Archive for the Literature Category

The Character of a Happy Life

Posted in Poetry with tags , on August 29, 2010 by telescoper

How happy is he born or taught
That serveth not another’s will,
Whose armour is his honest thought,
And simple truth his highest skill;

Whose passions not his masters are;
Whose soul is still prepared for death,
Untied unto the world with care
Of princes’ grace or vulgar breath;

Who envies none whom chance doth raise,
Or vice; who never understood
The deepest wounds are given by praise,
By rule of state but not of good;

Who hath his life from rumours freed,
Whose conscience is his strong retreat,
Whose state can neither flatterers feed
Nor ruins make accusers great;

Who God doth late and early pray
More of his grace than goods to send,
And entertains the harmless day
With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is free from servile bands
Of hope to rise or fear to fall,
Lord of himself, though not of lands,
And having nothing, yet hath all.

by Sir Henry Wotton (1568-1639).


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Death and Strawberries

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on August 20, 2010 by telescoper

This week in August 2010 has taken on quite a melancholy mood. Only a few days ago there was the death of physicist Nicola Cabibbo. Yesterday I heard that the great Russian mathematician Vladimir Igorevich Arnold, who did a lot of work of interest to physicists, had also passed away aged 72. And then this morning I was saddened to hear of the death of the wonderful Scottish poet Edwin Morgan, of pneumonia, at the age of 90.

It’s always sad when someone who has contributed so much to their field – whether it’s artistic or scientific – passes away, but the consolation is that each of them in their own way has left a wonderful legacy that remains to be treasured and will also inspire future generations.

Anyway, I thought I’d mark the passing of Edwin Morgan with my favourite poem of his, called 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

It may surprise you to learn that this poem is not written by a man to a woman, but from one man to another. A similar reaction is sometimes provoked by certain of Shakespeare’s Sonnets. It came as a shock to quite a few people when it was finally revealed, in fact, because Edwin Morgan kept to himself for a very long time who this was written about. Actually, it wasn’t until he was 70 that the poet stepped out of the closet, announced that he was gay, and explained that the poem was written about an experience he shared with another man. He maintained that at least part of the reason for him not being open publically was that he didn’t want to be branded as a “gay” poet, and that his poems were intended to be universal, which (in my view) they are but then that depends on what kind of universe you live in.

In the Dark

Posted in Poetry with tags on August 13, 2010 by telescoper

Here’s a verse by a poet who’s quite new to me – Felix Dennis – who I learned about because he’s doing a nationwide tour this autumn to celebrate the publication of a new book and a flyer for it came in the post this morning. I only read it because it wasn’t a bill, but it seems he’s quite a colourful character, and I might go along when he visits Cardiff (on 29th September, at the Glee Club in Cardiff Bay). Anyway, I had a shufti at his website and found a poem on it called In the Dark, so obviously I just had to post it here! Enjoy!

I knuckle an eye with my fist—
Fragments of non-existent light
Erupt where they cannot exist,
Blinding my non-existent sight.

We huddle by day in our joys,
Swaddled in rags of silk and hope
Like toddlers at play with toys:
By night, we twist all silk to rope

To tether the tiger, Desire,
And cradle demons, lest they wake
And set the lakes of Guilt afire,
As the walls of our dreaming shake.

The candle has guttered and died.
Here in the dark— within my mind
My terrors and tigers collide:
And all have eyes, but I am blind.

Hothouse Flowers

Posted in Literature, Poetry with tags , , , , on August 11, 2010 by telescoper

At the weekend I shifted quite a lot of stuff around the house, in preparation for a major redecoration project in my main bedroom, which, when it gets started, means I’ll be sleeping in the spare room for quite a while. I moved a whole case of old paperback novels I’ve kept since I was a teenager and couldn’t help opening one that happened to be at the top. It was An Alien Heat, the first novel in the classic Dancers at the End of Time trilogy by Michael Moorcock whose books I devoured voraciously when I was at school. At the front of this one is a quotation from a poem by Theodore Wratislaw which contains the title phrase. I had a quick google about and found the whole poem, which turned out to be a very sensual and well-constructed sonnet, as opposed to the cack-handed parody I put up recently. The title of this poem also of course furnished the name of a well-known band.

