Dear March – Come In : Emily Dickinson : : March Poems : : Month Poems : :

Emily Dickinson was born on December 10, 1830, in Amherst, Massachusetts. While she was extremely prolific as a poet and regularly enclosed poems in letters to friends, she was not publicly recognized during her lifetime. She died in Amherst in 1886, and the first volume of her work was published posthumously in 1890.

Dear March—Come in—(1320)
Emily Dickinson – 1830-1886






Dear March—Come in—
How glad I am—
I hoped for you before—
Put down your Hat—
You must have walked—
How out of Breath you are—
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest—
Did you leave Nature well—
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—

I got your Letter, and the Birds—
The Maples never knew that you were coming—
I declare – how Red their Faces grew—
But March, forgive me—
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue—
There was no Purple suitable—
You took it all with you—

Who knocks? That April—
Lock the Door—
I will not be pursued—
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied—
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come

That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame—

“Dear March – Come In –” A March Poem written around 1874 , By Emily Dickinson is About Reception of the Month , March. This March Poem  is written in a “sprightly” meter and unpredictable rhyme, typical of Dickinson’s Poems . : The Tone of the Poem balances a “breath of fresh air” whimsy with a deeper, subtle anxiety about the swift passage of time and the loss of cherished moments.   : : : : : : :  : : : : :  : : : : : :  : : : : : :  : : : : :  1 St Stanza : : About Greetings : : The Poet bids welcome to Dear March expressing her gladness on its arrival she hoped for it. She asks March to put down ( his ) hat and then ,”How are you and the Rest – ” ; noticing how out of Breath ( he )  was ! ( gasping : short winded ! )  and a specified state of arriving as if gone away from an earlier place , in her words, ” Did you leave Nature well–”   As if he was a human. ( Using Personification ). This domesticates the vast changes of nature into a private, human interaction.   : : She says further, ” Oh March, Come right upstairs with me—
I have so much to tell—” : Conferring , her Trust in her Friend Dear March, and her intention of Confiding in him certain intimate talks in private. : : : :

2 Nd Stanza : : About “Birds”& “The Maples” Trees , indispensable core group to the Spring as well as The March : His Heart and Soul who did not know that he was coming untill She declared that he was coming as she knew it from his letter ; and upon this information they turned out ” Red” faced. ( Suffused with blood from the emotions attached with arrival of March and Spring alongside. : : She asks for forgiveness in saying that she is hued to a “purple”( not suitable –) This suggests they are “blushing” with the sudden excitement of March’s arrival. Hills and he took all the purple with him. Taking away the “Purple suitable” for the hills, referring to the vibrant colors of the previous season that are now missing as spring begins to “hue” or color the landscape. : : : :

3 Rd Stanza : : About the Month ,”April”now knocking the door. She says that she doesn’t want the arrival of April who stayed away a year to call ; when she was busy and no attention from April. This ‘Resistance to  April’ is portrayed as a rude intruder who knocks while the speaker is “occupied” with March. This highlights the speaker’s desire to linger in the “first blush” of spring rather than be rushed into the next phase. She feels like being followed with some enmity ( unfriendly hostility ) as if to harm from that April to whom she requests March to lock the door. She was by far spending time ( No serious )  in playful activities which is ” trifles” now felt like “trivial” ( small and of little importance ) Upon the arrival of March. : : : :

4 Th Stanza , The Last Two lines : : About “ praise and blames” Related to each other :  : ” That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame— ” : : : : When you blame March for taking away the beautiful purple hues of the hills, you have also expressed for praising March for bringing those very beautiful colors. With what is  taken away in a manner is also brought to a degree that dazzles the beholder. That’s why the blame and praise follows each other. This Paradox of Praise and Blame suggests that when we truly love someone or something, even our complaints are a form of affection. In the presence of a beloved guest, all “trifles” and judgments become trivial. : : Something left after other parts have been taken away. That’s how harmoniously March balances. The unsuitable is found as one part and the reciprocals  balance. : : : :

The personification of March may be a coded reference to Reverend Charles Wadsworth, often considered the “great love” of her life, who left her for California, causing her significant emotional distress. it reimagines the arrival of spring as a long-awaited visit from a dear friend. :  : : “Dear March — Come In –” A March Poem By Emily Dickinson Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January  13 , 2023 : : Updated  March 2 / 3 , 2026 : Holika Dahan : Bangalore. : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :

The Shepherd’s Calendar: March : : John Clare : : March Poems : : Months Poems : :

The Shepheardes Calender
March



ÆGLOGA TERTIA

ARGUMENT
IN this Æglogue two shepheards boyes, taking occasion of the season, beginne to make purpose of love, and other pleasaunce which to springtime is most agreeable. The speciall meaning hereof is to give certaine markes and tokens to know Cupide, the poets god of love. But more particularlye. I thinke, in the person of Thomalin is meant some secrete freend, who scorned Love and his knights so long, till at length him selfe was entangled, and unwares wounded with the dart of some beautifull regard, which is Cupides arrow.


WILLYE. THOMALIN.

Wil. Thomalin, why sytten we soe,
As weren overwent with woe,
Upon so fayre a morow?
The joyous time now nigheth fast,
That shall alegge this bitter blast, 5
And slake the winters sorowe.
Tho. Sicker, Willye, thou warnest well:
For winters wrath beginnes to quell,
And pleasant spring appeareth.
The grasse nowe ginnes to be refresht, 10
The swallow peepes out of her nest,
And clowdie welkin cleareth.
Wil. Seest not thilke same hawthorne studde,
How bragly it beginnes to budde,
And utter his tender head? 15
Flora now calleth forth eche flower,
And bids make ready Maias bowre,
That newe is upryst from bedde.
Tho shall we sporten in delight,
And learne with Lettice to wexe light, 20
That scornefully lookes askaunce;
Tho will we little Love awake,
That nowe sleepeth in Lethe lake,
And pray him leaden our daunce.
Tho. Willye, I wene thou bee assott: 25
For lustie Love still sleepeth not,
But is abroad at his game.
Wil. How kenst thou that he is awoke?
Or hast thy selfe his slomber broke?
Or made previe to the same? 30
Tho. No, but happely I hym spyde,
Where in a bush he did him hide,
With winges of purple and blewe.
And were not that my sheepe would stray,
The previe marks I would bewray, 35
Whereby by chaunce I him knewe.
Wil. Thomalin, have no care forthy;
My selfe will have a double eye,
Ylike to my flocke and thine:
For als at home I have a syre, 40
A stepdame eke, as whott as fyre,
That dewly adayes counts mine.
Tho. Nay, but thy seeing will not serve,
My sheepe for that may chaunce to swerve,
And fall into some mischiefe. 45
For sithens is but the third morowe
That I chaunst to fall a sleepe with sorowe,
And waked againe with griefe:
The while thilke same unhappye ewe,
Whose clouted legge her hurt doth shewe, 50
Fell headlong into a dell,
And there unjoynted both her bones:
Mought her necke bene joynted attones,
She shoulde have neede no more spell.
Thelf was so wanton and so wood, 55
(But now I trowe can better good)
She mought ne gang on the greene.
Wil. Let be, as may be, that is past:
That is to come, let be forecast.
Now tell us what thou hast seene. 60
Tho. It was upon a holiday,
When shepheardes groomes han leave to play,
I cast to goe a shooting.
Long wandring up and downe the land,
With bowe and bolts in either hand, 65
For birds in bushes tooting,
At length within an yvie todde
(There shrouded was the little god)
I heard a busie bustling.
I bent my bolt against the bush, 70
Listening if any thing did rushe,
But then heard no more rustling.
Tho peeping close into the thicke,
Might see the moving of some quicke,
Whose shape appeared not: 75
But were it faerie, feend, or snake,
My courage earnd it to awake,
And manfully thereat shotte.
With that sprong forth a naked swayne,
With spotted winges like peacocks trayne, 80
And laughing lope to a tree,
His gylden quiver at his backe,
And silver bowe, which was but slacke,
Which lightly he bent at me.
That seeing I, levelde againe, 85
And shott at him with might and maine,
As thicke as it had hayled.
So long I shott that al was spent:
Tho pumie stones I hastly hent,
And threwe; but nought availed: 90
He was so wimble and so wight,
From bough to bough he lepped light,
And oft the pumies latched.
Therewith affrayd I ranne away:
But he, that earst seemd but to playe, 95
A shaft in earnest snatched,
And hit me running in the heele:
For then, I little smart did feele;
But soone it sore encreased.
And now it ranckleth more and more, 100
And inwardly it festreth sore,
Ne wote I how to cease it.
Wil. Thomalin, I pittie thy plight.
Perdie, with Love thou diddest fight:
I know him by a token. 105
For once I heard my father say,
How he him caught upon a day,
(Whereof he wilbe wroken)
Entangled in a fowling net,
Which he for carrion crowes had set, 110
That in our peeretree haunted.
Tho sayd, he was a winged lad,
But bowe and shafts as then none had,
Els had he sore be daunted.
But see, the welkin thicks apace, 115
And stouping Phebus steepes his face:
Yts time to hast us homeward.


