Poesy Part II: Camelot and Quotes from Anne

"Look do you see that poem?" she said suddenly, pointing.  

"Where?" Jane and Diana stared, as if expecting to see Runic rhymes on the birch trees. 

"There. . .down in the brook. . .that old green, mossy log with the water flowing over it in those smooth ripples that look as if they'd been combed, and that single shaft of sunshine falling right athwart it, far down into the pool. Oh, it's the most beautiful poem I ever saw." 

"I should rather call it a picture," said Jane. "A poem is lines and verses." 

"Oh dear me, no." Anne shook her head with its fluffy wild cherry coronal positively. "The lines and verses are only the outward garments of the poem and are no more really it than your ruffles and flounces are you, Jane. The real poem is the soul within them . . .and that beautiful bit is the soul of an unwritten poem. It is not every day one sees a soul. . .even of a poem." (Anne of Avonlea)

I find myself quoting and thinking continually about L. M. Montgomery's character, "Anne Shirley. Anne with an 'e,'" as I prepare this series, which not only reveals the tremendous influence the vivacious young heroine with her love of big words and her romantic flair has played in cultivating within me an appreciation and reveling for poetry, but how Montgomery weaves poetic thought, movement, and imagery into the very prose of her stories...

"It was November - the month of crimson sunsets, parting birds, deep, sad hymns of the sea, passionate wind-songs in the pines. Anne roamed through the pineland alleys in the park and, as she said, let the great sweeping wind blow the fogs out of her soul." (Anne of Green Gables)

Those who have watched the beloved movie adaption of the first book (Anne of Green Gables) will recall that it begins with a young, rag-clad Anne walking dreamily through a forest, a basket on her hip, an open book in her hand, reading aloud a poem from its pages...  "...she has heard a whisper say, a curse is on her if she stay..."
Then, how several years later, now living at Green Gables, Anne and her friends reenact a scene from a poem they've studied in school, which ends calamitously with the sinking of the boat and Anne's near drowning, who is only saved from her precarious position and her "watery grave"  by Gilbert Blythe's timely rescue (to her utter dismay and disdain). Ironically, Gilbert succeeds in what Sir Lancelot could not - rescuing the "Lady of Shalott," the lovely lily maid! 

 "'Of course you must be Elaine, Anne.' said Diana. 'I could never have the courage to float down there.'...It was Anne's idea that they dramatize Elaine. They had studied Tennyson's poem in school the preceding winter... They had analyzed and parsed it and torn it to pieces in general until it was a wonder there was any meaning at all left in it for them, but at least the fair lily maid and Lancelot and Guinevere and King Arthur had become very real people to them, and Anne was devoured by secret regret that she had not been born in Camelot. Those days, she said, were so much more romantic than the present. (Anne of Green Gables)"

 Alfred, Lord Tennyson wrote, in his timeless lyrical style, a number of versions of this tragic tale, breathing life into almost forgotten, archaic legends. The one I've decided to share with you is the version Anne Shirley reads at the beginning of the movie. Tennyson revised his earlier poem and published it in this form in 1842.
When I first watched the video below I was transported to that romantic, medieval - though far from realistic - world! The narrative, pictures, and music capture the true essence of the poem. So if you can take the time to listen to it, I hope you too will be transported away to this land of lyrical beauty. 

Part I.

On either side the river lie 

Long fields of barley and of rye, 

That clothe the wold and meet the sky; 

And thro' the field the road runs by 

To many-tower'd Camelot; 

And up and down the people go, 

Gazing where the lilies blow 

Round an island there below, 

The island of Shalott. 

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, 

Little breezes dusk and shiver 

Thro' the wave that runs for ever 

By the island in the river 

Flowing down to Camelot. 

Four gray walls, and four gray towers, 

Overlook a space of flowers, 

And the silent isle imbowers 

The Lady of Shalott. 

By the margin, willow-veil'd 

Slide the heavy barges trail'd 

By slow horses; and unhail'd 

The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd 

Skimming down to Camelot: 

But who hath seen her wave her hand? 

Or at the casement seen her stand? 

Or is she known in all the land, 

The Lady of Shalott? 

