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"I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare
Hail, humble Helpstone ...
Where dawning genius never met the day,
Where useless ignorance slumbers life away
Unknown nor heeded, where low genius tries
Above the vulgar and the vain to rise.
--from "Helpstone"
"I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare is the first anthology of the great "peasant poet"'s remarkable verse that makes available the full range of his accomplishments. Here are the different Clares that have beguiled readers for two centuries: the tender chronicler of nature and childhood; the champion of folkways in the face of oppression; the passionate, sweet-tongued love-poet; and the lonely visionary confined, in old age and senility, to asylums.
Where dawning genius never met the day,
Where useless ignorance slumbers life away
Unknown nor heeded, where low genius tries
Above the vulgar and the vain to rise.
--from "Helpstone"
"I Am": The Selected Poetry of John Clare is the first anthology of the great "peasant poet"'s remarkable verse that makes available the full range of his accomplishments. Here are the different Clares that have beguiled readers for two centuries: the tender chronicler of nature and childhood; the champion of folkways in the face of oppression; the passionate, sweet-tongued love-poet; and the lonely visionary confined, in old age and senility, to asylums.
344 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 2003
12 people are currently reading
640 people want to read
About the author
John Clare
313 books108 followersJohn Clare was an English poet, in his time commonly known as "the Northamptonshire Peasant Poet", born the son of a farm labourer at Helpston (which, at the time of his birth, was in the Soke of Peterborough, which itself was part of Northamptonshire) near Peterborough. His poetry underwent a major re-evaluation in the late 20th century and he is often now considered to be one of the most important 19th-century poets.
For other authors with this name see: psychotherapist and artist John Clare, history educator John D. Clare and John Clare.
For other authors with this name see: psychotherapist and artist John Clare, history educator John D. Clare and John Clare.
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Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews
February 6, 2018
John Clare has such a beautiful way of describing the natural world. The love and wonder come through in every word. And he uses such unusual words, too - they had to put a glossary in the back of this book for them. It's a trip to go through it.
Clumpsing = numb with cold
Crankle = bend, wind
Crimped = wrinkled
Crizzling = crisp, just frozen over
Dithering = shivering with cold
Drabbled = dirtied, splashed with mud
Flaze = smoky flame
Flusk = fly with sudden disordered motion
Haynish = awkward, clumsy
Jinny-Burnt-Arse = Jack-O-Lantern
Mouldywarps = moles
Pooty = snail
And that's only some of them!
Anyway, here's an example of his work:
Snowstorm
What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops
To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps
Incessant batter at the window pane,
Making our comfort feel as sweet again;
And in the morning, when the tempest drops,
At every cottage door mountainous heaps
Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops
Untill the beesom and the shovel gain
The path, and leave a wall on either side.
The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide
With new sensations his old memory fills,
When hedges left at night, no more descried,
Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills,
And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.
John Clare
Clumpsing = numb with cold
Crankle = bend, wind
Crimped = wrinkled
Crizzling = crisp, just frozen over
Dithering = shivering with cold
Drabbled = dirtied, splashed with mud
Flaze = smoky flame
Flusk = fly with sudden disordered motion
Haynish = awkward, clumsy
Jinny-Burnt-Arse = Jack-O-Lantern
Mouldywarps = moles
Pooty = snail
And that's only some of them!
Anyway, here's an example of his work:
Snowstorm
What a night! The wind howls, hisses, and but stops
To howl more loud, while the snow volley keeps
Incessant batter at the window pane,
Making our comfort feel as sweet again;
And in the morning, when the tempest drops,
At every cottage door mountainous heaps
Of snow lie drifted, that all entrance stops
Untill the beesom and the shovel gain
The path, and leave a wall on either side.
The shepherd rambling valleys white and wide
With new sensations his old memory fills,
When hedges left at night, no more descried,
Are turned to one white sweep of curving hills,
And trees turned bushes half their bodies hide.
John Clare
December 21, 2008
I do not know this collection, but John Clare's poetry is one of the most moving bodies of work anywhere. I feel much akin to Clare, as someone who emerged from the most backward of rural places, and who is haunted by the fact that that place made me, created my potentials, gave me its sensual and harsh nature, so I feel responsible to it.
John Clare bore this burden much more heavily, and more responsibly, than I, as he was the only--the only--voice saying anything like what he said, and somehow noone really understood its import. In some ways he himself did, but his role was not one that could be borne alone, and it broke him.
