Archive for the Poetry Category

Stardust – Michael D. Higgins

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , on November 20, 2025 by telescoper

by Michael D. Higgins (b. 1941), former President of the Republic of Ireland.

Here he is reading the poem from the President’s Office.

Graduation – Jacob Lawrence

Posted in Art, Poetry with tags , , , , on October 28, 2025 by telescoper

by Jacob Lawrence (1948, ink over graphite on paper, 72 × 49.8 cm, Art Institute of Chicago, USA)

This work, Graduation, is one of six drawings that Jacob Lawrence made as illustrations for Langston Hughes’s 1949 book of poetry, One-Way Ticket

“Who was Mr. W.H.”? – and Other Questions

Posted in LGBTQ+, Poetry with tags , , , , , , , on October 2, 2025 by telescoper

Today is National Poetry Day in the UK and Ireland but, instead of posting a poem like I usually do on this occasion, I thought I’d do a bit of reflecting on Shakespeare’s Sonnets. What prompted this is an article in the Times Literary Supplement I mentioned in a post on Monday. The cover picture shows a newly-discovered miniature by Nicholas Hilliard that is claimed to be of Henry Wriothesley, 3rd Earl of Southampton, and patron of William Shakespeare:

On the 20th May 1609, a collection of 154 Sonnets by William Shakespeare was published, which arguably represents at least as high a  level of literary achievement as his plays. The “Master Mistress” in the title of the TLS article is a reference to Sonnet No. 20 in the collection, published on 20th May 1609, of 154 Sonnets by William Shakespeare, which arguably represents at least as high a  level of literary achievement as his plays. Here is Sonnet No. 20 in the form usually printed nowadays:

A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou the master mistress of my passion,
A woman’s gentle heart but not acquainted
With shifting change as is false women’s fashion,
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling:
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth,
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created,
Till nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she pricked thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

The somewhat androgynous facial appearance of Henry Wriothesley – seen in other portraits – has led some to suggest that the above Sonnet was addressed to him. Others think that the poem was addressed to a young male actor (a “boy player“) who played female roles on the stage, as was usual in Shakespeare’s time. It was illegal for women to perform on stage until 1660.

The dedication in the First Folio edition of the Sonnets, published in 1609, is shown on the left. The initials “T.T.” are accepted to stand for the name of the publisher Thomas Thorpe but the identity of “Mr. W.H.” is unknown. Of course “W.H.” is a reversal of the “H.W. ” that could be Henry Wriothesley, but would the publisher really use “Mr” to refer to a member of the nobility? Another curiosity is the prevalence of full stops, which is more characteristic of inscriptions carved in stone than on printed pages.

The First Folio edition was the only edition of the Sonnets published in Shakespeare’s lifetime and the circumstances of its publication remain uncertain to this day and not only because of identity of “Mr W.H.” For example, if it was authorised by Shakespeare, why did Shakespeare himself not write the dedication? Some have argued that it must have been published posthumously, so Shakespeare must have been dead in 1609, whereas most sources say he died in 1616.

Most of the poems (126 out of 154) contain poetic statements of love for a young man,  often called the “Fair Youth”. However, there is also a group of sonnets addressed to the poet’s mistress, an anonymous “dark lady”, which are far much more sexual in content than those addressed to the “Fair Youth”. The usual interpretation of this is that the poet’s love for the boy was purely Platonic rather than sexual in nature.  If Mr W.H. was a boy player then he would have been very young indeed, i.e. 13-17 years old…

Anyway, it was certainly a physical attraction: verse after verse speaks of the young man’s beauty. The first group of sonnets even encourage him to get married and have children so his beauty can continue and not die with his death. Sonnet 20 laments that the youth is not a woman, suggesting that this ruled out any sexual contact.  These early poems seem to suggest a slightly distant relationship between the two as if they didn’t really know each other well. However, as the collection goes on the poems become more and more intimate and it’s hard for me to accept that there wasn’t some sort of involvement between the two.  Although homosexual relationships were not officially tolerated in 17th Century England, they were not all that rare especially in the theatrical circles in which Shakespeare worked.

Oscar Wilde wrote a story called “A Portrait of Mr. W.H.” which suggests he is a young actor by the name of “Will Hughes”. The main evidence for this is Sonnet 20.

Look at the First Folio version:

The initial capital and emphasis of “Hews” seen in line 7 is very unusual and suggests that it is a joke (one of many in this poem), in the form of a pun on the preceding “hew”. It is suggested that “Hews” is actually “Hughes”. Ingenious, but I’m not convinced. There were many other meanings of “hew” in use in Shakespeare’s time; it was a variant spelling of “ewe” for example.