I hate the flower of wood or common field.
I cannot love the primrose nor regret
The death of any shrinking violet,
Nor even the cultured garden’s banal yield.
The silver lips of lilies virginal,
The full deep bosom of the enchanted rose
Please less than flowers glass-hid from frost and snows
For whom an alien heat makes festival.
I love those flowers reared by man’s careful art,
Of heady scents and colors: strong of heart
Or weak that die beneath the touch of knife,
Some rich as sin and some as virtue pale,
And some as subtly infamous and frail
As she whose love still eats my soul and life.

A Sonnet of Significance

Posted in Poetry, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , , on August 3, 2010 by telescoper

Inspired by Dennis Overbye’s nice article in the New York Times about the plethora of false detections in physics and astronomy, and another one in Physics World by Robert P Crease with a similar theme, I’ve decided to relaunch my campaign to become the next Poet Laureate with this Sonnet (in Petrarchean form) which I offer as an homage to John Keats. I’ve slavishly copied the rhyme scheme of one of Keats’ greatest poems, although I think I’ve made all the lines scan properly which he didn’t manage to do in the original.  Nevertheles, I’m sure that if he were alive today he’d be turning in his grave.

Much have I marvell’d at discov’ries bold
And many gushing press releases seen
But often what is “found” just hasn’t been
(Though only rather later are we told).
Be doubtful if you ever do behold
A scientific “certainty” between
The pages of a Sunday magazine;
The complex truth is rarely so extolled.
So if you are a watcher of the skies
Or particle detection is your yen,
Refrain from spreading rumour and surmise
Lest you look silly time and time again.
Two sigma peaks – so you should realise –
Are naught but noise, so hold your tongue. Amen.

The Matrix

Posted in Poetry with tags , on August 2, 2010 by telescoper

Back to the grind after a week off, lots of catching up to do and things to confront that I’ve been putting off. This poem, a sonnet by Amy Lowell, seems an appropriate choice for today. It’s just a bit of a shame I can’t find any nectarines.

Goaded and harassed in the factory
That tears our life up into bits of days
Ticked off upon a clock which never stays,
Shredding our portion of Eternity,
We break away at last, and steal the key
Which hides a world empty of hours; ways
Of space unroll, and Heaven overlays
The leafy, sun-lit earth of Fantasy.
Beyond the ilex shadow glares the sun,
Scorching against the blue flame of the sky.
Brown lily-pads lie heavy and supine
Within a granite basin, under one
The bronze-gold glimmer of a carp; and I
Reach out my hand and pluck a nectarine

The Complete Animated Shakespeare

Posted in Literature with tags , , on July 30, 2010 by telescoper

While I was blathering on about Shakespeare a couple of days ago, I suddenly remembered this marvellous animated film I saw when it was first released over 20 years ago. I couldn’t remember the name so it took me a bit of time to find it, but I got there in the end. It’s by Aardman Animations (best known for the later Wallace and Gromit films) and it was part of a splendid series of animated shorts called Lip-synch commissioned by Channel 4 and broadcast in 1990. It’s hard to imagine Channel 4 doing anything this good nowadays.  This film, called Next,  is only 5 minutes long yet it manages to refer to every single one of Shakespeare’s plays by having the immortal bard himself do them all as an audition. It’s not only clever and visually appealing but also a lot of fun…

A Commonplace Blog

Posted in Biographical, Poetry with tags , , on July 29, 2010 by telescoper

Just a brief interruption to my holiday from blogging. Posting from the old Blackberry isn’t particularly easy, so I’ll keep it brief. It struck me that this would provide a nice postscript to my recent navel-gazing post about blogging so I decided to put it up before I forget which, in fact, is part of the point of the text…

Thy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,
Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;
The vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear,
And of this book this learning mayst thou taste.
The wrinkles which thy glass will truly show
Of mouthed graves will give thee memory;
Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst know
Time’s thievish progress to eternity.
Look, what thy memory can not contain
Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
Those children nursed, deliver’d from thy brain,
To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.
These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,
Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book.

Shakespeare’s Sonnet No. 77 is open to quite a bit of interpretation, but it seems clear that the “vacant leaves” refer to the blank pages of a “commonplace book“. To paraphrase wikipedia

Such books came into use in the middle ages and were essentially scrapbooks, filled with items of every kind: medical recipes, quotes, letters, poems, tables of weights and measures, proverbs, prayers, legal formulas. Commonplaces were used by readers, writers, students, and humanists as aids for remembering or developing useful concepts ideas or facts they had learned. Each commonplace book was unique to its creator’s particular interests.

