Sign in with Facebook
|
The Penguin Book of Japanese Verse
by Anthony Thwaite , Various, Geoffrey Bownas    3.91 avg rating — 23 ratings
—
published
1964
—
5 editions
|
My rating:
|
|
The Ruins of Time: Antiquarian and Archaeological Poems
5.00 avg rating — 1 rating
—
published
2007
|
My rating:
|
|
|
A Portion for Foxes
4.00 avg rating — 1 rating
|
My rating:
|
|
Poetry Today: A Critical Guide to British Poetry, 1960-1992
2.00 avg rating — 2 ratings
—
published
1996
|
My rating:
|
|
|
The Owl in the Tree
3.00 avg rating — 1 rating
|
My rating:
|
|
Collected Poems
3.00 avg rating — 1 rating
—
published
2007
|
My rating:
|
|
Beyond the Inhabited World: Roman Britain
3.00 avg rating — 2 ratings
—
published
1976
—
3 editions
|
My rating:
|
|
|
Twentieth-Century Poetry
3.00 avg rating — 1 rating
—
published
1978
—
2 editions
|
My rating:
|
|
|
Victorian Voices
3.00 avg rating — 1 rating
—
published
1980
|
My rating:
|
|
Contemporary English Poetry: An Introduction
0.00 avg rating — 0 ratings
—
published
2007
—
2 editions
|
My rating:
|
Upcoming Events
No scheduled events.
Add an event.
“THE BARROW
In this high field strewn with stones
I walk by a green mound,
Its edges sheared by the plough.
Crumbs of animal bone
Lie smashed and scattered round
Under the clover leaves
And slivers of flint seem to grow
Like white leaves among green.
In the wind, the chestnut heaves
Where a man's grave has been.
Whatever the barrow held
Once, has been taken away:
A hollow of nettles and dock
Lies at the centre, filled
With rain from a sky so grey
It reflects nothing at all.
I poke in the crumbled rock
For something they left behind
But after that funeral
There is nothing at all to find.
On the map in front of me
The gothic letters pick out
Dozens of tombs like this,
Breached, plundered, left empty,
No fragments littered about
Of a dead and buried race
In the margins of histories.
No fragments: these splintered bones
Construct no human face,
These stones are simply stones.
In museums their urns lie
Behind glass, and their shaped flints
Are labelled like butterflies.
All that they did was die,
And all that has happened since
Means nothing to this place.
Above long clouds, the skies
Turn to a brilliant red
And show in the water's face
One living, and not these dead."
— Anthony Thwaite, from The Owl In The Tree”
― Anthony Thwaite
In this high field strewn with stones
I walk by a green mound,
Its edges sheared by the plough.
Crumbs of animal bone
Lie smashed and scattered round
Under the clover leaves
And slivers of flint seem to grow
Like white leaves among green.
In the wind, the chestnut heaves
Where a man's grave has been.
Whatever the barrow held
Once, has been taken away:
A hollow of nettles and dock
Lies at the centre, filled
With rain from a sky so grey
It reflects nothing at all.
I poke in the crumbled rock
For something they left behind
But after that funeral
There is nothing at all to find.
On the map in front of me
The gothic letters pick out
Dozens of tombs like this,
Breached, plundered, left empty,
No fragments littered about
Of a dead and buried race
In the margins of histories.
No fragments: these splintered bones
Construct no human face,
These stones are simply stones.
In museums their urns lie
Behind glass, and their shaped flints
Are labelled like butterflies.
All that they did was die,
And all that has happened since
Means nothing to this place.
Above long clouds, the skies
Turn to a brilliant red
And show in the water's face
One living, and not these dead."
— Anthony Thwaite, from The Owl In The Tree”
― Anthony Thwaite
“If I could sum up my poetry in a few well-chosen words, the result might be a poem. Several years ago, when I was asked to say something on this topic, I came up with the notion that for me the making of poems is both a commemoration (a moment captured) and an evocation (the archaeologist manqué side of me digging into something buried and bringing it to light). But I also said that I find the processes that bring poems into being mysterious, and I wouldn't really wish to know them; the thread that links the first unwilled impulse to the object I acknowledge as the completed poem is a tenuous one, easily broken. If I knew the answers to these riddles, I would write more poems, and better ones. "Simple Poem" is as close as I can get to a credo':
Simple Poem
I shall make it simple so you understand.
Making it simple will make it clear for me.
When you have read it, take me by the hand
As children do, loving simplicity.
This is the simple poem I have made.
Tell me you understand. But when you do
Don't ask me in return if I have said
All that I meant, or whether it is true.”
― Anthony Thwaite
Simple Poem
I shall make it simple so you understand.
Making it simple will make it clear for me.
When you have read it, take me by the hand
As children do, loving simplicity.
This is the simple poem I have made.
Tell me you understand. But when you do
Don't ask me in return if I have said
All that I meant, or whether it is true.”
― Anthony Thwaite
Is this you? Let us know. If not, help out and invite Anthony to Goodreads.