Only reapers, reaping early 

In among the bearded barley, 

Hear a song that echoes cheerly 

From the river winding clearly, 

Down to tower'd Camelot: 

And by the moon the reaper weary, 

Piling sheaves in uplands airy, 

Listening, whispers "'Tis the fairy 

Lady of Shalott." 

Part II. 

There she weaves by night and day 

A magic web with colours gay. 

She has heard a whisper say, 

A curse is on her if she stay 

To look down to Camelot. 

She knows not what the curse may be, 

And so she weaveth steadily, 

And little other care hath she, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And moving thro' a mirror clear 

That hangs before her all the year, 

Shadows of the world appear. 

There she sees the highway near 

Winding down to Camelot: 

There the river eddy whirls, 

And there the surly village-churls, 

And the red cloaks of market girls, 

Pass onward from Shalott. 

Sometimes a troop of damsels glad, 

An abbot on an ambling pad, 

Sometimes a curly shepherd-lad, 

Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad, 

Goes by to tower'd Camelot; 

And sometimes thro' the mirror blue 

The knights come riding two and two: 

She hath no loyal knight and true, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

But in her web she still delights 

To weave the mirror's magic sights, 

For often thro' the silent nights 

A funeral, with plumes and lights 

And music, went to Camelot: 

Or when the moon was overhead, 

Came two young lovers lately wed; 

"I am half-sick of shadows," said 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Part III. 

A bow-shot from her bower-eaves, 

He rode between the barley-sheaves, 

The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves, 

And flamed upon the brazen greaves 

Of bold Sir Lancelot. 

A redcross knight for ever kneel'd 

To a lady in his shield, 

That sparkled on the yellow field, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

The gemmy bridle glitter'd free, 

Like to some branch of stars we see 

Hung in the golden Galaxy. 

The bridle-bells rang merrily 

As he rode down to Camelot: 

And from his blazon'd baldric slung 

A mighty silver bugle hung, 

And as he rode his armour rung, 

Beside remote Shalott. 

All in the blue unclouded weather 

Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather, 

The helmet and the helmet-feather 

Burn'd like one burning flame together, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

As often thro' the purple night, 

Below the starry clusters bright, 

Some bearded meteor, trailing light, 

Moves over still Shalott. 

His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd; 

On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode; 

From underneath his helmet flow'd 

His coal-black curls as on he rode, 

As he rode down to Camelot. 

From the bank and from the river 

He flash'd into the crystal mirror, 

"Tirra lirra," by the river 

Sang Sir Lancelot. 

She left the web, she left the loom, 

She made three paces thro' the room, 

She saw the water-lily bloom, 

She saw the helmet and the plume, 

She look'd down to Camelot. 

Out flew the web and floated wide; 

The mirror crack'd from side to side; 

"The curse is come upon me," cried 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Part IV. 

In the stormy east-wind straining, 

The pale-yellow woods were waning, 

The broad stream in his banks complaining, 

Heavily the low sky raining 

Over tower'd Camelot; 

Down she came and found a boat 

Beneath a willow left afloat, 

And round about the prow she wrote 

The Lady of Shalott. 

And down the river's dim expanse – 

Like some bold seër in a trance, 

Seeing all his own mischance – 

With a glassy countenance 

Did she look to Camelot. 

And at the closing of the day 

She loosed the chain, and down she lay; 

The broad stream bore her far away, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Lying, robed in snowy white 

That loosely flew to left and right – 

The leaves upon her falling light – 

Thro' the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot: 

And as the boat-head wound along 

The willowy hills and fields among, 

They heard her singing her last song, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Heard a carol, mournful, holy, 

Chanted loudly, chanted lowly, 

Till her blood was frozen slowly, 

And her eyes were darken'd wholly, 

Turn'd to tower'd Camelot; 

For ere she reach'd upon the tide 

The first house by the water-side, 

Singing in her song she died, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Under tower and balcony, 

By garden-wall and gallery, 

A gleaming shape she floated by, 

A corse between the houses high, 

Silent into Camelot. 

Out upon the wharfs they came, 

Knight and burgher, lord and dame, 

And round the prow they read her name, 

The Lady of Shalott. 

Who is this? and what is here? 

And in the lighted palace near 

Died the sound of royal cheer; 

And they cross'd themselves for fear, 

All the knights at Camelot: 

But Lancelot mused a little space; 

He said, "She has a lovely face; 

God in his mercy lend her grace, 

The Lady of Shalott."

