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Candia Comes Clean

~ Candid cultural comments from the Isles of Wonder

Tag Archives: Wordsworth

Isolation Poem

27 Monday Apr 2020

Posted by Candia in Environment, Family, gardens, History, Literature, Nature, Poetry, Relationships, Social Comment, Travel

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Charles Lamb, Coleridge, imagination, lime tree bower, Nether Stowey, quarantine, Romantic poetry, self-isolation, Wordsworth

This Lime-tree Bower my Prison

By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

[Addressed to Charles Lamb, of the India House, London]

 

Photo credit: David Ross ; Britain Express.

 

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm’d mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
To that still roaring dell, of which I told;
The roaring dell, o’erwooded, narrow, deep,
And only speckled by the mid-day sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,
Unsunn’d and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne’er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
Fann’d by the water-fall! and there my friends
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,
That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
Of the blue clay-stone.
                                           Now, my friends emerge
Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again
The many-steepled tract magnificent
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles
Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
And hunger’d after Nature, many a year,
In the great City pent, winning thy way
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain
And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,
Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!
And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,
Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
Spirits perceive his presence.
                                                        A delight
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
As I myself were there! Nor in this bower,
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark’d
Much that has sooth’d me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch’d
Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov’d to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above
Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
Was richly ting’d, and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue
Through the late twilight: and though now the bat
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,
Yet still the solitary humble-bee
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
That Nature ne’er deserts the wise and pure;
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes
‘Tis well to be bereft of promis’d good,
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
Had cross’d the mighty Orb’s dilated glory,
While thou stood’st gazing; or, when all was still,
Flew creeking o’er thy head, and had a charm
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

Colerige’s friends- Charles Lamb and the Wordsworths- had gone off walking,

leaving him alone at his cottage,as he had had an accident and could not ramble

with them. (His wife had spilled scalding milk on his foot, probably distracted by

having all these literary guests inflicted on her when she was trying to look after

her children!)

He imagines that he is with them and can ‘see’ the terrain they are walking

through.

He is able to travel in his imagination, but also can appreciate Nature at

home.

How true is this for those of us sequestered and quarantined at home.  That is,

for those of us fortunate enough to have gardens.

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Tintern Abbey

28 Wednesday Nov 2018

Posted by Candia in Architecture, Environment, History, Literature, Nature, Nostalgia, Personal, Photography, Poetry, Religion, Travel

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Autumn, Cistercian, Tintern Abbey, Wordsworth, Wye

IMG_0276
IMG_0255
IMG_0226
IMG_0266
IMG_0227

 

Photos by Candia Dixon-Stuart

Following in Wordsworth’s Footsteps

 

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Head of Steam

16 Friday Mar 2018

Posted by Candia in Community, Environment, History, Industries, Nature, Nostalgia, Poetry, Social Comment, Writing

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Beeching, Cumbria, Federation of the World, iron mining, Lake District, Lakeside and Haverthwaite, Peter Rabbit, Pleiades, plutonium, railways, steelmaking, technological change, The Plough, turbines, Wordsworth

Hunslet Austerity

(Lakeside and Haverthwaite railway station

Photo: mattbuck 7/7/2013 Wikipedia)

Once that head of steam was up, rails were laid

and Wordsworth’s wooed wilderness converged upon,

prelude to trucks toting plutonium,

criss-crossing the land; scouring surfaces

as deeply as glacial striation.

Then Beeching came and railed against the lines.

Coal, iron mining ceased; steelmaking shot.

Peter Rabbit quaking in his burrow,

anticipates fracking with timid twitch.

Turbines wave their arms quixotically

at those on muddied foot and cycle paths,

attempting to revolutionise health.

The golden keys open every barred door.

Geology is sacrificed to greed;

the hills afforested with money trees;

the night sky, filled with commerce, blinds poets

to The Plough, Pleiades, meteor showers.

We cannot hear the curlew’s stony cry

and now The Federation of the World

will never float the European flag,

but, ruled by those profit-hungry traders,

will talk us through its groovy projections;

will take us on economic projections;

leave us in a mistaken metaphor,

in a siding, instead of skimming on

to an optimistic mainline station.

Science no longer moves slowly, slowly.

Evolution morphs to revolution.

Wordsworth, proud of his skill to reach a point

rowed, unswerving to his destination,

dipping his oars into a silent lake,

before the ringing grooves of change arrived,

with consequent unknown modes of being,

bringing a blank desertion and darkness

to a landscape loved by the choicest minds.

