So I haven’t made a post in a month but on seeing this unbelievable fucking incredible poem, I simply had to share it.
This got posted on Twitter by the author’s older brother. I wish more poetry out there was innovative like this rather than postmodern fragmented wankery.
“The Second Coming”, which so happens to be one of my favourite poems, inspired the title of the novel Things Fall Apart by Chinua Achebe. The poem prophesies the downfall of culture as we know it and that something new, but not necessarily good, will arise from it. Its imagery of future destruction and desolation, and its unsympathetic allusions to Christianity are awesome. I like the poem primarily because it is a total hands-up-in-the-air-and-fuck-everything kinda poem… and it also reflects how I feel about now:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
Wasn’t that nice. Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart is also just as depressing. It follows the life of Okonkwo, a courageous and aggressive Igbo clan leader who struggles with the impositions of both his own traditional culture and the new Christian one that threatens his way of life.
The book is divided into two distinct parts: the first half explains Okonkwo’s origins and facets of his family life leading up to their exile, and the second half deals with the impact of white Christian colonialism in Nigeria and Okonkwo’s reactions against it. On having a vague idea about the novel beforehand, I figured the novel would be (pardon the expression) very black and white; by that, I mean there would be a dichotomy of morals at play where one culture would stereotypically be depicted as “good” and the other “bad”. But there was the ambiguity of the two cultures instilling both spiritual fulfilment as well as harm.
I felt that the narrator was very neutral and didn’t necessarily promote one way of life over the other, and if it did, it was certainly done by absorbing a character’s opinions and perspective into the act of narration. Nevertheless, the process of colonisation is obviously depicted as harmful but there are other facets of traditional Igbo culture that are morally questionable. At one point, the Oracle of Umuofia declares that the captive child, Ikemefuna, who Okonkwo had to incorporate into his family and who Okonkwo becomes very attached to, has to be killed. Not wanting to lose face by kicking up a fuss and seeming unmasculine, Okonkwo administers the killing blow to the boy himself despite the fact he need not really have done so. For Okonkwo, upholding the laws of his culture and carrying himself with the respect that ultimately hurts him on the inside is more important than betraying his sense of individuality. Similarly, Okonkwo deems the new Christian influence on the region as unmanly and he ultimately cannot cope with these new changes that break tradition. Everything that Okonkwo has learned and has worked for and has sacrificed as a citizen of his culture falls crashing down around him.
The novel was very interesting in terms of learning about all the customs, traditions, rituals and laws that constitute Igbo culture. Achebe also writes about all this in a very matter-of-fact way and this breathes life into his characters and makes their trials seem authentic. But lawdy, I felt bad for Okonkwo. Poor Okonkwo.
A spooky poem in time for Hallowe’en. Robert Burns wrote “Tam o’ Shanter” in 1791, a long narrative poem that details Tam and his horse Meg as they come across a bunch of spooky witches dancing in a churchyard. Burns’ poem is quite influential, as many things we know and love today originate from the poem;Tam o’ Shanter caps are a kind of tacky tartan beret, the famous ship – the so-called Cutty Sark – is in reference to what Tam yells out at the pretty witch he spies, and a pub in Edinburgh is even called “Drouthy Neebors” in homage to Burns’ poem’s second line.
It’s a long one but it is also one of the many poems that is most emblematic of Burns’ skill.
Happy Hallowe’en, kids.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors, neebors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An’ getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o’ Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne’er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had’st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate’s advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi’ the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev’ry naig was ca’d a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin’ fou on;
That at the Lord’s house, ev’n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi’ Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown’d in Doon,
Or catch’d wi’ warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway’s auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen’d, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo’ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi’ sangs an’ clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi’ favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord’s laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E’en drown’d himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi’ lades o’ treasure,
The minutes wing’d their way wi’ pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O’er a’ the ills o’ life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow’r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white – then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow’s lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. –
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o’ night’s black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne’er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as ‘twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow’d;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow’d:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro’ dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o’er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow’rin round wi’ prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor’d;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak’s neck-bane;
And thro’ the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder’d bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo’s mither hang’d hersel’.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro’ the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro’ the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem’d in a bleeze,
Thro’ ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi’ usquabae, we’ll face the devil!
The swats sae ream’d in Tammie’s noddle,
Fair play, he car’d na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish’d,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish’d,
She ventur’d forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o’ beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw’d the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a’ did dirl. –
Coffins stood round, like open presses,
That shaw’d the Dead in their last dresses;
And (by some devilish cantraip sleight)
Each in its cauld hand held a light.