WILLYES EMBLEME.
To be wise and eke to love,
Is graunted scarce to god above.

THOMALINS EMBLEME.
Of hony and of gaule in love there is store:
The honye is much, but the gaule is more. : ::: From bartleby.com : : For Educational Purposes only. : : : :

John Clare, ‘The Shepherd’s Calendar: March’. The underrated nature poet John Clare (1793-1864) wrote an entire sequence of poems about nature and the English countryside at particular times of the year, and in the March entry in his ‘Shepherd’s Calendar’, he salutes the way ‘March month of “many weathers” wildly comes / In hail and snow and rain and threatning hums / And floods’ : : : : Written in 19 th Century Verse & Rhymes , a simplified version is very much required and given hereinbelow : : : :

Previous Poem
The Shepherds Calendar – March
Rating: ★3.0
♡
Autoplay

March month of ‘many weathers’ wildly comes
In hail and snow and rain and threatning hums
And floods: while often at his cottage door
The shepherd stands to hear the distant roar
Loosd from the rushing mills and river locks
Wi thundering sound and over powering shocks
And headlong hurry thro the meadow brigs
Brushing the leaning sallows fingering twigs
In feathery foam and eddy hissing chase
Rolling a storm oertaken travellers pace
From bank to bank along the meadow leas
Spreading and shining like to little seas
While in the pale sunlight a watery brood
Of swopping white birds flock about the flood
Yet winter seems half weary of its toil
And round the ploughman on the elting soil
Will thread a minutes sunshine wild and warm
Thro the raggd places of the swimming storm
And oft the shepherd in his path will spye
The little daisey in the wet grass lye
That to the peeping sun enlivens gay
Like Labour smiling on an holiday
And where the stunt bank fronts the southern sky
By lanes or brooks where sunbeams love to lye
A cowslip peep will open faintly coy
Soon seen and gatherd by a wandering boy
A tale of spring around the distant haze
Seems muttering pleasures wi the lengthening days
Morn wakens mottld oft wi may day stains
And shower drops hang the grassy sprouting plains
And on the naked thorns of brassy hue
Drip glistning like a summer dream of dew
While from the hill side freshing forest drops
As one might walk upon their thickening tops
And buds wi young hopes promise seemly swells
Where woodman that in wild seclusion dwells
Wi chopping toil the coming spring decieves
Of many dancing shadows flowers and leaves
And in his pathway down the mossy wood
Crushes wi hasty feet full many a bud
Of early primrose yet if timely spied
Shelterd some old half rotten stump beside
The sight will cheer his solitery hour
And urge his feet to stride and save the flower
Muffld in baffles leathern coat and gloves
The hedger toils oft scaring rustling doves
From out the hedgrows who in hunger browze
The chockolate berrys on the ivy boughs
And flocking field fares speckld like the thrush
Picking the red awe from the sweeing bush
That come and go on winters chilling wing
And seem to share no sympathy wi spring
The stooping ditcher in the water stands
Letting the furrowd lakes from off the lands
Or splashing cleans the pasture brooks of mud
Where many a wild weed freshens into bud
And sprouting from the bottom purply green
The water cresses neath the wave is seen
Which the old woman gladly drags to land
Wi reaching long rake in her tottering hand
The ploughman mawls along the doughy sloughs
And often stop their songs to clean their ploughs
From teazing twitch that in the spongy soil
Clings round the colter terryfying toil
The sower striding oer his dirty way
Sinks anckle deep in pudgy sloughs and clay
And oer his heavy hopper stoutly leans
Strewing wi swinging arms the pattering beans
Which soon as aprils milder weather gleams
Will shoot up green between the furroed seams
The driving boy glad when his steps can trace
The swelling edding as a resting place
Slings from his clotted shoes the dirt around
And feign woud rest him on the solid ground
And sings when he can meet the parting green
Of rushy balks that bend the lands between
While close behind em struts the nauntling crow
And daws whose heads seem powderd oer wi snow
To seek the worms-and rooks a noisey guest
That on the wind rockd elms prepares her nest
On the fresh furrow often drops to pull
The twitching roots and gathering sticks and wool
Neath trees whose dead twigs litter to the wind
And gaps where stray sheep left their coats behind
While ground larks on a sweeing clump of rushes
Or on the top twigs of the oddling bushes
Chirp their ‘cree creeing’ note that sounds of spring
And sky larks meet the sun wi flittering wing
Soon as the morning opes its brightning eye
Large clouds of sturnels blacken thro the sky
From oizer holts about the rushy fen
And reedshaw borders by the river Nen
And wild geese regiments now agen repair
To the wet bosom of broad marshes there
In marching coloms and attention all
Listning and following their ringleaders call
The shepherd boy that hastens now and then
From hail and snow beneath his sheltering den
Of flags or file leavd sedges tyd in sheaves
Or stubble shocks oft as his eye percieves
Sun threads struck out wi momentery smiles
Wi fancy thoughts his lonliness beguiles
Thinking the struggling winter hourly bye
As down the edges of the distant sky
The hailstorm sweeps-and while he stops to strip
The stooping hedgbriar of its lingering hip
He hears the wild geese gabble oer his head
And pleasd wi fancys in his musings bred
He marks the figurd forms in which they flye
And pausing follows wi a wandering eye
Likening their curious march in curves or rows
To every letter which his memory knows
While far above the solitary crane
Swings lonly to unfrozen dykes again
Cranking a jarring mellancholy cry
Thro the wild journey of the cheerless sky
Full oft at early seasons mild and fair
March bids farewell wi garlands in her hair
Of hazzel tassles woodbines hairy sprout
And sloe and wild plumb blossoms peeping out
In thickset knotts of flowers preparing gay
For aprils reign a mockery of may
That soon will glisten on the earnest eye
Like snow white cloaths hung in the sun to drye
The old dame often stills her burring wheel
When the bright sun will thro the window steal
And gleam upon her face and dancing fall
In diamond shadows on the picturd wall
While the white butterflye as in amaze
Will settle on the glossy glass to gaze
And oddling bee oft patting passing bye
As if they care to tell her spring was nigh
And smiling glad to see such things once more
Up she will get and potter to the door
And look upon the trees beneath the eves
Sweet briar and ladslove swelling into leaves
And damsin trees thick notting into bloom
And goosberry blossoms on the bushes come
And stooping down oft views her garden beds
To see the spring flowers pricking out their heads
And from her apron strings she’ll often pull
