This month, after a month of lovely romantic 19th century poetry, I am going to read some modern poetry form Geoffrey Grigson, Edwin Muir & Adrian Stokes. Grigson was born in 1905, literary editor, worked for BBC and in publishing. He also wrote many books including Notes from an Odd Country and a study on flowers and plants in The Englishman’s Flora. 📚 Muir was a famous Scottish poet born in 1887. He worked for the British Council in Edinburgh, then in Prague and later in Rome. Later he also taught at Harvard, but writing poetry was always a constant thing. 📚 Stokes was born in London in 1902 , he was a painter and writer and lived in Italy for a while and then back in the UK. Most famous for his books about art, including The Quattro Cento (the four hundred)… The cover of this book made me think of a very wild but great artist whom I admire for his staying true to himself no matter what others thought; and that was Jackson Pollock. His art was negatively received in the beginning but he refused to follow trends and finally he became famous for his own true expressions. Not only that but thanks to him other doors were opened when it came to freedom in art. He struggled with alcoholism and died in car accident at age 44. His art goes really well with the writings of these passionate poets who also changed the way people looked at poetry.
“Since I emerged that day from the labyrinth,
Dazed with the tall and echoing passages,
The swift recoils, so many I almost feared
I’d meet myself returning at some smooth corner,
Myself or my ghost, for all there was unreal
After the straw ceased rustling and the bull
Lay dead upon the straw and I remained,
Blood-splashed, if dead or alive I could not tell
In the twilight nothingness (I might have been
A spirit seeking his body through the roads
Of intricate Hades) – ever since I came out
To the world, the still fields swift with flowers, the trees
All bright with blossom, the little green hills, the sea,
The sky and all in movement under it,
Shepherds and flocks and birds and the young and old,
(I stared in wonder at the young and the old,
For in the maze time had not been with me;
I had strayed, it seemed, past sun and season and change,
Past rest and motion, for I could not tell
At last if I moved or stayed; the maze itself
Revolved around me on its hidden axis
And swept me smoothly to its enemy,
The lovely world) – since I came out that day,
There have been times when I have heard my footsteps
Still echoing in the maze, and all the roads
That run through the noisy world, deceiving streets
That meet and part and meet, and rooms that open
Into each other – and never a final room –
Stairways and corridors and antechambers
That vacantly wait for some great audience,
That smooth sea-tracks that open and close again,
Tracks undiscoverable, undecipherable,
Paths on the earth and tunnels underground,
And bird-tracks in the air – all seemed apart
Of the great labyrinth. And then I’d stumble
In sudden blindness, hasten, almost run,
As if the maze itself were after me.
And soon must catch me up. But taking thought,
I’d tell to myself, ʻYou need not hurry. This
Is the firm good earth. All roads lie free before you’.
But my bad spirit would sneer, ʻNo, do not hurry.
No need to hurry. Haste and delay are equal
In this one world, for there’s no exit, none,
No place to come to, and you’ll end where you are,
Deep in the centre of the endless maze’.
I could not live if this were not illusion.
It is a world, perhaps; but there’s another.
For once in a dream or trance I saw the gods
Each sitting on the top of his mountain-isle,
While down below the little ships sailed by,
Toy multitudes swarmed in the harbours, shepherds drove
Their tiny flocks to the pastures, marriage feasts
Went on below, small birthdays and holidays,
Ploughing and harvesting and life and death,
And all permissible, all acceptable,
Clear and secure as in a limpid dream.
But they, the gods, as large and bright as clouds,
Conversed across the sounds in tranquil voices
High in the sky above the untroubled sea,
And their eternal dialogue was peace
Where all these things were woven, and this our life
Was a chord deep in that dialogue,
As easy utterance of harmonious words,
Spontaneous syllables bodying forth a world.
That was the real world; I have touched it once,
And now shall know it always. But the lie,
The maze, the wild-wood waste of falsehood, roads
That run and run and never reach an end,
Embowered in error – I’d be prisoned there
But that my soul has bird wings to fly free.
Oh these deceits are strong almost as life.
Last night I dreamt I was in the labyrinth,
And woke far on. I did not know the place.
The Labyrinth – Muir.