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer’s banes, in gibbet-airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristened bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi’ his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi’ blude red-rusted:
Five scimitars, wi’ murder crusted;
A garter which a babe had strangled:
A knife, a father’s throat had mangled.
Whom his ain son of life bereft,
The grey-hairs yet stack to the heft;
Wi’ mair of horrible and awfu’,
Which even to name wad be unlawfu’.
Three lawyers tongues, turned inside oot,
Wi’ lies, seamed like a beggars clout,
Three priests hearts, rotten, black as muck,
Lay stinkin, vile in every neuk.
As Tammie glowr’d, amaz’d, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious;
The Piper loud and louder blew,
The dancers quick and quicker flew,
They reel’d, they set, they cross’d, they cleekit,
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linkit at it in her sark!
Now Tam, O Tam! had they been queans,
A’ plump and strapping in their teens!
Their sarks, instead o’ creeshie flainen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!-
Thir breeks o’ mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush o’ guid blue hair,
I wad hae gien them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o’ the bonie burdies!
But wither’d beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,
Louping an’ flinging on a crummock.
I wonder did na turn thy stomach.
But Tam kent what was what fu’ brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken’d on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish’d mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o’ Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho’ sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken’d thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots (’twas a’ her riches),
Wad ever grac’d a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc’d,
And thought his very een enrich’d:
Even Satan glowr’d, and fidg’d fu’ fain,
And hotch’d and blew wi’ might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, “Weel done, Cutty-sark!”
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi’ angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie’s mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When “Catch the thief!” resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi’ mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou’ll get thy fairin!
In hell, they’ll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu’ woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o’ the brig;
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi’ furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie’s mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o’ truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother’s son, take heed:
Whene’er to Drink you are inclin’d,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o’er dear;
Remember Tam o’ Shanter’s mare.
Apologies in advance for this very lazy post. Right now I am in London for both business and pleasure. This has been a peculiar week, half immobilising boredom and half dynamic activity. In fact, this whole month has been peculiar. It has been very up and down for me both geographically and emotionally, as I become too familiar with Scotrail and enduring the (almost) quarter-life crisis of having to consider and reconsider big life decisions.
Zzzzz. Enough. Here is a poem that encapsulates the noisy, messy, hubbub that is London from the lovely but long dead William Blake, one of the only sufferable English Romantic poets. The demonic theme in the poem is by no means a reflection of my opinion of London, which changes every day. I think it mirrors the turmoil of navigation around the big city, passing hundred of strangers by every day, hearing the cacophony of thousands of voices from strangers living their own lives and thinking their own thoughts in morose anonymity. Yeah.
I wander thro’ each charter’d street,
Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
In every cry of every Man,
In every Infants cry of fear,
In every voice: in every ban,
The mind-forg’d manacles I hear
How the Chimney-sweepers cry
Every blackning Church appalls,
And the hapless Soldiers sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls
But most thro’ midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlots curse
Blasts the new-born Infants tear
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
I’ll post something with more thought behind it soon, probably.
Here’s an often overlooked little slice of Edinburgh for you to behold – Walter Scott’s poem “Flodden” is engraved onto the paving in Grassmarket at the foot of Granny’s Green Steps. The poem is actually an extract from the nineteenth canto of a greater work of poetry by Scott called “Marmion”. The poem refers to a great battle that took place in 1513 between the Scots and the English and the engraving runs along where Flodden wall used to be, traces of which can be seen around other parts of Edinburgh such as Greyfriars Kirkyard and The Pleasance.
From Flodden ridge,
The Scots beheld the English host
Leave Barmoor Wood, their evening post
And headful watched them as they crossed
The Till by Twizell Bridge.
High sight it is, and haughty, while
They dive into the deep defile;
Beneath the cavern’d cliff they fall,
Beneath the castle’s airy wall.
By rock, by oak, by Hawthorn tree,
Troop after troop are disappearing;
Troop after troop their banners rearing
Upon the eastern bank you see.
Still pouring down the rocky glen,
Where flows the sullen Till,
And rising from the dim-wood glen,
Standards on standards, men on men,
In slow procession still,
And sweeping o’er the Gothic arch,
And pressing on in ceaseless march,
To gain the opposing hill.
Very nice.
That is all. Today I went for a walk around Edinburgh on this dreich day. I needed a break from job applications, taking my mind off waiting for results from an important interview(s), and generally festering indoors.
The Word in Edgeways 