Dare I say, just like a blog? In particular, the phrase to “take a new acquaintance of thy mind” surely rings true to anyone who writes a blog…

A Problem in Dynamics

Posted in Poetry, The Universe and Stuff with tags , , on July 23, 2010 by telescoper

I thought you might enjoy this “poem” which, believe it or not, was written by the great physicist James Clerk Maxwell. You can find other examples of his verse here. All I can say is I’m glad he didn’t give up his day job…

An inextensible heavy chain
Lies on a smooth horizontal plane,
An impulsive force is applied at A,
Required the initial motion of K.

Let ds be the infinitesimal link,
Of which for the present we’ve only to think;
Let T be the tension, and T + dT
The same for the end that is nearest to B.
Let a be put, by a common convention,
For the angle at M ’twixt OX and the tension;
Let Vt and Vn be ds’s velocities,
Of which Vt along and Vn across it is;
Then Vn/Vt the tangent will equal,
Of the angle of starting worked out in the sequel.

In working the problem the first thing of course is
To equate the impressed and effectual forces.
K is tugged by two tensions, whose difference dT
Must equal the element’s mass into Vt.
Vn must be due to the force perpendicular
To ds’s direction, which shows the particular
Advantage of using da to serve at your
Pleasure to estimate ds’s curvature.
For Vn into mass of a unit of chain
Must equal the curvature into the strain.

Thus managing cause and effect to discriminate,
The student must fruitlessly try to eliminate,
And painfully learn, that in order to do it, he
Must find the Equation of Continuity.
The reason is this, that the tough little element,
Which the force of impulsion to beat to a jelly meant,
Was endowed with a property incomprehensible,
And was “given,” in the language of Shop, “inexten-sible.”
It therefore with such pertinacity odd defied
The force which the length of the chain should have modified,
That its stubborn example may possibly yet recall
These overgrown rhymes to their prosody metrical.
The condition is got by resolving again,
According to axes assumed in the plane.
If then you reduce to the tangent and normal,
You will find the equation more neat tho’ less formal.
The condition thus found after these preparations,
When duly combined with the former equations,
Will give you another, in which differentials
(When the chain forms a circle), become in essentials
No harder than those that we easily solve
In the time a T totum would take to revolve.

Now joyfully leaving ds to itself, a-
Ttend to the values of T and of a.
The chain undergoes a distorting convulsion,
Produced first at A by the force of impulsion.
In magnitude R, in direction tangential,
Equating this R to the form exponential,
Obtained for the tension when a is zero,
It will measure the tug, such a tug as the “hero
Plume-waving” experienced, tied to the chariot.
But when dragged by the heels his grim head could not carry aught,
So give a its due at the end of the chain,
And the tension ought there to be zero again.
From these two conditions we get three equations,
Which serve to determine the proper relations
Between the first impulse and each coefficient
In the form for the tension, and this is sufficient
To work out the problem, and then, if you choose,
You may turn it and twist it the Dons to amuse.

Rain

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on July 21, 2010 by telescoper

Now that the traditional rainy Cardiff summer has arrived,  and I’ve just watched an old black-and-white movie on DVD, I thought I’d share this, the title poem of a marvellous collection by Don Paterson.

 
I love all films that start with rain:
rain, braiding a windowpane
or darkening a hung-out dress
or streaming down her upturned face;

one long thundering downpour
right through the empty script and score
before the act, before the blame,
before the lens pulls through the frame

to where the woman sits alone
beside a silent telephone
or the dress lies ruined on the grass
or the girl walks off the overpass,

and all things flow out from that source
along their fatal watercourse.
However bad or overlong
such a film can do no wrong,

so when his native twang shows through
or when the boom dips into view
or when her speech starts to betray
its adaptation from the play,

I think to when we opened cold
on a rain-dark gutter, running gold
with the neon of a drugstore sign,
and I’d read into its blazing line:

forget the ink, the milk, the blood—
all was washed clean with the flood
we rose up from the falling waters
the fallen rain’s own sons and daughters

and none of this, none of this matters.

And, while I’m on the theme of rain, why not add this great song by Leonard Cohen?