Her sissars out an early bunch to cull
For flower pots on the window board to stand
Where the old hour glass spins its thread of sand
And maids will often mark wi laughing eye
In elder where they hang their cloaths to drye
The sharp eyd robin hop from grain to grain
Singing its little summer notes again
As a sweet pledge of Spring the little lambs
Bleat in the varied weather round their dams
Or hugh molehill or roman mound behind
Like spots of snow lye shelterd from the wind
While the old yoes bold wi paternal cares
Looses their fears and every danger dares
Who if the shepherds dog but turns his eye
And stops behind a moment passing bye
Will stamp draw back and then their threats repeat
Urging defiance wi their stamping feet
And stung wi cares hopes cannot recconsile
They stamp and follow till he leaps a stile
Or skulking from their threats betakes to flight
And wi the master lessens out of sight
Clowns mark the threatning rage of march pass bye
And clouds wear thin and ragged in the sky
While wi less sudden and more lasting smiles
The growing sun their hopes of spring beguiles
Who often at its end remark wi pride
Days lengthen in their visits a ‘cocks stride’
Dames clean their candlesticks and set them bye
Glad of the makeshift light that eves supply
The boy returning home at night from toil
Down lane and close oer footbrig gate and style1
Oft trembles into fear and stands to hark
The waking fox renew his short gruff bark
While badgers eccho their dread evening shrieks
And to his thrilling thoughts in terror speaks
And shepherds that wi in their hulks remain
Night after night upon the chilly plain
To watch the dropping lambs that at all hours
Come in the quaking blast like early flowers
Demanding all the shepherds care who find
Warm hedge side spots and take them from the wind
And round their necks in wary caution tyes
Long shreds of rags in red or purple dyes
Thats meant in danger as a safty spell
Like the old yoe that wears a tinkling bell
The sneaking foxes from his thefts to fright
That often seizes the young lambs at night
These when they in their nightly watchings hear
The badgers shrieks can hardly stifle fear
They list the noise from woodlands dark recess
Like helpless shrieking woman in distress
And oft as such fears fancying mystery
Believes the dismal yelling sounds to be
For superstition hath its thousand tales
To people all his midnight woods and vales
And the dread spot from whence the dismal noise
Mars the night musings of their dark employs
Owns its sad tale to realize their fear
At which their hearts in boyhood achd to hear
A maid at night by treacherous love decoyd
Was in that shrieking wood years past destroyd
She went twas said to meet the waiting swain
And home and friends ne’er saw her face again
Mid brakes and thorns that crowded round the dell
And matting weeds that had no tongues to tell
He murderd her alone at dead midnight
While the pale moon threw round her sickly light
And loud shrieks left the thickets slumbers deep
That only scard the little birds from sleep
When the pale murderers terror frowning eye
Told its dread errand that the maid shoud dye
Mid thick black thorns her secret grave was made
And there ere night the murderd girl was laid
When no one saw the deed but god and he
And moonlight sparkling thro the sleeping tree
Around-the red breast might at morning steel
There for the worm to meet his morning meal
In fresh turnd moulds that first beheld the sun
Nor knew the deed that dismal night had done
Such is the tale that superstition gives
And in her midnight memory ever lives
That makes the boy run by wi wild affright
And shepherds startle on their rounds at night

Now love teazd maidens from their droning wheel
At the red hour of sunset sliving steals
From scolding dames to meet their swains agen
Tho water checks their visits oer the plain
They slive where no one sees some wall behind
Or orchard apple trees that stops the wind
To talk about springs pleasures hoveing nigh
And happy rambles when the roads get dry
The insect world now sunbeams higher climb
Oft dream of spring and wake before their time
Blue flyes from straw stacks crawling scarce alive
And bees peep out on slabs before the hive
Stroaking their little legs across their wings
And venturing short flight where the snow drop hings
Its silver bell-and winter aconite
Wi buttercup like flowers that shut at night
And green leaf frilling round their cups of gold
Like tender maiden muffld from the cold
They sip and find their honey dreams are vain
And feebly hasten to their hives again
And butterflys by eager hopes undone
Glad as a child come out to greet the sun
Lost neath the shadow of a sudden shower
Nor left to see tomorrows april flower .

John Clare

From poemhunter.com : : For Educational Purposes only.

Notes pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 12 , 2023 ; : : : ; : : :

February 17th : Ted Hughes : : February Poems : : Months Poems : :

February 17 th : : : : By Ted Hughes : : : : ……… February 17th
A lamb could not get born. Ice wind
Out of a downpour dishclout sunrise. The mother
Lay on the mudded slope. Harried, she got up
And the blackish lump bobbed at her back-end
Under her tail. After some hard galloping,
Some manoeuvring, much flapping of the backward
Lump head of the lamb looking out,
I caught her with a rope. Laid her, head uphill
And examined the lamb. A blood-ball swollen
Tight in its black felt, its mouth gap
Squashed crooked, tongue stuck out, black-purple,
Strangled by its mother. I felt inside,
Past the noose of mother-flesh, into the slippery
Muscled tunnel, fingering for a hoof,
Right back to the port-hole of the pelvis.
But there was no hoof. He had stuck his head out too early
And his feet could not follow. He should have
Felt his way, tip-toe, his toes
Tucked up under his nose
For a safe landing. So I kneeled wrestling
With her groans. No hand could squeeze past
The lamb’s neck into her interior
To hook a knee. I roped that baby head
And hauled till she cried out and tried
To get up and I saw it was useless. I went
Two miles for the injection and a razor.
Sliced the lamb’s throat-strings, levered with a knife
Between the vertebrae and brought the head off
To stare at its mother, its pipes sitting in the mud
With all earth for a body. Then pushed
The neck-stump right back in, and as I pushed
She pushed. She pushed crying and I pushed gasping,
And the strength
Of the birth push and the push of my thumb
Against that wobbly vertebra were deadlock,
A to-fro futility. Till I forced
A hand past and got a knee. Then like
Pulling myself to the ceiling with one finger
Hooked in a loop, timing my effort
To her birth push groans, I pulled against
The corpse that would not come. Till it came.
And after it the long, sudden, yolk-yellow
Parcel of life
In a smoking slather of oils and soups and syrups—
And the body lay born, beside a hacked-off head.