I first heard his name in a John Berryman poem, where Berryman calls him "that sweet man, John Clare." No better phrase, no better praise, could be devised.
John Clare bore this burden much more heavily, and more responsibly, than I, as he was the only--the only--voice saying anything like what he said, and somehow noone really understood its import. In some ways he himself did, but his role was not one that could be borne alone, and it broke him.
I first heard his name in a John Berryman poem, where Berryman calls him "that sweet man, John Clare." No better phrase, no better praise, could be devised.
February 28, 2012
"I am--yet what I am, none cares or knows." I've been poking around in this handsome volume again this morning. In recent years, Clare has been re-discovered as a major minor poet in the tradition of 19th Century English poetry. What at first sight may seem simple, often rhyming lyricism, in fact conveys the depths of a man's mind and soul. Even though Clare was delusional and spent the last 20 years of his life in an insane asylum, his ground note is joy. On a socioeconomic note, Clare was a peasant laborer from an illiterate family.
February 14, 2016
For those not familiar with the "rural" poet, John Clare, this volume is worth spending time with. I spent nearly two years slowly working through the poems as they deserve, and demand, time. Yes, there are plenty of pastoral-type poems here, but Clare's eye also looks at people as part of nature. While his own life was tragic, as seen as his brilliant yet unhinged poems late in life, he clearly understood the beauty of life. This is a poet to return to again and again.
September 26, 2013
No one writes peasant poetry like John Clare. And sadly, no one writes peasant poetry anymore, probably a result of the dwindling peasant population. In all seriousness, this is an excellent collection of Clare's greatest poems. These poems are beautiful descriptions of nature and rural landscapes written with the passion and understanding that could only come from a personality obsessively dedicated to the documentation of everything his mind was capable of seeing and sensing.
July 23, 2022
"Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky."
That's it -
The grass below—above the vaulted sky."
That's it -
May 24, 2015
I did not expect to be so enamored with a wide range of emotions while reading Clare's poetry. To be frank, I was solely interested in his "asylum" works, and ended up falling in love with the entire assortment of poems.
No one writes of the countryside better than John Clare. It's hard to believe he came from an illiterate family. Through peasantry, there was the birth of fine bucolic poetry! What also impressed me (and somewhat bewildered me) was the abrupt shift in tone and overall mood of his verse in response to his incarcerations. There's something about the combination of countryside and madness that is oddly appealing. I recommend this book to any lover of rural poetry. It is the finest!
January 26, 2024
Some of the Romantic poets are tragic because they died young. Wordsworth did not die young, but his misfortune was to lose the radicalism and sympathy for the common man that made his early works better.
John Clare was not a Romantic, although he was contemporary with Keats. His tragedy was that he lived too long.
Clare has been called a ‘peasant poet’ due to his working-class origins. He wrote without punctuation, and with poor spelling, leading to controversies about the extent to which editors should tidy up his work by correcting these errors. Since Clare asked for his works to be polished before publication, there are some grounds for removing the poems from their raw form, but other critics find the bare poems more beautiful.
Sadly poetry did not allow Clare to make a living, and he often had to make money for labouring. This makes the prolific nature of his poetry (around 3,000 poems in all) even more astonishing. Mostly Clare was a miniaturist who wrote short poems.
Clare was a great nature lover who wrote with affection and sincere interest in the flora and fauna of his local area. This makes his fate seem even sadder. After battling with depression and alcoholism, Clare went insane. He spent most of the next 27 years in asylums away from his beloved countryside, until his death, and as if that was not bad enough he contracted senile dementia at the end of his life.
What is it about Clare that explains why his works are not better-known? Was it his unfortunate fate? An insane poet is hardly a role model. Perhaps it was his working-class origins. Was there some snobbery attached to his lower status in the world of poetry?
I think part of the problem is that Clare’s poetry is as modest and unassuming as his status in life. He writes about nature, but there is nothing as transcendental as Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale’ or Shelley’s ‘To a Skylark’ While Clare offers tirades against enclosure and damage to the country, he lacks the radicalism of Byron or the kinship with the ordinary man seen in early Wordsworth.
Clare’s poetry is emotional, but even the emotions are quiet. He writes with sadness and gloom, but does not have the rich self-indulgent pessimism of Thomas Hardy. Indeed one criticism of Clare is that his poetry is flat, perhaps because he never reaches the peaks of the more famous poems.
