Poetry Forum

I'm posting this still uncompleted version only so that I don't forget the latest bits.They are largely the result of post-pub inspiration which, whilst it can be helpful, is often unreliable!

When I walked from Batcombe to Yarlington,
the sun came too,
walking companionably by my side.
"I'm going south," I warned him,
"as far as I can go!"
Somerset looked sceptical,
Dorset was a green improbable haze.
"I will go with you," he said,
"because a sweet lady desires it."

On Bruton's famous high street,
where gently flows the Brue,
there is an opening
between an almshouse and a travel agent.
An unfrequented path climbs swiftly
past outhouses and orchards
to a colloquy of fields and sky,
a sacred stamping ground for sheep.
Here on May mornings, mad for mirth,
they foot it featly,
tracing the secret patterns of the tribe,
the mysteries of nettle, dock and thistle.
Don't go there then.
The baacchanal is heard
nervously
at Lamyatt.

In Wyke Champflower
I saw no sign of Champfleurs; were
they grands seigneurs,
chevaliers preux,
honnettes hommes
qui craignaient Dieu,
or some sort of ragamuffin
rootless second sons,
conquering Saxon England
in a fit of bloody-mindedness?
They came, they saw, they settled down.
A wyke is a place on the shoreline
where a boat can be landed;
that littoral is drained away,
a local prominence absorbed
into the surrounding plain -
it is become, like them,
good English soil.

Castle Cary's chi-chi cheese shops
and picturesque duck pond
did not detain me long.
From a hill above the town
Somerset is spread out like a story book:
Glastonbury and beyond,
the marches of Elfland.

Lunch was toponymy in a box:
ham sandwich.
I calculated distances,
average speeds, hours of daylight -
I could make Dorset yet.

In a cornfield near Galhampton,
the least of all the hamptons,
neither north nor south
nor conspicuously little,
I saw - in quick succession -
squirrel, fox and deer,
slipped out of the world of allegory,
aglow with the essence of themselves,
freshly painted as in a fable
of cobalt and copper
or Flemish weft and warp.
In the heavy mid-afternoon hum
of languid heat and tiredness,
I looked to see was there a unicorn too.
No unicorn did I espy,
and if there were three drunkards
lying asleep near the stile
into a certain field
it would take better, finer eyes
than mine to see, three mean sparrows.

On the approaches to North Cadbury,
ponies and privet hedges,
affluence at ease,
I heard, stirring in its bonds,
the first distant roaring
of the mighty A303.

Glad to see the sun's by your side now, David, not just on your right - it's no fun walking due south in a semicircle.

I enjoyed the last two added verses, but I felt that -

Lunch was toponymy in a box:
ham sandwich.
I calculated distances,
average speeds, hours of daylight -
I could make Dorset yet. ....was an intrusion. A cuckoo in the nest.

The hedgerows, the churches, the pubs - maybe something to think on. Maybe you could expand on Cadbury and Arthur. Then again, Arthur is Celtic in origin - He fought for Pryddyn (Britain) against the Saxons. Where do we draw the line on Englishness? You write of the baachanal at Lamyatt, the site of a Celtic/Roman temple - Does this capture Englishness? I would say that it does, so Arthur's fine for me. Up North (where it's grim), the history is more Roman, Celtic and Scandinavian in contrast to the South's mainly Anglo-Saxon past, where, it seems, the heart of Englishness is thought to beat. I disagree - but of course, I would.

Carry on that man.

Hereward the Rake

Hi -
there isn't much to add to what Barrie said. It's coming along well.
I would agree that you can add something of Arthur etc... even if they have Welsh origins, I don't think you can separate "Englishness" from it's influences - nor should we. And it adds to the magic!

Thanks you two. Point taken about that section, Barrie. (You didn't like my ham sandwich? Alas!)

I actually didn't know there is a temple at Lamyatt, but I don't mind at all. It was actually the place-name I found useful - lambs' gate.

I have Arthur and pubs on my list already - although I obviously need to consider Arthur's nationality a little more carefully - but churches and hedgerows - damn! Something else to think about, as is the heart of Englishness. Actually, I'm not trying to be definitive here - this is going to be a slice of Englishness, not necessarily the whole cake. Just as well!

And you're dead right, Lexi - I just can't ignore Arthur. But which Arthur? Blimey.

Cheers both

David

The Baacchanal at Lamyatt - If you didn't know about the temple there, then it's a sign from the Gods to carry on.

Llew Llaw Gyffes