“February 17th By Ted Hughes ( 1930 – 1398 ) is detailing About The difficult birth of a lamb on a farm and About the awful or displeasing side of Nature. : : Ted Hughes introduced this classic February poem before reading it once about the backdrop of a picturesque scene in the poem, stating as a high slope looking south towards Dartmoor on a very nasty February morning’: This is a long way from the witticisms of Ward or the altogether more idyllic description in John Clare’s classic February poem, but Hughes’s poem contains a similar eye for detail and doesn’t shrink away from the nastier side of nature.

Notes for each of the lines of the poem pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 11, 2023 : : : : : : : : : : : :

1915 February : Ezra Pound :

Ezra Pound photographed in 1913 by Alvin Langdon Coburn.

The smeared, leather-coated, leather-greaved engineer
Walks in front of his traction-engine
Like some figure out of the sagas,
Like Grettir or like Skarpheddin,
With a sort of majestical swagger.
And his machine lumbers after him
Like some mythological beast,
Like Grendel bewitched and in chains,
But his ill luck will make me no sagas,
Nor will you crack the riddle of his skull,
O you over-educated, over-refined literati!
Nor yet you, store-bred realists,
You multipliers of novels!
He goes, and I go.
He stays and I stay.
He is mankind and I am the arts.
We are outlaws.
This war is not our war,
Neither side is on our side:
A vicious mediaevalism,
A belly-fat commerce,
Neither is on our side:
Whores, apes, rhetoricians,
Flagellants! in a year
Black as the dies irae.
We have about us only the unseen country road,
The unseen twigs, breaking their tips with blossom.

‘1915: February’. Pound (1885-1972) sent this poem to H. L. Mencken for publication, but in fact it remained unpublished until after Pound’s death. In his letter to Mencken which enclosed the poem, Pound wrote that he thought ‘1915: February’ had ‘some guts’, but he confessed that he may have been ‘blinded by the fury in which I wrote it’. It’s certainly an angry poem, about the manufacturing of weapons for the First World War. : :
Pound became co-editor of Blast in 1914. He was also London editor of the Little Review and Paris correspondent for The Dial. Angered by the carnage of World War I, Pound blamed the war on finance capitalism, which he called “usury” : : : :

Notes for each of the lines of the poem pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 10 , 2023 : : : : : : : : : :

February : Michael Field ( Katharine Harris Bradley & Edith Emma Cooper ) : : February Poems : : Months Poems : :

Katherine Harris Bradley (27 October 1846 in Birmingham, England,– 26 September 1914 )
Edith Emma Cooper (12 January 1862 – 13 December 1913 )
Katherine Harris Bradley & her niece and ward Edith Emma Cooper : : They wrote a number of passionate love poems to each other, and their name Michael Field was their way of declaring their inseparable oneness. Friends referred to them as the Fields, the Michaels or the Michael Fields. They also were passionately devoted to their pets, in particular a dog named Whym Chow, for whom they wrote a book of poems named after him. As Field they wrote around 40 works together, and a long journal Works and Days. Their intention was to keep the pen-name secret, but it became public knowledge, not long after they had confided in their friend Robert Browning. : : They had financial independence. They lived together for 40 years. : : They developed a large circle of literary friends and contacts; in particular painters and life partners Charles Ricketts and Charles Shannon, near whom they settled in Richmond, London. Robert Browning was also a close friend of theirs, and they knew and admired Oscar Wilde, whose death they bitterly mourned. : : They knew many of the aesthetic movement of the 1890s, including Walter Pater, Vernon Lee, J. A. Symonds and also Bernard Berenson. William Rothenstein was a friend. : : Katherine had found that she had breast cancer in June 1913 and only told her confessor, Vincent McNabb; she had never told Edith, who had been diagnosed with cancer in 1911. Edith died 13 December 1913 at their home, The Paragon, Richmond.[7][8] Katherine died 26 September 1914, having moved to a cottage near McNabb at Hawkesyard Priory, Rugeley. : : Charles Ricketts designed one for them of black stone, for which John Gray wrote the epitaph (‘United in blood, united in Christ’) : : Their extensive diaries are stored in the British Library,[5] and have been digitised and made available. : :
Old Beech tree in Summer.
Giant Beech tree in snow covered Winter
Snow In a Beech Wood Box Hill Surrey UK
Young Beech leaves in spring. (Photo by: Bill Allsopp/Loop Images/Universal Images Group via Getty Images.
Leaf of Fagus sylvatica. : : Beech tree

Gay lucidity,
Not yet sunshine, in the air;
Tingling secrets hidden everywhere,
Each at watch for each;
Sap within the hillside beech,
Not a leaf to see.

— Michael Field ( Katharine Harris Bradley : 1846–1914 & Edith Emma Cooper : 1862–1913 ) :

Aunt and her Niece wanted to keep their identities , a Secret but it came out not long after they had told Robert Browning about it. They wrote a number of passionate love poems to each other, and their name Michael Field was their way of declaring their inseparable oneness. Friends referred to them as the Fields, the Michaels or the Michael Fields. They had a range of pet names for each other. This short poem written in 1893 February begins by referring to ‘Gay lucidity, / Not yet sunshine, in the air’, neatly capturing the transitional Nature of February. : : : :