Still there are arguments to be made in favour of Clare’s style. If Clare does not reach the heights of Keats or Shelley, it is because he has a far deeper understanding and closeness to nature than they do. Clare does not fixate on a single bird, animal, flower or tree because he finds equal joy in them all.
For Clare, the nightingale is not a symbol of ‘poesy’ (one of Clare’s favourite words). It is not the carrier of heightened emotions. Instead Clare’s interest is that of the naturalist. What colour are its eggs? What does the nightingale look like? How does it behave? How shy is it around men? As for the nightingale’s famous singing, it is lovely, and yet not much better than that of the song thrush, Clare thinks.
I imagine an ornithologist or botanist would simply love Clare’s poetry because he discusses the characteristics and identifying features of the insects, plants, waterfowl and martens that he sees. This gives Clare’s poems a quiet intensity far removed from the histrionics of Keats or Shelley.
Clare is certainly no radical. He complains about the damage to his native landscape, and is concerned for the creatures that live there. However he is conventionally pious, and has no great desire to change the political system.
Admittedly his Don Juan is crudely satirical against Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, but that might be his insanity talking. Possibly the insane Clare wrote it during an insane phase when he sincerely believed he was Lord Byron. The scatological and ribald nature of the work (unusual in Clare’s work) does seem to suggest he was not in good health.
Still Clare’s mild rants against the established order may be a relief to anyone who dislikes the outrageous blasphemies of Shelley and Byron. At any rate his poetry is not stuffed with many worthy political sentiments.
Though Clare lacks Hardy’s extraordinary skill for writing gloomy poetry, there are some merits to Clare’s approach. He does not seem to be enjoying his own misery like Hardy. Clare is sincerely melancholy. He struggles with his mental health, constantly returning to the days of his childhood when life was happier and less complicated.
Later Clare was committed to two asylums, but continued to write. Here he seems to have written fewer of the lovingly-detailed nature poems of before, if this volume is any guide. Nonetheless the two most poignant poems belong to this phase, the two ‘I Am’ poems in which he outlines his plight.
There is also a return to Clare’s first love, Mary Joyce. He remembers intensely the period when she was his sweetheart before she was taken from him. At one point Clare absconded from his asylum to return home, believing in his deluded state, that he was married to Mary. She had in fact died a few years earlier.
While John Clare may not quite compare to the greatest nineteenth-century poets, he is still a remarkable figure of the time. He may not have inspired any movements or developments in poetry, but he did have his own unique voice. Any lover of poetry should try to make some time to read him.
John Clare was not a Romantic, although he was contemporary with Keats. His tragedy was that he lived too long.
Clare has been called a ‘peasant poet’ due to his working-class origins. He wrote without punctuation, and with poor spelling, leading to controversies about the extent to which editors should tidy up his work by correcting these errors. Since Clare asked for his works to be polished before publication, there are some grounds for removing the poems from their raw form, but other critics find the bare poems more beautiful.
Sadly poetry did not allow Clare to make a living, and he often had to make money for labouring. This makes the prolific nature of his poetry (around 3,000 poems in all) even more astonishing. Mostly Clare was a miniaturist who wrote short poems.
Clare was a great nature lover who wrote with affection and sincere interest in the flora and fauna of his local area. This makes his fate seem even sadder. After battling with depression and alcoholism, Clare went insane. He spent most of the next 27 years in asylums away from his beloved countryside, until his death, and as if that was not bad enough he contracted senile dementia at the end of his life.
What is it about Clare that explains why his works are not better-known? Was it his unfortunate fate? An insane poet is hardly a role model. Perhaps it was his working-class origins. Was there some snobbery attached to his lower status in the world of poetry?
I think part of the problem is that Clare’s poetry is as modest and unassuming as his status in life. He writes about nature, but there is nothing as transcendental as Keats’ Ode to a Nightingale’ or Shelley’s ‘To a Skylark’ While Clare offers tirades against enclosure and damage to the country, he lacks the radicalism of Byron or the kinship with the ordinary man seen in early Wordsworth.
Clare’s poetry is emotional, but even the emotions are quiet. He writes with sadness and gloom, but does not have the rich self-indulgent pessimism of Thomas Hardy. Indeed one criticism of Clare is that his poetry is flat, perhaps because he never reaches the peaks of the more famous poems.
