An Early Harvest

Over the past days it's been raining, and I've largely holed myself up in the apartment. When I did go out for a brisk running of errands, though, the temperatures were that splendid medium between hot and cold where one can go for a walk in fresh, cool air, and come home perfectly free of perspiration and feeling as snug, to use the vernacular, as a bug in a rug. Duly inspired, I wrote a poem about autumn mornings last night, setting myself back into our garden in Canada, and I am extremely fond of the verse, though it could no doubt do with much polishing and it is quite long.

What bothers me about my poetry is that I haven't a "voice" of my own yet. When I was little I was adept at picking up on archetypes (abandoned tower on a moor, etc.) even with minimal exposure to poems, and I have a reasonably good ear, but on the whole too much of the resultant verse is unoriginal. It turns out that when I'm writing a poem about a proxy subject, it tends to be the most compelling; for instance, my best (though uneven) poem is probably still "Tale of the Donkey," which is nominally about the dreary fate of a beast of burden in an indeterminate European town, but which indirectly expresses my own misery (when I was in school). Usually, however, I like merely to describe things as vividly as possible for their own sake, though it might not be very pointful. Anyway, my favourite verse form so far is reasonably long lines, in condensed language, that have a vague rhythm, more like a beat. But, of course, the form can vary wildly according to the subject and how I want to handle it.

Here is a poem (written on Dec. 27th, 2007) in which I describe a winter painting by Bruegel the Elder. I've often wanted to post it, and will do so now à propos of my versifying efforts. This may sound peculiar, but while writing the poem I felt as if I were really plunging into the scene, and as if Brueghel had almost painted the wind and the sounds and the smells of the landscape.

Rimmed with snow that cloaks the roofs
the brick houses hold the warmth of the hearth
as their inhabitants gather behind it
to stoke a fire of branches that steams away in the freezing air
and melts the sullied snow around it.
The flames shine clearly, the ash-flakes rise quickly,
and the sap in the branches crackles lightly.
The women bend over in their dark black dresses
and warm their light blue aprons as they prod the sticks.

Around and above them the leafless trees
stand as sentinels, thinly lined with the remaining snow,
as birds perch on the branches and twitter companionably,
then, bracing for the spring,
launch themselves into a swooping flight into the chill breeze.

Three hunters plod by the women unseeingly,
in boots, grey leggings and cloaks, and black hats.
Silent, distant from each other,
they balance long poles on their shoulder,
and ignore the unruly brown hounds that are frolicking along behind.

Below them the snow-clad slope runs deep into the valley;
the river is frozen in a clear grey,
encasing the piers of a rude stone bridge
that unites a huddle of homes.

Townsmen wander down the watercourse,
bowed over with the cold,
and they congregate on the vast icy lakes
to meet and play and shout.

They are out in the open.
Though behind them their earth-tinted homes and church are scattered
and the gentle smoke of their fires rises and mingles with the air,
the landscape swallows all.
Everywhere crests of gloomy trees run in irregular quadrangles,
the snowy fields spread near and far,
jagged peaks of rock pierce through the placid soil
and with their height put all other prominences into small perspective;
and the river winds on to infinity
as the winter sky, menacing and dark, broods upon the scene.

(An image of the painting is available here.)

Anyway, the other work in the past week of which I am considerably proud is a round mat to put under hot pots and pans. It was constructed out of corn husks (left over from dinner), and I toiled for many hours and broke three needles. A pair of pliers was often needed to pull the needle through the fibres, and the mat looked ludicrously pitiful at first, but now it is a neat little oval of spiralled braid, neatly stitched up in a dull blue thread that suits the pale green-gold of the corn husks beautifully. Ever since I started reading the Laura Ingalls Wilder books when I was seven or eight, I've had self-sufficiency, making a living off the land, etc., on the brain; but the resultant experiments were generally useless and messy, so it is especially satisfactory to have made something with my own two hands that consists of natural materials, looks reasonably presentable, and is actually useful.

Then there is a mediocre story set in England during the Wars of the Roses, which is tentatively entitled "Castle Besieged." I began writing it in January, and started adding to it again three or four days ago. Now it is 12 1/2 pages long. It is immensely fun to write, not only because of all the action, but also because of the way it is riddled with the hoary conventions of the genre, especially the sad travesty of the medieval idiom. Here is a scene:

[Lord Orthrington] looked again over the battlements and the grass rolling away into the forest, then started and fixed his eye more intently. In the shade of a magnificent oak at the edge of the forest, a soldier was carefully advancing, and a patch of white indicated a flag of truce. In the man's wake came a cloaked, tall and portly figure in which he recognized the Earl of Denby, the foe whose army had been besieging his castle.

An archer on the corner tower caught sight of the pair, too. He glanced over to his master, and made a gesture as if to reach for his bow. The lord shook his head slightly and put his hand out and downwards to signify that the bow should be left where it was. Marian made a movement to leave, but he quietly said, “Draw back a little from the edge, but stay,” without turning his glance from the Earl. He stood, then, wordlessly, waiting for his opponent to begin the parley.

The Earl came to a stop on the other side of the moat. He wheezed and coughed somewhat, but then straightened and met the Lord’s glance squarely and shrewdly. “What ho, milord!” he shouted in stentorian tones.

Lord Orthrington inclined his head. “What brings you to my castle walls?” he asked with a species of grim politeness.

The Earl relieved himself of a roar of laughter and returned, “Y'are a cool host, by'r Lady! But pray let us desist from the preliminaries. After the events of four days since, I am willing to parley with Your Lordship on the matter of our dispute. ‘Tis a dull man knows not when he is beaten.”

“Shall we meet in the plain on the morrow, then?”

“On the plain, you say? To be frank, milord” (the Earl laid an ironic stress on this word, clearly reminding his foe of his inferior rank) “provisions are something scarce in my camp, and as you are eminently well stocked for a far longer siege than we have delivered, I humbly suggest that it be used instead to approvision a joint dinner in these halls. – Only with my head men, of course, for I should not demand that my retinue in its entirety be lodged here. – Your word of honour for our safe conduct is sufficient for any man.”

The Lord drummed his fingers on the stones, frowning in thought, and at last answered, “Your self and ten men, then, shall I bid welcome in my halls. I must remind you that many of my men are friends or kin to those who have been lost, and I will not and cannot answer for the surety of any more.”

“Very well, very well, milord,” returned the Earl. His glance shifted to Marian and he scrutinized her sharply for a moment, then he fleetingly took in the archer on the tower. Almost instantly, however, he turned about without taking care to keep behind the truce flag as he had done before, and then slowly made his way back into the castle, followed by the soldier. One of his virtues was stoicism, and no one could have guessed that an arrow had pierced his foot twelve hours earlier, and that this injury was much inflamed by the chafing of his boot.