The First word in this poem, “February”, “gay” signals for ‘Bright and Pleasant’ and should elucidate cheery feelings with the expression “Gay lucidity” ; yet the Poet doesn’t come up with ‘lucid air’ , that is with ‘beamy light’ on understandable mind or sense of clarity on the event : : : : revealing as in line 2 , “Not yet sunshine , in the air;” alongwith line 3, ” Tingling secrets hidden everywhere,” indicates incoherence and vagueness, that is , kept out of sight. The obscure informations are not yet observable of some esoteric “secrets” about which some excitements obviously cause prickle : : “Tingling Secret” : A digression apparently turned aside from the main story of ( early ) February scene in nature; that’s why “hidden everywhere”, the Poet has stated. The unseeable is a design as for protection and safety before the actual transition from one season to a change over to the next season. And , that is the ( early ) February time of hide out. The new seasonal changes to make or undergo are enshrouded in a secret mystery. : : Now, “each” of the “secrets” is “at watch for each;” ( what!? ) : Of the first few signs that can connect each other to one that follows on. : Here, let us think minutely of the word,”watch”, Meaning ‘not simply : ‘look on’ ; but the attentive ‘eagerly watch’ is for some ‘anticipated event’, which is still cryptic. : : The poetic eye on the lookout is for ascertaining the “Sap within the hillside beech,” A ‘springtime activity’ of rejuvenating with some sign say, of new leaves to be proliferated in the Green canopy / crowns distinctly visible on each and every branches & barks ; And here comes on is the ‘prickle’ : Meaning a small sharp pointed tip resembling a spike on a stem or new leaf : call it a ‘spikelet’ which is a sign of change over through the series of the leaves on old and new branches ( the poem does not shed light naming such sign(s). ) : The deciduous “hillside beech” trees which shed all its leaves as with no enough sunlight in wintery weather of cold and/ or snow , will have to acquire the new broad leaves to become ready for photosynthesis, with the abundant sunlight to be made available by Nature in the next season of Spring. But the poem records, ” Not yet sunshine in the air”: : “Sap” is a watery solution of sugar , produced by the photosynthesis in the green leaves having chlorophyll rich main components ; water, salts and minerals being brought up from the root system : mixtures of sugary water salts & minerals is a Sap nutrients that circulates through the plant’s Vascular system that can be sensed inside the veins at the ventral side of the leaves : : that is, the inquiry at the scenery of the “hillside beech” wheather, it is showing any sign among the “beech” trees to become a first one to show for a change over to being live again , with the rounded spreading crown & smooth grey bark. As it happens with the most of the deciduous trees like ( oak, beech, ironwood, hornbeam, witch hazel, and frailejones. ) , beech trees either lose all or most of their leaves during the winter. : : And the end line 6 , is declaring the watchful observation concluded as, ” Not a leaf to see.” : : And that is the month of ( early ) February : : ‘Cold’ is still traceable and ‘Spring’ is still the lot more watchful steps far away by couple of weeks : : : :

“February ” A February Poem By Michael Field , Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 9, 2023 : ; : : : : : : :

John Clare, ‘February : John Clare : February Poems : : Months Poems : :

John ClareJohn Clare
The Shepherds Calendar – February – A Thaw Poem.


The snow is gone from cottage tops
The thatch moss glows in brighter green
And eves in quick succession drops
Where grinning ides once hath been
Pit patting Wi a pleasant noise
In tubs set by the cottage door
And ducks and geese wi happy joys
Douse in the yard pond brimming oer

The sun peeps thro the window pane
Which childern mark wi laughing eye
And in the wet street steal again
To tell each other spring is nigh
And as young hope the past recalls
In playing groups will often draw
Building beside the sunny walls
Their spring-play-huts of sticks or straw

And oft in pleasures dreams they hie
Round homsteads by the village side
Scratting the hedgrow mosses bye
Where painted pooty shells abide
Mistaking oft the ivy spray
For leaves that come wi budding spring
And wondering in their search for play
Why birds delay to build and sing

The milkmaid singing leaves her bed
As glad as happy thoughts can be
While magpies chatter oer her head
As jocund in the change as she
Her cows around the closes stray
Nor lingering wait the foddering boy
Tossing the molehills in their play
And staring round in frolic joy

Ploughmen go whistling to their toils
And yoke again the rested plough
And mingling oer the mellow soils
Boys’ shouts and whips are noising now

The shepherd now is often seen
By warm banks oer his work to bend
Or oer a gate or stile to lean
Chattering to a passing friend

Odd hive bees fancying winter oer
And dreaming in their combs of spring
Creeps on the slab beside their door
And strokes its legs upon its wing
While wild ones half asleep are humming
Round snowdrop bells a feeble note
And pigions coo of summer coming
Picking their feathers on the cote

The barking dogs by lane and wood
Drive sheep afield from foddering ground
And eccho in her summer mood
Briskly mocks the cheery sound
The flocks as from a prison broke
Shake their wet fleeces in the sun
While following fast a misty smoke
Reeks from the moist grass as they run

Nor more behind his masters heels
The dog creeps oer his winter pace
But cocks his tail and oer the fields
Runs many a wild and random chase
Following in spite of chiding calls
The startld cat wi harmless glee
Scaring her up the weed green walls
Or mossy mottld apple tree

As crows from morning perches flye
He barks and follows them in vain
Een larks will catch his nimble eye
And off he starts and barks again
Wi breathless haste and blinded guess
Oft following where the hare hath gone
Forgetting in his joys excess
His frolic puppy days are done

The gossips saunter in the sun
As at the spring from door to door
Of matters in the village done
And secret newsings mutterd oer
Young girls when they each other meet
Will stand their tales of love to tell
While going on errands down the street
Or fetching water from the well

A calm of pleasure listens round
And almost whispers winter bye
While fancy dreams of summer sounds
And quiet rapture fills the eye
The sun beams on the hedges lye
The south wind murmurs summer soft
And maids hang out white cloaths to dry
Around the eldern skirted croft

Each barns green thatch reeks in the sun
Its mate the happy sparrow calls
And as nest building spring begun
Peeps in the holes about the walls

The wren a sunny side the stack
Wi short tail ever on the strunt
Cockd gadding up above his back
Again for dancing gnats will hunt

The gladdend swine bolt from the sty
And round the yard in freedom run
Or stretching in their slumbers lye
Beside the cottage in the sun
The young horse whinneys to its mate
And sickens from the threshers door
Rubbing the straw yards banded gate
Longing for freedom on the moor

Hens leave their roosts wi cackling calls
To see the barn door free from snow
And cocks flye up the mossy walls
To clap their spangld wings and crow
About the steeples sunny top
The jackdaw flocks resemble spring
And in the stone archd windows pop
Wi summer noise and wanton wing

The small birds think their wants are oer
To see the snow hills fret again
And from the barns chaff litterd door
Betake them to the greening plain
The woodmans robin startles coy
Nor longer at his elbow comes
To peck wi hungers eager joy
Mong mossy stulps the litterd crumbs

Neath hedge and walls that screen the wind
The gnats for play will Hock together
And een poor flyes odd hopes will find
To venture in the mocking weather
From out their hiding holes again
Wi feeble pace they often creep
Along the sun warmd window pane
Like dreaming things that walk in sleep

The mavis thrush wi wild delight
Upon the orchards dripping tree
Mutters to see the day so bright
Spring scraps of young hopes poesy
And oft dame stops her burring wheel
To hear the robins note once more
That tutles while he pecks his meal
From sweet briar hips beside the door

The hedghog from its hollow root
Sees the wood moss clear of snow
And hunts each hedge for fallen fruit
Crab hip and winter bitten sloe
And oft when checkd by sudden fears
As shepherd dog his haunt espies
He rolls up in a ball of spears
And all his barking rage defies

Thus nature of the spring will dream
While south winds thaw but soon again
Frost breaths upon the stiffening stream
And numbs it into ice-the plain

Soon wears its merry garb of white
And icicles that fret at noon
Will eke their icy tails at night
Beneath the chilly stars and moon

Nature soon sickens of her joys
And all is sad and dumb again
Save merry shouts of sliding boys
About the frozen furrowd plain
The foddering boy forgets his song
And silent goes wi folded arms
And croodling shepherds bend along
Crouching to the whizzing storms

John Clare

“The Shepherds Calendar – February – A Thaw ” A, February Poem of 160 lines in 23 Stanzas By John Clare is About a country life of Arcadian : idyllically idealised rustic life, especially relating Shepherds or herdsman with their calender. It is welcoming the Spring thaw , that is , warming weather following a freeze , snow and ice – melt : A Winter becoming less hostile. The beauty of Nature brings a New life of Romantics again for shepherds.