Still there are arguments to be made in favour of Clare’s style. If Clare does not reach the heights of Keats or Shelley, it is because he has a far deeper understanding and closeness to nature than they do. Clare does not fixate on a single bird, animal, flower or tree because he finds equal joy in them all.
For Clare, the nightingale is not a symbol of ‘poesy’ (one of Clare’s favourite words). It is not the carrier of heightened emotions. Instead Clare’s interest is that of the naturalist. What colour are its eggs? What does the nightingale look like? How does it behave? How shy is it around men? As for the nightingale’s famous singing, it is lovely, and yet not much better than that of the song thrush, Clare thinks.
I imagine an ornithologist or botanist would simply love Clare’s poetry because he discusses the characteristics and identifying features of the insects, plants, waterfowl and martens that he sees. This gives Clare’s poems a quiet intensity far removed from the histrionics of Keats or Shelley.
Clare is certainly no radical. He complains about the damage to his native landscape, and is concerned for the creatures that live there. However he is conventionally pious, and has no great desire to change the political system.
Admittedly his Don Juan is crudely satirical against Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, but that might be his insanity talking. Possibly the insane Clare wrote it during an insane phase when he sincerely believed he was Lord Byron. The scatological and ribald nature of the work (unusual in Clare’s work) does seem to suggest he was not in good health.
Still Clare’s mild rants against the established order may be a relief to anyone who dislikes the outrageous blasphemies of Shelley and Byron. At any rate his poetry is not stuffed with many worthy political sentiments.
Though Clare lacks Hardy’s extraordinary skill for writing gloomy poetry, there are some merits to Clare’s approach. He does not seem to be enjoying his own misery like Hardy. Clare is sincerely melancholy. He struggles with his mental health, constantly returning to the days of his childhood when life was happier and less complicated.
Later Clare was committed to two asylums, but continued to write. Here he seems to have written fewer of the lovingly-detailed nature poems of before, if this volume is any guide. Nonetheless the two most poignant poems belong to this phase, the two ‘I Am’ poems in which he outlines his plight.
There is also a return to Clare’s first love, Mary Joyce. He remembers intensely the period when she was his sweetheart before she was taken from him. At one point Clare absconded from his asylum to return home, believing in his deluded state, that he was married to Mary. She had in fact died a few years earlier.
While John Clare may not quite compare to the greatest nineteenth-century poets, he is still a remarkable figure of the time. He may not have inspired any movements or developments in poetry, but he did have his own unique voice. Any lover of poetry should try to make some time to read him.
July 31, 2007
I learned about enclosures.
Somehow reading so many of these nature poems in a row, is really relaxing and lush and I feel them around me. But after reading so many of these nature poems, after a while, it stops being about "about" since every poem seems to be saying the same thing, and seems more about different conglomerations of word clusters - like jewels laid across the line.
Somehow reading so many of these nature poems in a row, is really relaxing and lush and I feel them around me. But after reading so many of these nature poems, after a while, it stops being about "about" since every poem seems to be saying the same thing, and seems more about different conglomerations of word clusters - like jewels laid across the line.
August 4, 2013
I have a number of editions of John Clare's poems, but I am so pleased
to have bought this one by Jonathan Bate. The poems are presented chronologically and they come across fresh and as honest as ever. As the great American poet John Ashbery wrote (he is quoted on the back-cover) "Clare grabs hold of you.......". This is a lovely edition of the poems; a pleasure to hold and to read.
to have bought this one by Jonathan Bate. The poems are presented chronologically and they come across fresh and as honest as ever. As the great American poet John Ashbery wrote (he is quoted on the back-cover) "Clare grabs hold of you.......". This is a lovely edition of the poems; a pleasure to hold and to read.
October 8, 2014
He got so hungry during a long walk after escaping from an asylum that he ate grass from a ditch and said it tasted like bread.
What a great poet!
What a great poet!