We’ll probably never know who Mr W.H. was – presumably not Smith – or indeed what was the real nature of his relationship to Shakespeare but we do not need to know that to read and enjoy the poems.

I do have a fundamental misgiving, though, about the assumption that the “Onlie begetter” of these sonnets means the person to whom they are addressed, or who inspired them. That assumption entirely disregards the “Dark Lady” sequence. There are at least two addressees so neither can be the only begetter, if that is what begetter is supposed to mean.

I think it more likely Mr W.H., whoever he was, is the person who caused the collection to be created and/or published, perhaps by sponsoring the First Folio. It’s also possible that these poems may have been commissioned over the years by Mr. W.H. and/or others – experts think they were written over a period of at least 16 years – and only published together at much later date. It is indeed said that some of verses were circulated in private well before they were published, though they may perhaps have been edited or otherwise tidied up for the 1609 edition. Perhaps Shakespeare supplemented his income by writing sonnets to order?

This line of thought also took me to another question: why does everyone assume that all 126 of the “Fair Youth” sonnets are about the same person? That person is never named and only occasionally described. Some of the 126 are thematically linked, but overall it is a collection rather than a sequence. Some are humorous and some are very serious indeed. Some are downright cryptic. I think it quite possible, especially if the poems really were written over a period of 16 years, that they not all addressed to the same individual. Once you accept the evident truth that there is more than one recipient, then why not more than two?

Some have taken this even further and asked: do we really know that all 154 sonnets were written by the same person? The same question is asked about Shakespeare’s work generally. Was there really one person behind his plays, or were they collaborative efforts.

Finally, I wonder for what purpose these sonnets were written. Were they actually sent to the addressee(s) as expressions of love, like letters, or were they private meditations, like one might write in a journal?

I don’t suppose we’ll ever really know the answers to these questions, but I find it fascinating that the origin of such a famous collection is enshrouded in so many mysteries! I promise to post more of them here in due course.

Sonnet No. 75

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on September 18, 2025 by telescoper
So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
Or as sweet-season'd showers are to the ground;
And for the peace of you I hold such strife
As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure;
Now counting best to be with you alone,
Then better'd that the world may see my pleasure:
Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,
And by and by clean starved for a look;
Possessing or pursuing no delight
Save what is had, or must from you be took.
Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,
Or gluttoning on all, or all away.

by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

Sonnet No. 112

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , on September 2, 2025 by telescoper
Your love and pity doth the impression fill
Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow;
For what care I who calls me well or ill,
So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow?
You are my all the world, and I must strive
To know my shames and praises from your tongue;
None else to me, nor I to none alive,
That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong.
In so profound abysm I throw all care
Of others’ voices, that my adder’s sense
To critic and to flatterer stopped are.
Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:
You are so strongly in my purpose bred
That all the world besides methinks are dead.

by by William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

I find myself returning once again to Shakespeare’s sonnets, especially to the sequence of 126 poems that the poet addressed to a “Fair Youth“. This one is written in quite difficult language (for me) with some obscure words and phrases such as “adder’s sense”, “o’er-green” and “steel’d sense”. It’s almost as if parts of it are written in code. Nevertheless the overall meaning of the poem is clear: it revolves around the beautiful “You are my all the world” in line 5, shining out through the thickets, with “all the world” repeated in the last line for extra effect. The poet is saying that nobody’s opinion of him matters at all except that of his beloved. Know the feeling?

Forgetfulness – Billy Collins

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on August 10, 2025 by telescoper
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue
or even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall

well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

by Billy Collins (b 1941)

The Confirmation – Edwin Muir

Posted in Poetry with tags , on July 24, 2025 by telescoper
Yes, yours, my love, is the right human face.
I in my mind had waited for this long,
Seeing the false and searching for the true,
Then found you as a traveller finds a place
Of welcome suddenly amid the wrong
Valleys and rocks and twisting roads. But you,
What shall I call you? A fountain in a waste,
A well of water in a country dry,
Or anything that's honest and good, an eye
That makes the whole world seem bright. Your open heart,
Simple with giving, gives the primal deed,
The first good world, the blossom, the blowing seed,
The hearth, the steadfast land, the wandering sea.
Not beautiful or rare in every part.
But like yourself, as they were meant to be.

by Edwin Muir (1887-1959)

Climbing to Seefin Passage Tomb on the Summer Solstice – Tarn MacArthur

Posted in Poetry with tags , , on June 20, 2025 by telescoper
Seefin Passage Tomb, County Wicklow, photographed by Joe King – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=26328239

The Summer Solstice in the Northern Hemisphere takes place tomorrow, on Saturday June 21 2025, at 02:42 UTC (03:42am local Irish Time). In advance of the big event I thought I’d share this poem I found online, which seems appropriate to the occasion.