Notes for each of the 23 Stanzas Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 8 , 2023 ,; ; : ,: : ; ; ,:

Edward Ward, ‘February : Edward Ward : : February Poem : : Months Poems : :

Ned Ward, 1731 : also known as Edward Ward, , a contemporary of Jonathan Swift ; was a satirical writer and publican in the late 17th and early 18th century in London. His most famous work, The London Spy, appeared in 18 monthly instalments from November 1698. It was described by its author as a “complete survey” of the London scene and published in book form in 1703. : : Ward drew on his own experiences in Port Royal to develop the “trip format”, This type of satirical account, first used by Ward on Jamaica, was extended by him to New England (which he did not visit), Islington, Sadler’s Wells, Bath and Stourbridge. : : In The London Spy, Ward presented the seamier side of life through graphic description, racy anecdotes and character sketches. Some such satires were expanded into periodicals, allowing for extended commentary on specific human and individual vices that Ward experienced personally, particularly within London and in his own taverns. : : In 1730 in the wake of the success of John Gay’s The Beggar’s Opera, Ward wrote the libretto for a similarly-themed ballad opera The Prisoner’s Opera which was performed at Sadler’s Wells. : :

February By Edward Ward : ( 1667 — 1731 ) : : He who would, in this Month, be warm within, And when abroad, from Wet defend his Skin, His Morning’s draught should be of Sack or Sherry, And his Great Coat be made of Drab-de-berry.

Source : : pickmeuppoetry.org For Educational Purposes only. : : : : : :

In this February Poem , Ward advises us to wrap up warm (in ‘Drab-de-berry’, a woollen cloth from Berry in France), and drink plenty of sherry as a way of getting through February : : : :

Notes , Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 7 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

January : Hilaire Belloc : : January Poems : : Sonnet : : Months Poems : :

“It freezes. Every friendly stream ( representing life ) is fast.”‘January’: Hilaire Belloc
“January” : “It freezes; and the graven twigs are still” : Hilaire Belloc: : Death”Leers in at human windows turning spy”
Hilaire Belloc portrait by E. O. Hoppé, 1915 : Joseph Hilaire Pierre René Belloc ( b. 27 July 1870 , La Celle-Saint-Cloud, Seine-et-Oise, France – Died 16 July 1953 , Aged 82 , Guildford, Surrey, England. ) : : Writer Politician. French – British. Alma mater:Balliol College, Oxford: : Poetry, history, essays, politics, economics, travel literature : : Literary movement:
Catholic literary revival : : Spouse
Elodie Hogan: (m. 1896; died 1914) : : a Franco-English writer and historian of the early twentieth century. Belloc was also an orator, poet, sailor, satirist, writer of letters, soldier, and political activist. His Catholic faith had a strong effect on his works. : : While attending Oxford, he served as President of the Oxford Union. From 1906 to 1910, he served as one of the few openly Catholic members of the British Parliament. : : a noted disputant, with a number of long-running feuds. He was also a close friend and collaborator of G. K. Chesterton. George Bernard Shaw, a friend and frequent debate opponent of both Belloc and Chesterton, dubbed the pair the “Chesterbelloc”. : : encompassed religious poetry and comic verse for children. His widely sold Cautionary Tales for Children included “Jim, who ran away from his nurse, and was eaten by a lion” and “Matilda, who told lies and was burned to death”.He wrote historical biographies and numerous travel works, including The Path to Rome (1902) : : Stephen Fry has recorded an audio collection of Belloc’s children’s poetry.
The composer Peter Warlock set many of Belloc’s poems to music.
Peter Ustinov recorded Belloc’s The Cautionary Tales in 1968 for the Musical Heritage Society

Hilaire Belloc
January
It freezes- all across a soundless sky 1
The birds go home. The governing dark’s begun: 2
The steadfast dark that waits not for a sun; 3
The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die. 4
Death, with his evil finger to his lip, 5
Leers in at human windows, turning spy 6
To learn the country where his rule shall lie7
When he assumes perpetual generalship. 8

The undefeated enemy, the chill 9
That shall benumb the voiceful earth at last,
Is master of our moment, and has bound 11
The viewless wind it-self. There is no sound.
It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast. 13
It freezes; and the graven twigs are still 14

Lines 1 To 8 : : : : About The freezing scene “all across the soundless sky”. : On completion of the day, “The birds go home”And with that emerges, “the governing dark” which indicates evil intent in its baleful look suggestive of the tragic sinister bent on “The ultimate dark wherein the race shall die.” : The dark does not have to wait for a sun , a Symbol of life ; as it is dependable ally of the death which remains unbendable, having a resolute firm determination. The darkness itself is a foreboding sign of the bad about to happen.: “Death, with his evil finger to his lip, 5
Leers in at human windows, turning spy” 6: : The word “leers”is suggestive of ‘sneering’ look : A facial expression of ‘contempt’ or ‘scorn’ ; as if there were intense dislike. : Thus, Death turns in it’s advances through a human windows. : : ” perpetual generalship”denotes the authority and the leadership ability of military General , which is continuing forever , indefinitely. Hence , the ( powerful ) governing rule lasts long. All these have deathly consequences in the country shown by the freezing month of ‘January’. : : : :

“January” , A Sonnet & January Poem By Hilaire Belloc is About ‘frosty scene’ of ‘Cold Wave’ brought out by Combating Military in the form of Wintery : ‘Cold Conditions and the Freezing Chill’ during the month of January and About the “governing dark” ruled by Death, with his evil finger and the shadow of the ” undefeated enemy” : : It is well learnt fact that very many People and Animals increasingly die due to severe cold /adverse weather conditions and it has devastating impacts on the plants life & Nature as well , during the coldest month of ‘January’, year by years. : : : :

Lines 9 To 14 : : : : About Life on the Earth, which is normally livened up by invigorating voices of many life forms. But, the vast areas on the Earth in ‘January’ is “benumbed” by the “viewless freezing” “chill”. : There is “no sound”: The combatant “chill”: ” The undefeated enemy”, is always successfull and on top of control every moment soon after its arrival at the scene here and now, with its all dominating power to defeat at all across the country, about which it has learned everything ; and thus have well- bound across the vast reaches. As a result, as lines 13 & 14 make an official bulletin,” It freezes. Every friendly stream is fast. 13
It freezes; and the graven twigs are still 14″ : Meaning ,the “friendly stream” representing active life ; as well as “the graven twigs ” : Meaning , the name of winner”chill” has been inscribed on the dry surface of”twigs” of the trees ) have been ‘fixed’: that is, “fast” in its place and is ‘immobile’ or “still”, that is without moving or making a sound. : : : :

As discussed above , ‘January’ is a month ‘ruled by death’, and the shadow of “the undefeated enemy”. : : : :

“January” , A January Poem By Hilaire Belloc Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 6 , 2023 : : : : : : : :

Letter Written During a January Northeaster : Anne Sexton : January Poem : : Months Poems : :

Private: Letter Written During a January Northeaster: a poem by Anne Sexton

Monday

Dearest,
It is snowing, grotesquely snowing
upon the small faces of the dead.
Those dear loudmouths, gone for over a year,
buried side by side
like little wrens.
But why should I complain?
The dead turn over casually,
thinking:
Good! No visitors today.
My window, which is not a grave,
is dark with my fierce concentration
and too much snowing
and too much silence.
The snow has quietness in it; no songs,
no smells, no shouts nor traffic.
When I speak
my own voice shocks me.



