Trees
Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
Find this poem online at Poetry Foundation
On a balmy early evening, on this day 25 years ago, six of us gathered at 7 Ormonde Gate, Chelsea, just across from the National Army Museum, at the invitation of Julian Allason.
Julian had the grand idea that we should celebrate English author Anthony Powell, who had died a couple of months earlier at the age of 94.
I was introduced to Powell’s magnum opus, A Dance to the Music of Time, in 1983 by my wife’s best friend from school. “You like Evelyn Waugh”, she said, “You might like Dance.” Powell soon became one of my heroes.
Since about 1993 I had been building a web presence for Powell. And in 1997, at the time Channel4 TV showed their 4-part dramatisation of Powell’s A Dance to the Music of Time, I had started an email discussion list for Powell’s works. I was resisting suggestions that I should start a Society in Powell’s honour.
Julian was one of the early contributors to the email discussion list, along with our friend Stephen who was one of the six aforementioned. I dragged in my wife, N, and our friend Sue, who was (and still is) a professional conference and event organiser. Julian brought along his friend Catherine, a PR specialist. Experts were needed!
As Julian had said to me a couple of weeks before: “We must celebrate the man. We must have a conference.” Which is where discussion started on that fateful evening.
Being the ever practical project manager, I asked how we were going to achieve this. After all, I pointed out, we were six nobodies, we had no entrée into the literary world, we had no money, and frankly we stood little to no chance of getting useful big name sponsorship (organisations like Vodafone and The Daily Telegraph were mentioned).
Julian, great on ideas and not one to be thwarted, said that we had to have something on which to hang the conference. So at 19:30 under a huge portrait of Peter the Great, the response was …
But we still had no members and no money. Julian committed to fix us a bank account. We agreed that everyone then joined to the email discussion list (barely more than a couple of dozen people) was an honorary member until the end of the year – giving us time to organise a membership system.
And that conference? We held it at Powell’s alma mater, Eton College, the following St George’s Day. To this day I have no idea how we achieved that given that we were all also doing demanding professional jobs.
Since then the Society has achieved a lot: not least 10 international conferences and more than a few publications; we were awarded charitable status in 2003.
(On a personal note the Society has taken me to places, and introduced me to people, my wildest dreams couldn’t have conjured up.)
So today, after a lot of hard work, good luck, and almost against all expectations, the Anthony Powell Society celebrates its 25th anniversary.
Sadly Julian died a few years ago, so will not be here, at least in person, to see the fruit of his idea.
You can find out more about the Anthony Powell Society and its work at https://www.anthonypowell.org/. There is also a Facebook page and a YouTube channel.
A Fairy Song
William Shakespeare
Over hill, over dale,
Through bush, through briar,
Over park, over pale,
Through blood, through fire,
I do wander everywhere,
Swifter than the moone’s sphere;
And I serve the fairy queen,
To dew her orbs upon the green.
The cowslips tall her pensioners be:
In their gold coats spots you see;
Those be rubies, fairy favours,
In those freckles live their savours:
I must go seek some dewdrops here,
And hang a pearl in every cowslip’s ear.
Farewell, thou lob of spirits; I’ll be gone:
Our queen and all her elves come here anon.
Find this poem online at Poetry Lover’s Page
The Hunting of the Snark (opening)
Lewis Carroll
“Just the place for a Snark!” the Bellman cried,
As he landed his crew with care;
Supporting each man on the top of the tide
By a finger entwined in his hair.
“Just the place for a Snark! I have said it twice:
That alone should encourage the crew.
Just the place for a Snark! I have said it thrice:
What I tell you three times is true.”
The crew was complete: it included a Boots –
A maker of Bonnets and Hoods –
A Barrister, brought to arrange their disputes –
And a Broker, to value their goods.
A Billiard-marker, whose skill was immense,
Might perhaps have won more than his share –
But a Banker, engaged at enormous expense,
Had the whole of their cash in his care.
There was also a Beaver, that paced on the deck,
Or would sit making lace in the bow:
And had often (the Bellman said) saved them from wreck
Though none of the sailors knew how.
Find this poem online at Poetry Foundation
Ozymandias
Percy Bysshe Shelly
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: ‘Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed
And on the pedestal these word appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’
Find this poem online at Poetry Foundation
No Man Is An Island
John Donne
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thy friend’s
Or of thine own were:
Any man’s death diminishes me,
Because I am involved in mankind,
And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;
It tolls for thee.
Find this poem online at All Poetry
Stopping by Woods On a Snowy Evening
Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Find this poem online at Poetry Foundation
Literature
Answers were correct when questions were compiled in late 2023.
Each month we’re posing five pub quiz style questions, with a different subject each month. As before, they’re not difficult, but it is unlikely everyone will know all the answers – so hopefully you’ll learn something new, as well as having a bit of fun.
Literature
Answers will be posted in 2 weeks time.
Our monthly look at what happened 100 years ago.
On this day, 10 December 1923 …