No one knows what calls us, days like this
that seem to stretch all sense of reason:
the hillside scrub abuzz with silver-washed

and dark green fritillary, the red grouse
and hare, a lone buzzard counterpoised
on the breeze overhead, near motionless,

weighing the balance of each warm
and distant heartbeat. And who would
claim the old gods dead when the sudden

cadence of your breath slips to the sound
of something pulsing through from the far side
of the ridge, neither ghost nor glossolalia

but wholly of the earth, like the hum
that guided you through summer nights
in childhood when you found yourself alone,

and a field too far from home, as the light
began to fade. Sometimes what we love
is the incongruity of things: the latent sense

of having been here yet having never been
before, that strangely familiar clutch of stones,
how every shadow beckons with a promise

of safekeeping. If, as someone said,
it’s true that the souls to match our souls
lie patiently in wait to take our places

when we step aside, then we should lower
our sights from the brilliance of the sky
and down towards this aperture of darkness.

To enter the tomb is to enter the one world
we know, the cool walls of the passage
summoning us forth with the chance hope

of an earthly meeting. Alone, you are
not alone, the carved stone appears to say.
Nothing is eternal, and everything remains.

by Tarn MacArthur

He Asked About the Quality – C.P. Cavafy

Posted in LGBTQ+, Poetry with tags , , , on June 15, 2025 by telescoper
He left the office where he'd been given
a trivial, poorly paid job
(something like eight pounds a month, including bonuses)-
left at the end of the dreary work
that kept him bent all afternoon,
came out at seven and walked off slowly,
idling his way down the street. Good-looking,
and interesting: showing as he did that he'd reached
his full sensual capacity.
He'd turned twenty-nine the month before.

He idled his way down the main street
and the poor side-streets that led to his home.

Passing in front of a small shop that sold
cheap and flimsy merchandise for workers,
he saw a face inside, a figure
that compelled him to go in, and he pretended
he wanted to look at some coloured handkerchiefs.

He asked about the quality of the handkerchiefs
and how much they cost, his voice choking,
almost silenced by desire.
And the answers came back in the same mood,
distracted, the voice hushed,
offering hidden consent.

They kept on talking about the merchandise-
but the only purpose: that their hands might touch
over the handkerchiefs, that their faces, their lips,
might move close together as though by chance-
a moment's meeting of limb against limb.

Quickly, secretly, so the shop owner sitting at the back
wouldn't realize what was going on.

by C.P. Cavafy (1863-1933; from Collected Poems, translated by Edmund Heeley and Philip Sherrard)

Litotes – Paul Muldoon

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , on May 18, 2025 by telescoper
Though it wasn’t until 411 BC he took up the oar
in the Peloponnesian War
against “man-loosening” Lysander,

our hero was not unknown
to Thucydides, who’d evenhandedly intone
“What’s sauce for Aegeus is sauce for the gander.”

Despite his background
being less than sound,
he nonetheless managed to drive a phaeton

through the Spartan ranks
or, on more than one occasion, an oar-bank.
If his circumstances were quite often straitened

he couldn’t say no
to manning up and having a go
at the slightest hint of an old school oligarchy.

No scanty there, then?
Faced with the very same problem time and again
he would resort to being snide or snarky

and immediately made a dent
in it. It was no small accomplishment
that he somehow managed to claim kin with Nestor

and, since he was far
from the sharpest ray in the earthstar,
was quite likely an ancestor

of the not exactly inspiring Greek
who would eke
out an existence in the precincts of the Abbey

where he’d been married sword in hand, ye Gads,
turning out to be not half bad
or, as Thucydides would have it, “None too shabby.”

by Paul Muldoon (b. 1951).

I recently discovered the poetry of Paul Muldoon who, as once described in the New York Times, “… takes some honest-to-God reading. He’s a riddler, enigmatic, distrustful of appearances, generous in allusion, doubtless a dab hand at crossword puzzles.” This poem is from Joy in Service on Rue Tagore (2024), which is published by Faber & Faber.