Tuesday

I have invented a lie,
there is no other day but Monday.
It seems reasonable to pretend
that I could change the day
like a pair of socks.
To tell the truth
days are all the same size
and words aren’t much company.
If I were sick, I’d be a child,
tucked in under the woolens, sipping my broth.
As it is,
the days are not worth grabbing
or lying about.



Monday

It would be pleasant to be drunk:
faithless to my own tongue and hands,
giving up the boundaries
for the heroic gin.
Dead drunk
is the term I think of,
insensible,
neither cool nor warm,
without a head or a a foot.
To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.
I will try it shortly.



Monday

Just yesterday,
twenty eight men aboard a damaged radar tower
foundered down seventy miles off the coast.
Immediately their hearts slammed shut.
The storm would not cough them up.
Today they are whispering over Sonar.
Small voice,
what do you say?
Aside from the going down, the awful wrench,
The pulleys and hooks and the black tongue . . .
What are your headquarters?
Are they kind?



Monday

It must be Friday by now.
I admit I have been lying.
Days don’t freeze
And to say that the snow has quietness in it
is to ignore the possibilities of the word.
Only the tree has quietness in it;
quiet as a pair of antlers
waiting on the cabin wall,
quiet as the crucifix,
pounded out years ago like a handmade shoe.
Someone once
told an elephant to stand still.
That’s why trees remain quiet all winter.
They’re not going anywhere.



Monday

Dearest,
where are your letters?
The mailman is an impostor.
He is actually my grandfather.
He floats far off in the storm
with his nicotine mustache and a bagful of nickels.
His legs stumble through
baskets of eyelashes.
Like all the dead
he picks up his disguise,
shakes it off and slowly pulls down the shade,
fading out like an old movie.
Now he is gone
as you are gone.
But he belongs to me like lost baggage.



—Anne Sexton

(from The Hudson Review, Vol. XV, Number 2, Summer 1962) : from hudsoreview.com : : For Educational Purposes only.

“Letter Written During a January Northeaster” , By one of twentieth-century American poetry’s most distinctive voices, that of the confessional poet Anne Sexton (1928-74) , is About the Poet’s Struggle to live day by day. While writing this letter mostly on Monday during the snowing month of ‘January’ she complains of not receiving any letter from her ” Dearest”and of her grandfather , a mailsman but deceitful roleplayer ( calling him ” impostor”: In his duty as in the 6 Th last Stanza ) and also announces that he is gone , as you are gone, but he belongs to me like a lost baggage.” : : This shows her awareness of emotional baggage that she brings from her past relationship which may have been disadvantageous. : : : :

1 St Stanza : : Monday

Dearest,
It is snowing, grotesquely snowing
upon the small faces of the dead. 1
Those dear loudmouths, gone for over a year,
buried side by side
like little wrens. 2
But why should I complain? 3
The dead turn over casually,
thinking: 4
Good! No visitors today. 5
My window, which is not a grave,
is dark with my fierce concentration
and too much snowing
and too much silence. 6
The snow has quietness in it; no songs,
no smells, no shouts nor traffic. 7
When I speak
my own voice shocks me. 8 : : : : lines 1 To 8 : :

About discription of the cold month of January and about the dead faces she recollects and reflects in her deep thoughts. She sees the “grotesquely snowing upon the small faces of the dead buried side by side like little wrens”: ( that is small but active insects eaters , brown birds with short upright tail ): So, snowing appears as unnatural in shape or size which looks like ugly and unbeautiful. Those were the dear “loudmouths gone for a year” ( in line 2 ) : By loudmouths , she refers to some troubles caused by their indiscreet speaking during their lifetime. They casually pass on thinking : ( lines 4 & 5 ) : of No Visitors ( on snowing day ) calling it “Good” , but by words ” turn over”, she conveys that she finds them becoming upset on this. : : She mulls over the event of Monday snowfall through her “window” which is dark (but not a grave) with her “fierce concentration”: line 5 : Amidst “too much snowing with its quietness, too much silence, no songs , no smells , no shouts nor traffic” ( lines 6 & 7 ) so much so that while speaking she is taken aback saying with surprise and perhaps a distress, ” my own voice shocks me”,( line 8 ) She has thus conveyed her gloomy feelings in her Monday letter to her dearly person what she has collected from and gathered in to on a snowing day of wintery January. : : : :

Stanza 2 : : ” Tuesday

I have invented a lie,
there is no other day but Monday. 9
It seems reasonable to pretend
that I could change the day
like a pair of socks. 10
To tell the truth
days are all the same size
and words aren’t much company. 11
If I were sick, I’d be a child,
tucked in under the woolens, sipping my broth. 12
As it is,
the days are not worth grabbing
or lying about.” 13 : : : : lines 9 To 13 : : : :

About Anne ‘s careful effort painstakingly made up in letter writing to her dearly person on Monday ( Here atleast during Wintery January Northeaster ) Only which she follows without doubt to such an extent that she has “invented” what she says , “a lie” ( line 8 ) to rather miscarry the belief that “there is no other day but Monday.”( line 9 ) : For Anne , everyday is Monday. She says, ” It seems reasonable to pretend that I could change the day like a pair of socks.” ( line 10 ) : : She makes believe ” To tell the truth: days are all the same size and words aren’t much company.” ( line 11 ) : Meaning , the words cannot be a companion to her. So , For a real truth Monday or a Tuesday , or whatever , it doesn’t matter. Further , she says, ” the days are not worth grabbing or lying about.” ( linee 13 ) : : Meaning , not worth of capturing attention. She gives an example : : ” If I were sick, I’d be a child,
tucked in under the woolens, sipping my broth.”12. :” tucked in”, means ‘eat up’ , here, broth being sipped to a ‘considerable quantity’.( line 12 ) : : : :

Stanza 3 : : “Monday

It would be pleasant to be drunk:
faithless to my own tongue and hands,
giving up the boundaries
for the heroic gin. 14
Dead drunk
is the term I think of,
insensible,
neither cool nor warm,
without a head or a a foot. 15
To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool. 16
I will try it shortly.” 17 : : : : lines 14 To 17 :: ::