July 20, 2024
I had a straight forward reaction to this book: I wished my father was alive to share it with him. I read the Clare autobiography too. Clare had the observation skills of a supreme naturalist and the skills of a true poet. One of the classic English poetry anthologies listed him and Tennyson as living poets to be included after they died. But Clare died in a madhouse and was lost in obscurity, even though he and Keats had the same publisher. He apparently met Tennyson on an earlier hospitalization and that was why they were included together when Clare had fallen into general obscurity. Did Clare just play at being mad? Some people thought so, and that he was nowhere near as delusional as he appeared. My partner's uncle worked at St. Elizabeth's when Pound was there and when I explained that Pound played mad to avoid execution she suddenly knew just who I was talking about. Her uncle had told her something about just that. Clare was an alcoholic and there were all sorts of reasons he was mad. But don't think for a moment he was not brilliant. A feminist wrote Clare had the mind of a stalker because he listed out every woman he ever met. I think it's the kind of thing someone with memory problems would do, plus he wrote love poems to trade for beer with the locals in walking distance. Making poetry out of women he remembered was his bread and butter. I imagine he had other obsessive habits as well. Someone actually claims copyright over his works despite the length of time he has been dead. Actually the common law has no such survivorship law on property rights. Basically he copyrighted his ability to decipher Clare's handwriting as if Clare belonged to him. It is deeply offensive and this scholar defies the claim. He is the real expert. When Clare played at being Byron he may actually have been at his most brilliant, but then no one writes sonnets like Clare. Read this edition.
August 12, 2021
John Clare ist einer der wichtigsten englischen Dichter des 19. Jahrhunderts.
Seine Dichtung ist der Natur und Romantik gewidmet.
Seine Biografie ist für die Bedeutung seiner Werke sehr wichtig. Clare, Zeit seines Lebens psychisch krank und immer wieder in der Psychiatrie eingewiesen ist eine traurige Gestalt.
Der vorliegende Band beinhaltet sein komplettes Schaffen. Der Höhepunkt ist aber ganz klar “Reise nach Essex“
John Clare ist in Deutschland noch relativ unbekannt und lohnt sich zu entdecken.
Seine Dichtung ist der Natur und Romantik gewidmet.
Seine Biografie ist für die Bedeutung seiner Werke sehr wichtig. Clare, Zeit seines Lebens psychisch krank und immer wieder in der Psychiatrie eingewiesen ist eine traurige Gestalt.
Der vorliegende Band beinhaltet sein komplettes Schaffen. Der Höhepunkt ist aber ganz klar “Reise nach Essex“
John Clare ist in Deutschland noch relativ unbekannt und lohnt sich zu entdecken.
February 5, 2022
Adore the message, and find much of the language pretty, but...
Purely subjectively, much of the works don't grip me with the escapism and wonder I get with, say, Blake or Wordsworth. This might be the lack of a strong narrative in many of the poems, and I am open to the possibility that revisitations later on will create stronger impressions.
Purely subjectively, much of the works don't grip me with the escapism and wonder I get with, say, Blake or Wordsworth. This might be the lack of a strong narrative in many of the poems, and I am open to the possibility that revisitations later on will create stronger impressions.
October 15, 2017
If you know me, you know I love Clare. However, I was even more amazed this time, as I read a wider range of his poetry (and a bit of prose). Particularly compelling were (of course) Clare's bird poems. I am fascinated and looking forward to working with them more for my thesis.
May 21, 2025
An incredibly underrated poet whose suffering is so profound and so well detailed in his own unique way, and not many other poets at this time would be able to articulate this particular type of loss. Ie everything you’ve ever known and loved.
March 31, 2022
A great poet, who should be much better known.
March 5, 2023
'I Am' the best poem. For anyone whoever felt like they were unseen, or on the outside looking in. The poem merges thoughts about the self, doubt and wanting deeply to connect.
December 24, 2016
John Clare è un poeta inglese che "conobbi" mentre studiavo per un esame di letteratura inglese durante un corso sulla poesia rurale del settecento tenuto dal compianto anglista Fernando Ferrara. Nato e vissuto in ambiente agricolo e contadino nella contea del Nottinghamshire, la sua poesia risente fortemente di questo contesto rurale. Era il tempo della rivoluzione agricola che avrebbe portato poi a quella che fu la rivoluzione industriale inglese. Grandi sconvolgimenti sociali ed esistenziali, a cavallo tra il settecento e l'ottocento, cambiarono il volto di un Paese, l'Inghilterra, facendolo diventare Nazione e Stato, mutando usi e costumi, travolgendo vite ed esistenze.
John Clare fu uno di questi. Dopo un effimero successo delle sue poesie, scritte sul tema della vita rurale, delle sue miserie e sofferenze, conobbe un declino di fama seguito da un successivo abbandono psicologico e mentale che lo fece rinchiudere in un ospizio dove trascorse venti anni della sua vita. La struttura di questa breve poesia è semplice ma il significato è abbastanza complesso. Tre strofe di sei versi ognuna. La prima strofa ha uno schema in lingua inglese ababab. Le altre due ababcc. Il tutto dà alla composizione ritmo, melodia e tensione. I versi sono pieni di immaginazione, metafore, similitudini, ambiguità ed anche ironia. Su se stessi, sull'autore, ma in fondo sulla condizione umana. Tutto a prima vista. Ad una lettura più approfondita e con un minimo di contesto si capisce che la poesia parla del valore della vita e dell'esistenza in condivisione.
