, 14 July 2017 at 17:29
Even for me it's clear why Houseman would appeal to the English. A favorite composer, George Butterworth, is best known for his orchestral interpretations of 'A Shropshire Lad'. This piece is accompanied by a slideshow of English countryside and WWI scenes:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z_3vu5Xp-dM
Posted by: Bob | Friday, 14 July 2017 at 19:52
Thanks for that, Bob.
Posted by: David Duff | Friday, 14 July 2017 at 20:16
George Butterworth's name is one of the thousands on the Menin Gate.
Posted by: The Jannie | Saturday, 15 July 2017 at 09:19
Duffers Ludlow is indeed a thoroughly delightful place and I understand something of a foodie destination of choice but the country town is Shrewsbury, pronounced Shrowesbury.
It also happens to be only a few miles from the Burgers ancestral home.
Posted by: Cuffleyburgers | Sunday, 16 July 2017 at 09:17
Cuffers, I have given myself a hundred lines!
Posted by: David Duff | Sunday, 16 July 2017 at 14:54
David, in your condition, can you manage 100 lines?
Posted by: Whitewall | Sunday, 16 July 2017 at 15:29