More Housman plus a good book recommendation

Honestly, ladies and gentlemen, this truly is the blog that keeps on giving and I trust you are all duly grateful, er, the usual 'readies' in the usual plain brown envelopes will be much appreciated.  Mind you, I must confess to feeling uneasy with that creepy coincidence-thingie yet again.  You see, I was looking forward to providing you all with another of Housman's apparently simple but actually complex poems but before doing so I decided to check in at the superb Arts & Letters Daily site where I found the original article that set off my Housman enthusiasm again.  Blow me down, there was another article, this time from the 'WaPo' by Michael Dirda on a recently published book on Housman and his poetry.

 

I think it is fair to say that Mr. Dirda gives the author, Peter Parker, a rave revue.  As does Robert Douglas-Fairhurst in a revue written for The Spectator a year ago - how the hell did I miss that one?!

I was intending to place a 'yuuuuuge', bold, nudge-nudge  in capitals in the direction of 'SoD' to help guide him in choosing a suitable Xmas gift for his dear old Dad but, bugger it, I can't wait that long, I'll buy the book today on my Kindle.  In the meantime, here is another, somewhat ghoulish example, of Housman's work and yes, you're right, he's not strong on humour!

On moonlit heath and lonesome bank
The sheep beside me graze;
And yon the gallows used to clank
Fast by the four cross ways.

A careless shepherd once would keep
The flocks by moonlight there, (1)
And high amongst the glimmering sheep
The dead man stood on air.

They hang us now in Shrewsbury jail:
The whistles blow forlorn,
And trains all night groan on the rail
To men that die at morn.

There sleeps in Shrewsbury jail to-night,
Or wakes, as may betide,
A better lad, if things went right,
Than most that sleep outside.

And naked to the hangman's noose
The morning clocks will ring
A neck God made for other use
Than strangling in a string.

And sharp the link of life will snap,
And dead on air will stand
Heels that held up as straight a chap
As treads upon the land.

So here I'll watch the night and wait
To see the morning shine,
When he will hear the stroke of eight
And not the stroke of nine;

And wish my friend as sound a sleep
As lads' I did not know,
That shepherded the moonlit sheep
A hundred years ago.

(1) Hanging in chains was called keeping sheep by moonlight.

 

Comments

[Whitewall]

When I saw that photo, the first thing I did was sneeze!

[AussieD]

Bloody cheerful stuff you picked Duffers.

[Whitewall]

AussieD, David is still wondering "who he is", I can almost see him searching under those hay stacks...before taking to the ground with a book. He does dress funny!

[David Duff]

Well, AussieD, Housman is not exactly noted for his wit which tended to the mordant!

[mike fowle]

By coincidence, I was in Shropshire when you posted this, calling at Ludlow and Shrewsbury. My first visit to this picturesque county. What struck me as we searched for the unmarked track which led to our holiday accommodation (and searched) was that in the distance the hills were indeed blue, as in

"Into my heart an air that kills
From yon far country blows:
What are those blue remembered hills,
What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,
I see it shining plain,
The happy highways where I went
And cannot come again."

That gave Nevil Shute the title for his novel The Far Country.

[David Duff]

I wonder if you stayed at the same (excellent) B&B as we did a couple of years back where, on their literature, they emphasised that if you relied on satnav the post code would send you somewhere completely different. But you're right, Mike, Shropshire is gorgeous - as is that poem.

[mike fowle]

No, we stayed in a self catering converted farm outbuilding. Our sat nav if we went wrong wouldn't tell us to turn around but searched for a route back to the correct one, which often involved driving down extremely narrow and bumpy tracks, desperately hoping not to meet anything. I liked the industrial revolution stuff, including a brilliant presentation at a place called Blists Hill, at Ironbridge, where in a large darkened room there were projections on all four walls of dramatic videos of mining and smelting, with appropriate music. One thing I learned in Salop is that David Austin Roses are at a place called Albrighton - but there are two Albrightons, and naturally we went to the wrong one.

[David Duff]

"there are two Albrightons, and naturally we went to the wrong one"

Typical bloody English countryside! And yes, the Ironbridge area is fascinating.