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd
Io sono! ma, cosa? e a chi importa?
Nel ricordo degli amici scomparso.
Mi consumo fra dolori e torti;
Appaiono e scompaiono, nell’oblio disperso,
Ombre della vita, il vero spirito perso.
Eppure io sono e vivo, anche se sbattuto
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that 's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.
Nel nulla della vergogna e del disdegno,
Nel vasto mare dei sogni a occhi aperti
Dove di vita o gioia non c’è segno,
Ma solo il naufragio di tutti i miei meriti
Tutto ciò che mi è caro, i più amati
Mi sono estranei, ignoto ai più.
I long for scenes where man has never trod—
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.
Anelo a luoghi dove l'uomo mai pose piede,
Luoghi dove donna mai sorrise o pianse,
Là dove abita il mio creatore, Dio,
E il sonno è come quello della fanciullezza,
Piena di alti pensieri, mai nati. Lasciami
sotto l'erba, sotto la volta del cielo.
John Clare
Al primo verso il poeta dichiara la sua esistenza, uomo o donna che sia. Una esistenza isolata, solitaria, una esperienza di unicità irripetibile. "Io sono" sembrerebbe essere una dichiarazione esaustiva di completezza, invece non lo è affatto. Nella sua categoricità ha una enfasi negativa perché mette in luce il vuoto e la solitudine del soggetto. "Eppure, quello che sono, nessuno si cura o sa ...". Una volta forse qualcuno lo ricordava, oggi non più. Gli amici lo hanno dimenticato, perdendo di lui la memoria. Il che rende la sua solitudine ancora più pregante perché c'è stato un momento di perdita e di tradimento.
Non c'è nulla di più drammatico di una condizione del genere, quella di chi diventa "consumatore delle sue pene". La parola "woes" è un termine molto ambiguo perché significa sensazioni diverse di pena e sofferenza alle quali non si può porre rimedio. I versi 4/5 rinforzano questa situazione e fanno concludere al poeta che nella sua condizione di abbandono e dimenticanza egli continua ad esistere tra dolori e sofferenze rendendo la sua esistenza senza sostanza, soltanto un'ombra, una nebbia.
Nella seconda strofa questa nebbia avvolge il poeta e lo fa diventare il nulla che vaga in un mare di sogni vivi. Ma il fatto di non essere riconosciuto dagli altri lo colloca in un vuoto assoluto. Senza il riscontro degli altri è condannato a non esistere. Il mare è il simbolo di come egli vede la sua vita: senza fondo, tra flutti misteriosi, tra desolazione e confusione. Un mare senza vita né gioie, un mare di solitudine, destinato al naufragio. Nella terza strofa il poeta arriva alla conclusione paradossale che se le cose stanno così è bene rimanere isolato così non soffrirà per la mancanza degli altri.
John Clare fu uno di questi. Dopo un effimero successo delle sue poesie, scritte sul tema della vita rurale, delle sue miserie e sofferenze, conobbe un declino di fama seguito da un successivo abbandono psicologico e mentale che lo fece rinchiudere in un ospizio dove trascorse venti anni della sua vita. La struttura di questa breve poesia è semplice ma il significato è abbastanza complesso. Tre strofe di sei versi ognuna. La prima strofa ha uno schema in lingua inglese ababab. Le altre due ababcc. Il tutto dà alla composizione ritmo, melodia e tensione. I versi sono pieni di immaginazione, metafore, similitudini, ambiguità ed anche ironia. Su se stessi, sull'autore, ma in fondo sulla condizione umana. Tutto a prima vista. Ad una lettura più approfondita e con un minimo di contesto si capisce che la poesia parla del valore della vita e dell'esistenza in condivisione.
I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows?
My friends forsake me like a memory lost.
I am the self-consumer of my woes;
They rise and vanish, an oblivious host,
Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost.
And yet I am—I live—though I am toss'd
Io sono! ma, cosa? e a chi importa?
Nel ricordo degli amici scomparso.
