Call this the body’s way of taking sides;
a mouth that’s full of pennies when I wake,
my silver tongue turned copper. Rareified,
I speak, become acquainted with the ache.
It’s not the pressure, but the lack of it -
Not what remains, but what it represents.
The hole, where Charon’s coin no longer fits,
Half in, half out. The half-crown badly spent.
Or, if you like, think of the angered prince
Who, finding his prayers bootless, lost his head
And tore the wooden idol from its plinth
To find himself a millionaire instead.
I’m rolling in it. I’m Midas’ daughter.
My currency is blood, is gold, is water.
Of the attack, he tells me: ‘Oh, most upsetting. But I shall be writing about it in my diaries.’
This is a horrible thing, but that apron is so cute.
Oh dear lord. Best. Photograph. Ever.
Heirloom - Sufjan Stevens
I think that this is my favourite track from the new Sufjan Stevens EP, although ‘Arnika’ comes a close second. He always seems to write the most exquisite love-songs; delicate without being precious, original without being affected. I like the new EP a lot although it took a couple of listens - it sounds less like his other stuff, and more like a combination of The Magnetic Fields and Of Montreal, despite having the Sufjan trademarks of miniature epics/full orchestras/heavenly choirs.
STRAWBERRIES
There were never strawberries
like the ones we had
that sultry afternoon
sitting on the step
of the open french window
facing each other
your knees held in mine
the blue plates in our laps
the strawberries glistening
in the hot sunlight
we dipped them in sugar
looking at each other
not hurrying the feast
for one to come
the empty plates
laid on the stone together
with the two forks crossed
and I bent towards you
sweet in that air
in my arms
abandoned like a child
from your eager mouth
the taste of strawberries
in my memory
lean back again
let me love you
let the sun beat
on our forgetfulness
one hour of all
the heat intense
and summer lightning
on the Kilpatrick hills
let the storm wash the plates
There are so many things I have forgot,
That once were much to me, or that were not,
All lost, as is a childless woman’s child
And its child’s children, in the undefiled
Abyss of what will never be again.
I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men
That fought and lost or won in the old wars,
Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.
Some things I have forgot that I forget.
But lesser things there are remembered yet
Than all the others. One name that I have not -
Though ‘tis an empty, thingless name - forgot
Never can die because Spring after Spring
Some thrushes learn to say it as they sing.
There is always one at midday saying it clear
And tart - the name, only the name I hear.
While perhaps I am thinking of the elder scent
That is like food; or while I am content
With the wild rose scent that is like memory,
This name suddenly is cried out to me
From somewhere in the bushes by a bird
Over and over again, a pure thrush word.
After saying that Philip Larkin’s ‘The Trees’ was my favourite poem, I must admit that this is my other favourite poem - a joint favourite, if you like, ignoring the fact that ‘favourite’ is the superlative! I remember reading this at school when a friend was studying Thomas and copying it out to keep in my pencil case - a slightly battered piece of paper which I found the other day. But that’s what this poem is, one of those moments of absolute, piercing beauty that you carry with you everywhere you go, whether physically, as in the case of my pencil case, or mentally.
What catches me every time I read this poem is the sheer sadness of it. It is a poem that contains much beauty - ‘the wild rose scent that is like memory’ - but underneath that, the anguish is almost unbearable. This is a sonnet that is about memory - what we are supposed to remember, and what actually lingers. There is a proper poetic term for this, I know, but just look how Thomas reverses our expectations, so that the things one is supposed to remember,
I have forgot, too, names of the mighty men
That fought and lost or won in the old wars,
Of kings and fiends and gods, and most of the stars.
are the things which slip away - something which is very true. What really strikes a chord with me, however, is the speaker’s almost-frustration with the recurrence of one particular memory, triggered by the name, ‘an empty, thingless name’, a name which has ceased to correspond with a living thing, whether this is because the named one has died (which could be suggested by ‘Never can die, Spring after Spring’) or because those things which used to be associated with that name, like a relationship, have ceased to be. On a grammatical note, I’ve always appreciated the word ‘thingless’ for its rather Biblical weight as well as its fitting use - again, one can see it as being evidence of the death of the named one, but it’s also a good word to use in relation to memory because it implies that the subject of the name lives on only in the memory, without form or substance. The whole idea of the ‘empty, thingless name’ reminds me of this strange little poem by Larkin, again about memory - although this case, the unconscious memory accessed in dreams (although, I suppose one could argue that by being forced to recall the memory by the thrush-song, Thomas’ memory is in some way unconscious as well):
Why did I dream of you last night?
Now morning is pushing back hair with grey light
Memories strike home, like slaps in the face;
Raised on elbow, I stare at the pale fog
beyond the window.
So many things I had thought forgotten
Return to my mind with stranger pain:
- Like letters that arrive addressed to someone
Who left the house so many years ago.
As for the thrush ‘saying’ the name - the calls of some birds do sound very much like words, as anyone who lives in the country can tell you. Whether the ‘pure thrush word’ is actually the name of the loved one or just a sound that reminds Thomas of the loved one - I think I probably favour the former interpretation - it’s clear that the thrush, the symbol of new life, surrounded by nature which constantly refreshes and reinterprets itself, persists - as Larkin wrote in ‘An Arundel Tomb’ (sarcastically I fear, but ignore that for the present), ‘what will survive of us is love’.
when you have the idea for something fully-formed in your head, you just can’t quite find the right words to get it onto paper.
In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates:
Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,
Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness,
Rembrant looks relieved as if he were taking a breather
from painting The Blinding of Sampson.
But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror
and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio
addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.
He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.
You can only wonder what it would be like
to be wearing such a chandelier on your head
as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.
But once you see this hat there is no need to read
any biography of Goya or to memorize his dates.
To understand Goya you only have to imagine him
lighting the candles one by one, then placing
the hat on his head, ready for a night of work.
Imagine him surprising his wife with his new invention,
the laughing like a birthday cake when she saw the glow.
Imagine him flickering through the rooms of his house
with all the shadows flying across the walls.
Imagine a lost traveler knocking on his door
one dark night in the hill country of Spain.
“Come in, ” he would say, “I was just painting myself,”
as he stood in the doorway holding up the wand of a brush,
illuminated in the blaze of his famous candle hat.
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone:
However the sky grows dark with invitation-cards
However we follow the printed directions of sex
However the family is photographed under the flag-staff -
Beyond all this, the wish to be alone.
Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs:
Despite the artful tensions of the calendar,
The life insurance, the tabled fertility rites,
The costly aversion of the eyes away from death -
Beneath it all, the desire for oblivion runs.