About pleasantness “to be drunk”being in harmony with her “own tongue and hands,” which she calls as ,”faithless” : ( line 14 ) : This is in a wrong manner. Instead of stopping more consumption beyond one’s capacity ” for the heroic gin” ( line 14 ) Means an elevated style of becoming drunk : Here , she thinks of it and calls the term “dead drunk”suggestive of unresponsiveness and defines it as “insensible, neither cool nor worm, without head or a foot.” ( line 15 ) : : And finally , she declares, ” To be drunk is to be intimate with a fool.” ( line 16 ) Which she “will try it shortly.”( line 17 ) : : One More letter to her dearly person intuitively Sharing her well founded views on alcoholism written in time , in view of Easter Days of the month Of January, when so many people , known and unknown will try the strong flavoured liquor like “Gin” to get “cool” or “warm”on getting fully drunk. : : : :

Stanza 4 : : “Monday

Just yesterday,
twenty eight men aboard a damaged radar tower
foundered down seventy miles off the coast.18
Immediately their hearts slammed shut. 19
The storm would not cough them up. 20
Today they are whispering over Sonar.
Small voice,
what do you say? 21
Aside from the going down, the awful wrench, 22
The pulleys and hooks and the black tongue . . . 23
What are your headquarters?
Are they kind?” 24 : : : : lines 18 To 24 : : : :

About violent Storm and weather condition. : Pending visit this post again later on to enjoy the appreciation of the poem V Jayaraj Pune India January 5 , 2023 : :

January : R S Thomas : : January Poem : ( 1 ) : : January Song ( 1975 ) : Pilot – Alexander Robertson : David Paton : LYRICS VIDEO : ( 2 ) : : January Song LIVE ( 1976 ) (Wimbledon Theatre) : Pilot (3 ) : : Months Poems : :

Ronald Stuart Thomas ( 29 March 1913 Cardiff, Glamorgan, Wales – – 25 September 2000 aged 87, Pentrefelin, Gwynedd, Wales ) a Welsh poet and Anglican priest (Church of Wales) noted for nationalism, spirituality and dislike of the anglicisation of Wales. John Betjeman, introducing Song at the Year’s Turning (1955), the first collection of Thomas’s poetry from a major publisher, predicted that Thomas would be remembered long after he himself was forgotten. M. Wynn Thomas said: “He was the Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn of Wales because he was such a troubler of the Welsh conscience. He was one of the major English language and European poets of the 20th century.”
Wounded Fox 🦊 On The White Snow of the Winter.
Vector emoticon illustration cartoon of a fox’s head with a sad expression and crying with his eyes closed and tears on his face stock illustration…

The fox drags its wounded belly 1
Over the snow, the crimson seeds 2
Of blood burst with a mild explosion, 3
Soft as excrement, bold as roses. 4

Over the snow that feels no pity, 5
Whose white hands can give no healing, 6
The fox drags its wounded belly. 7 — R S Thomas

“January” A 7 lines Brief January Poem : one of the best poems about the world of nature By R S Thomas ( 1913 – 2000 ), is About The fox dragging its wounded belly ( lines 1 & 7 ) , Unpitied Nature and Beauty Of Wintery Nature. : : : :

The 🦊 Fox might have nearly escaped from the clawed digits or flesh chopping dentition of some Carnivores including its own species mates fighting for the food without sharing or a fatal injuries from the traps / device like hunting catch , barbed wires , etc. usually set up by fox hunters. As a result the fox has been wounded in this way(s), and has come out to the Open beach of the Sea or through the land , which were ladened with Snow ; and has formed a scene laden with grief. The Poet describes it in lines 2, 3 &4 : “ Over the snow, the crimson seeds 2
Of blood burst with a mild explosion, 3
Soft as excrement, bold as roses. 4 ” : : : : : : Here , the loaded Snow come open suddenly and violently , that has been described in the words, “burst with a mild explosion” : Nature ‘s serving to explode is much more violent per bursting charge that have wounded belly of a fox which has become mild with the cooling Snow ! looking like “crimson seeds”. : : Of the colours, we understand Crimson at the end of colour Spectrum ( next to 🍊 Orange ) which readily resembles the colour not merely of Blood , but also that of 🍒 Cherries Or 🍅 Tomatoes Or even Rubbies : The picture or a painting comes through dark with Scarlett Red Or a lovely Rufescent. When someone sees closely, it is as Soft as “excrement”; Yet by its steepface , looks like a raised “bold rose” 🌹The injuries are at Ventral side , whereas the Poet like him , wants us , his readers to examine also from the Vertical Side View . : Prominently Overreaching , audacious and heroical : Afterall ,the Fox has disposed to venture or take risk for its Survival. : : : :

Grief-stricken We are, As a reader of the poem , tending to be a sympathiser , with a burdened mindset may have to feel for a Fox 🦊. But ,. “Over the snow that feels no pity, 5
Whose white hands can give no healing, 6
The fox drags its wounded belly.” 7

The picture is tending to repel for an equivocal show off by Nature. Unpitied Nature is beating back on its promising role as if put out on its meaningful position as Goddess Nature As the biggest saviour on the Earth. This reflects badly upon the whiteness of the wintery Nature , and Nature’s dissimilar double roleplay with a forked intent and treble meanings !? And there’s even No Point in Remembering the Greenness Of Nature. Let the high big learned persons study the Bio – Cycle and the Food Chains in Nature. The White Beauty Has No Pity , No healing. : This is a strange dragging approach marked by a slow and sad and effortful manner. Anyone ! Humane ! ! Curers !? Animal Care Takers ? Who wants to trail this sad event ; or say to make an uninvited presumptuous enquiry to know what happens to a “Fox dragging with a wounded belly” : : : :

January
Song by Pilot

January
Sick and tired you’ve been hanging on me
You make me sad with your eyes
You’re telling me lies
Don’t go
Don’t go
January
Don’t be cold
Don’t be angry to me. You make me sad
Come and see
Oh
January
Don’t go
Don’t go
Life gets me higher
I can show
I can go
I can wake up the world
Little world gotta know you
Gotta show you
Sun
Like a fire
Carry on
Don’t be gone
Bring me out of my home
Sweet home
Gotta know me
Gotta show me
You’ve been facing the world
You’ve been chasing the world.
January
Sick and tired you’ve been hanging on me
Time
It’s a flyer
Sunny days
Fly away
English summers are gone.
So long
Gotta go up
Gotta grow up.

Songwriters: David Paton
January lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC

CLICK HERE In BELOW to enjoy the Super P Song : January : LYRICS VIDEO : : Recorded : 1974 : : Released : 1975 ( Ranked 951 ) : : Vocals : Pilot – Alexander Robertson : : Origin : Germany : : Style : Pop Rock : Power Pop Or Super Pop : : GENRE : Pop Rock : :

https://youtu.be/yBicO6Wp1Mo

CLICK HERE In BELOW to enjoy the 1975 January Song By Pilot – Alexander Robertson: : ( 1976) Live : : At Wimbledon Theatre , London : : GENRE : Pop Rock : :

https://youtu.be/A_2AEmAVUrU

” January” , A January Poem By R S Thomas : Information Appreciation and poem Analysis Presented by V Jayaraj Pune India January 4, 2023 : : : : : : : : And A 1975 Pop Rock Song , “January” By Pilot : : LYRICS VIDEO & 1976 Live At Wimbledon Theatre : :

Create your own website, free on WordPress.com.Create your own website.
Start free