Mi consumo fra dolori e torti;
Appaiono e scompaiono, nell’oblio disperso,
Ombre della vita, il vero spirito perso.
Eppure io sono e vivo, anche se sbattuto
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dream,
Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys,
But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem
And all that 's dear. Even those I loved the best
Are strange—nay, they are stranger than the rest.
Nel nulla della vergogna e del disdegno,
Nel vasto mare dei sogni a occhi aperti
Dove di vita o gioia non c’è segno,
Ma solo il naufragio di tutti i miei meriti
Tutto ciò che mi è caro, i più amati
Mi sono estranei, ignoto ai più.
I long for scenes where man has never trod—
For scenes where woman never smiled or wept—
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Full of high thoughts, unborn. So let me lie,—
The grass below; above, the vaulted sky.
Anelo a luoghi dove l'uomo mai pose piede,
Luoghi dove donna mai sorrise o pianse,
Là dove abita il mio creatore, Dio,
E il sonno è come quello della fanciullezza,
Piena di alti pensieri, mai nati. Lasciami
sotto l'erba, sotto la volta del cielo.
John Clare
Al primo verso il poeta dichiara la sua esistenza, uomo o donna che sia. Una esistenza isolata, solitaria, una esperienza di unicità irripetibile. "Io sono" sembrerebbe essere una dichiarazione esaustiva di completezza, invece non lo è affatto. Nella sua categoricità ha una enfasi negativa perché mette in luce il vuoto e la solitudine del soggetto. "Eppure, quello che sono, nessuno si cura o sa ...". Una volta forse qualcuno lo ricordava, oggi non più. Gli amici lo hanno dimenticato, perdendo di lui la memoria. Il che rende la sua solitudine ancora più pregante perché c'è stato un momento di perdita e di tradimento.
Non c'è nulla di più drammatico di una condizione del genere, quella di chi diventa "consumatore delle sue pene". La parola "woes" è un termine molto ambiguo perché significa sensazioni diverse di pena e sofferenza alle quali non si può porre rimedio. I versi 4/5 rinforzano questa situazione e fanno concludere al poeta che nella sua condizione di abbandono e dimenticanza egli continua ad esistere tra dolori e sofferenze rendendo la sua esistenza senza sostanza, soltanto un'ombra, una nebbia.
Nella seconda strofa questa nebbia avvolge il poeta e lo fa diventare il nulla che vaga in un mare di sogni vivi. Ma il fatto di non essere riconosciuto dagli altri lo colloca in un vuoto assoluto. Senza il riscontro degli altri è condannato a non esistere. Il mare è il simbolo di come egli vede la sua vita: senza fondo, tra flutti misteriosi, tra desolazione e confusione. Un mare senza vita né gioie, un mare di solitudine, destinato al naufragio. Nella terza strofa il poeta arriva alla conclusione paradossale che se le cose stanno così è bene rimanere isolato così non soffrirà per la mancanza degli altri.
October 11, 2017
"I Am!"
By John Clare
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
By John Clare
I am—yet what I am none cares or knows;
My friends forsake me like a memory lost:
I am the self-consumer of my woes—
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shadows in love’s frenzied stifled throes
And yet I am, and live—like vapours tossed
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life or joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems;
Even the dearest that I loved the best
Are strange—nay, rather, stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
A place where woman never smiled or wept
There to abide with my Creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept,
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie
The grass below—above the vaulted sky.
April 5, 2014
I am: yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
..........Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.......
..............And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky. ..............
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
..........Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.......
..............And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky. ..............
August 21, 2008
A nice collection of Clare's poetry. Clare really was a remarkable and tragic man who produced some worthwhile poetry in a country and time where poetry was mostly left to the educated (or so our anthologies indicate and preserve.)
July 28, 2007
Excellent.
September 7, 2007
one out of every ten of these poems will pierce your veil
April 24, 2008
In 2005 I wrote about John Clare as a Christmas card. I included 2 of his poems.
You can see the PDF of the piece here: http://www.wordwelder.com/John_Clare_...
You can see the PDF of the piece here: http://www.wordwelder.com/John_Clare_...
August 1, 2009
Known as the Peasant Poet, but inspirational reading of his work.
September 10, 2012
My favorite John Clare poem is "Autumn", perhaps because I am smitten by the season. Clare's imagery is accurate and descriptive.
March 16, 2013
One of my favorite of the romantics.
Displaying 1 - 28 of 28 reviews