Last time I blogged about writing poetry about historical events. I admitted to having a History degree and a continuing fascination with the subject. It’s fairly obvious to anyone who knows that Marston Moor was a battle in the English Civil War, that a poem titled “Marston Moor” is historical. I wrote another poem called “Marie Antoinette”, and that’s a bit of a giveaway too.
But there are more subtle influences, ways in which historical awareness affects what I write just as awareness of landscape does even if the poem is not about landscape.
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Trapped in the hills and hunted down
By hidden bog and avalanche
By haunting wind and wolf, survivors
Stumble beside a clattering stream
Down to the valley of their dream
Where cupping hands bring out bright gold
Trees offer fruit of no known tang
And vivid song as no bird sang
Wakens the travellers from the cold
They name the valley, import the skills
To mine the gold and lay the roads
Till someone heads for other hills.
When no dark ridge is left, the wise
Explore the forests of the mind
And stare in one another’s eyes
Now out of mist on broken lands
What new and treacherous hills will rise?
That’s from the poem “Explorers”. The explorers go through great dangers to find they know not what. They find wonderful things, destroy them over time and move on. I can’t see that I could have written that without awareness of European exploration of other continents – and of the influence of the American West and the impact of the West (in the sense of a borderland of promise and danger for the settlers) ending.
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STONE STEPS
They found some stone around this place:
The pale steps worn by constant feet
Are buried in the wiry grass
And no-one knows who walked on them.
One end is by the river bank;
No sign of other end is left.
Perhaps this curious find is best
Donated to the town museum,
But somehow it seems better still
To leave them where they worked and wore.
Maybe they’re still a bridge of sorts,
Though what to what no-one can guess.
Well, this is a mysterious poem and no doubt not really about what it appears to be about, but the starting point is the historian’s or archaeologist’s curiosity about some remnant or ruin.
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CITY
Something started here
For a reason: the river was fordable
The tracks of cattle drovers drew together
The lie of the land and the weather were right for spinning
A governor found the distance from his palace
Just right for horses. Growth has a beginning.
Those origins are hidden, bulldozed, built on
Reinterpreted in guide-book and in myth
Slums and fine houses grow and are destroyed
The stonework of the bridge lies underwater
The factory’s become a heritage centre
From crumpled streets the tanners and the whores
Have gone but left their memories for a while
In street-names till some government
Dedicated to the pure and nice renamed them after
Generals, or trees that once were said to grow there.
Old stinking alleys strangled for office blocks
Ghostly survive in sections of quiet close
Or shopping trolley dumps round parking lots.
The city forgets; flexes; reinterprets.
People are born and die, the language changes
Suburbs seep out. Some time the city will end
Inventiveness, sweat, tears, frescos swallowed up
Slipping into decline, houses left empty,
Grass in the streets, but here and there a core
Churning more slowly and uncertainly;
Or suddenly in a fire that by scorched shadows
Commemorates the impertinence of daily life.
Unpeopled, not quite dead, the city will still be seen
In humps and ditches against the flow of land
By rumour, legend and a blackened buckle.
That’s from “Six Strands”, my longest poem: I used another bit of the same poem to illustrate how being a long-distance walker had influenced my poetry. The strand here on the city is pretty much all history: an awareness of processes by which cities grow up, change and die, but leave remains that can be interpreted even if all memory of the city has been lost. The picture of decline, for example, owes something to what I know of the last years of the Roman empire in Britain.
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Dust in marble halls, dust of marble halls
Ground jewels, rose roots strike
Lustre withers, slow-burning amethyst escapes
A lost note cries in the dark and I cannot find it
Out of the deathborn mud, worms rise
That’s from “Estuary Shore” and the point here is the intense sense of time, time over such a long period that marble halls are turned to dust, but a sense of renewal and rebirth as well.
I might add some comments next time about History and why I think Ford was wrong (“History is bunk”) about this as well as most other things except how to make money from making cars. But that’ll do for now. Oh, and if that dratted (or mysterious, intriguing) formatting has appeared again – sorry. The controls that should remove it do not work. It appeared one day and will not leave.
Now that is an idea – a poem pretending to be a load of formatting instructions.