Doubting Thomas?... Hardly…The only way is Wessex!
Thomas Hardy, tattoos, and transports of delight…
Well, dear readers…
Venturing beyond the bounds of Bexley and entering the bowels of the great wen recently..
I espied a poem on the underground…Here it is:
The thrushes sing as the sun is going, And the finches whistle in ones and pairs, And as it gets dark loud nightingales In bushes Pipe, as they can when April wears, As if all Time were theirs.
These are brand-new birds of twelve-months’ growing, Which a year ago, or less than twain, No finches were, nor nightingales, Nor thrushes, But only particles of grain, And earth, and air, and rain
Now, be honest - that’s pretty good, isn’t it?...
Intrigued, I strained my eyes to read who the poem was by (desperately trying not to catch the attention of the burly tattooed chap with the imaginative body adornments seating directly below the poster…)
Imagine my surprise! The poem was by Thomas Hardy, who I`d always imagined to be a dry Victorian novelist and something of an `old crusty` (albeit with one of the finest moustaches known to man – not dissimilar, in fact, to the tattooed hulk now gazing back at me…)
So, safely back in dear old Bexley, the Blogbrary’s extensive research department did a bit of delving, and they found this rather dapper website…http://www.hardysociety.org/….And they also found some rather splendid Hardy poetry on Bexley’s bookshelves – here, look.
It was Hardy’s birthday recently, too…(he’s 171 you know), and it’s also the 120th anniversary of his Tess of the D’Urbervilles.
And, do you know, the more we delved – the more we unearthed…old Thomas wasn’t crusty at all, he was unique, iconoclastic and fearless; an author who `broke the doll` of Victorian literary convention, and portrayed real characters, strong women, and a real sense of a harsh, unforgiving landscape.
A surprisingly sound chap, in fact…(now, I wonder if he had any tattoos?...`Tess` & `Jude` perhaps, inked upon his knuckles?...A purposeful `Mayor of Casterbridge` etched on a bulging bicep?...And something `Under the Greenwood Tree` perhaps?)…
TTFN, dear readers. TTFN.
10 comments:
The sun subsides and kisses the sea
Violet light starts to grow
The birds stop singing in quiet awe
It's amazing how they know
As I lie still my eyes above
Upon the heavenly spread of sky
The moon so large it fills all sight
I cannot help but wonder why
Why is it that we stress and fight
With world wars, genocide and such
When peace is free and wonderful
Is peace really one step too much?
Hardy?
Hardly!
I wonder if anyone has ever had a permanent book/library/literature related tattoo?
(I was, as a youngster, particularly fond of Richard Scarry's 'Busy Busy Day', but not to the extent of being permanently reminded of it when wandering au naturel around the palatial splendour of Chateau Gibbo...)
Thank-you, correspondents for getting this particular ball rolling…
Gibbo, your comments have set me thinking; something perhaps for a more `specialist` blog in the future? …Are there any tattooed librarians out there?
Meanwhile, in the spirit of Thomas Hardy, shall we try to return the debate to a more worthy and poetical level?...
Hardy was a wonderful poet and novelist. I had to read all the major novels for A levels many years ago and still ended up admiring them. I believe he turned to poetry after the rejection of his Jude the Obscure. My favourite poems are The darkling thrush and The oxen.
Mary
Speaking as an ex-Dorset person where Hardy was no 1 author, and as someone who studied Tess for A-Level (and so had to read Jude too), my overriding impression is one of such utter miserableness / doom and gloom that I've been put off reading Hardy ever since!
Maybe it's time to give him another go...
Thanks, ladies, for these comments.
Mary, you’re so right about the poems…I`ve just borrowed a book of the collected verse – I`m not usually a poetry `buff` but they are superb.
(Try `Drummer Hodge`, it nearly made me blub…)
So, Janice – your challenge is; pppick up a poem, they not joke-packed ribcrackers, but they’re very, very good…,
TTFN
Try the poem He Never Expected Much.
Thank-you, the Blogbrarian's team of researchers have found the poem in question:
He Never Expected Much
Well, World, you have kept faith with me,
Kept faith with me;
Upon the whole you have proved to be
Much as you said you were.
Since as a child I used to lie
Upon the leaze and watch the sky,
Never, I own, expected I
That life would all be fair.
'Twas then you said, and since have said,
Times since have said,
In that mysterious voice you shed
From clouds and hills around:
"Many have loved me desperately,
Many with smooth serenity,
While some have shown contempt of me
Till they dropped underground.
"I do not promise overmuch,
Child; overmuch;
Just neutral-tinted haps and such,"
You said to minds like mine.
Wise warning for your credit's sake!
Which I for one failed not to take,
And hence could stem such strain and ache
As each year might assign.
Gloomy, but good?...
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