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Poetry Makes Perfect

25 Thursday Apr 2013

Posted by Candia in Family, Humour, mythology, News, Poetry, Psychology, Social Comment, Suttonford, Writing

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Border Collie, endorphins, Holly the Collie, I wandered lonely as a cloud, Orpheus, spinone, therapet, Wordsworth

Mum! Mum!

Castor and Pollux, the twins, burst into the kitchen where their mother,

Brassica, was arranging some after-school snacks.

Yes, darlings?

Can Andy be trained as our school’s therapet?

Therapet?

Yes, mum- you know, a pet that boys can stroke and pat before their

exams.  It helps with nerves, elucidated Castor.

How does it work? asked Brassie.

Well, Caligula– ( Brassie gave Pollux a warning look)- emmm,

Mr Milford-Haven, told us that if pupils talk to a therapet, it can calm

their nerves before an exam.

Yeah, you still have to revise, though, admitted Castor.

Pollux jumped in: It releases endolphins.

Do you mean endorphins, love? said Brassie.

Whatever, said Pollux, without thinking.  His mother had banned that

particular word.  Now he would have to pay a fine of ten pence.

Castor took up the thread: There is a dog called Audrey, up north, who

helps children with their reading. It is an Italian Spinone.

Yes, said Pollux, and there is one called Holly, the collie.  Sometimes they

set a good example to scruffy children and show them how nice it is to brush

their teeth, or to be groomed.

I thought grooming was a bad thing that strangers do to you, said Castor.

No, that kind is okay, isn’t it , Mum? Pollux looked to his mother for

confirmation.

Border Terrier.jpg

The thing is, boys, Andy is rather excitable.  He is a bright and bouncy Border,

but I wouldn’t say that he was particularly calming.

Brassie thought about his, frankly delinquent behaviour.  She couldn’t see him

in a role as canine ambassador for deportment and emotional stability.

Anyway, boys, she added, some children are allergic to dogs, so they might

develop an asthma attack and then the school and the dog owner might be

sued.

Nowadays, litigation was an omnipresent threat.

Oh, faltered the twins. What about goldfish?  We could take Jaws in. 

They knew how much of a nuisance he was.  There was always an argument

about whose turn it was to clean out his bowl.

Hey, Jaws, listen to my poem- the one I have to recite in front of the class

next week. Castor placed the bowl on the kitchen worktop, but Jaws seemed

totally uninterested.

Andy jumped over the restrictive toddler stairgate and frantically licked both

boys.

Down, boy! Pollux commanded.  Andy ignored him.  He knocked over the

goldfish bowl.

Oh Andy! shouted Brassie, scooping Jaws up as best she could.  She did not

feel calm at all.

Castor began to recite his poem: I wandered lonely as a clod..

Cloud, corrected Pollux.

Oh, yeah, cloud..

Andy was sitting up, totally mesmerised and completely calm.

That floats on high.. Castor continued.

Well, look at that, said Brassie, amazed at the effect that Wordworth’s

emotion recollected in tranquillity was having on their anarchic pet.

She gave him a doggy treat and passed the boys a blueberry slice that

she had bought for them from Costamuchamoulah.

Good boy!

Orpheus had tamed brute beasts through music, so maybe metrical

regularity was having the same effect on her wild animal.

Never mind the children being tranquillised, there was something

in the art of poesie that might be a cheaper alternative to dog training

classes. If she patented the technique, she might make a fortune and

could subsidise the school fees.  Wait till she demonstrated the effect to

Cosmo!

But, where was Jaws?

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My name is Candia. Its initial consonant alliterates with “cow” and there are connotations with the adjective “candid.” I started writing this blog in the summer of 2012 and focused on satire at the start.

Interspersed was ironic news comment, reviews and poetry.

Over the years I have won some international poetry competitions and have published in reputable small presses, as well as reviewing and reading alongside well- established poets. I wrote under my own name then, but Candia has taken me over as an online persona. Having brought out a serious anthology last year called 'Its Own Place' which features poetry of an epiphanal nature, I was able to take part in an Arts and Spirituality series of lectures in Winchester in 2016.

Lately I have been experimenting with boussekusekeika, sestinas, rhyme royale, villanelles and other forms. I am exploring Japanese themes at the moment, my interest having been re-ignited by the recent re-evaluations of Hokusai.

Thank you to all my committed followers whose loyalty has encouraged me to keep writing. It has been exciting to meet some of you in the flesh- in venues as far flung as Melbourne and Sydney!

Copyright Notice

© Candia Dixon Stuart and Candiacomesclean.wordpress.com, 2012-2013. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Candia Dixon Stuart and candiacomesclean.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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