Poesy Part I: Crinkly Feelings, Latin Phrases, and Mustard Gas

Dear readers,
"Don't you just love poetry that gives you a crinkly feeling up and down your back?"
Yes! Do you!? 
The character, Anne Shirley's, inspirited musing gives voice to my own - though minimal - experience with poetry. 
With that said, it is with great felicity and flourish that I present to you a series of posts that will forthwith feature some of my favourite poems (I'm on an alliteration role!)! 
They are just a smattering of verses; poems that I can read time and again without becoming immune to their profundity and the captivating beauty of their words - the way they dance on the end of my tongue, and create a mosaic of colour and emotion in my mind's eye.


The first poem I shall share with you deals with the agonies and horrors of the First World War, and is written by leading British war poet, Wilfred Owen, who was killed at the age of twenty-five on the Front, only a week before the Armistice. The majority of his work was published posthumously.

Dulce et Decorum Est

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, 

Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs 

And towards our distant rest began to trudge. 

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots 

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; 

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots 

Of tired, outstripped Five-Nines that dropped behind. 

Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling, 

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; 

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling 

And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime... 

Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light, 

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning. 

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight, 

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning. 

Close up of a gas victim in a painting
I saw at the Canadian War Museum (2013).

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace 

Behind the wagon that we flung him in, 

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face, 

His hanging face, like a devil’s sick of sin; 

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood 

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs, 

Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud 

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,— 

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest 

To children ardent for some desperate glory, 

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est 

Pro patria mori.*

* "It is sweet and right to die for your country." A Latin phrase from an Ode by Horace, often quoted during the War.

If you're interested in delving deeper into this gripping and haunting poem, feel free to peruse some of the sites I've included here below...

• http://www.enotes.com/topics/dulce-et-decorum-est/in-depth
• http://www.shmoop.com/dulce-et-decorum-est/
• http://www.warpoetry.co.uk/owen1.html

Introduction to an Epic

"There is a prospect greater than the sea, and it is the sky; there is a prospect greater than the sky, and it is the human soul. To make a poem of the human conscience, even in terms of a single man and the least of men, would be to merge all epics in a single epic transcending all."

Victor Hugo's (1802-1885) passionate and thought-provoking words are worth relishing and reflecting upon... Just consider, dear reader...  If it is impossible to understand the human soul, how much more difficult is it to comprehend the vastness and magnificence of the Creator of the soul?! 
Hugo endeavored to portray the reality of his own musings by writing a book about the "human conscience" and a "single man's" life. It is an introspective journey of pain, darkness, redemption, sorrow, and light. 
Since my first introduction to this daunting tome a few years ago, it has remained one of my favourite classics. Can you guess what it is? Les Misérables - a rather difficult title to pronounce - which can be translated as The Miserable Ones, The Wretched, or The Underdogs.

Hugo's insight and ability to put many aspects of the human condition into words is remarkable. Norman Denny, a translator of Hugo's work writes, 

"Les Misérables with its depth of vision and underlying truth, its moments of lyrical quality and of moving compassion, is a novel of towering stature, one of the great works of western literature, a melodrama that is also a morality and a social document embracing a wider field than any other novel of its time." 

Cosette

Set against the backdrop of 19th Century France, Les Misérables tells the tale of Jean Valjean, a man cast from society, sentenced to nineteen years of hard labour after stealing a loaf of bread and sequential attempts to escape. He is released a calloused man - free from the chain and the lash, but not from the law or the hatred and darkness that grips his soul.
After a pivotal encounter with a bishop, Valjean "looks at the picture of his life...and of his own soul, hideous in its ugliness," and weeps (I imagine much as Peter wept after he had denounced Jesus three times). The ex-convict's tears turn to those of a freed man as the burden of his sin is lifted and he receives God's grace. Taking on a new identity, he becomes a successful and benevolent mayor. But then his past rears its ugly head and he must wrestle within the depths of his heart and conscience to decide how he will respond. The dilemma will have unprecedented affects on himself and a multitude of others.
Les Mis is not only concerned with the internal struggle (man against God, and man against himself) but also the social one (man against man). France is restless, the poor are voiceless, and the idealism's of the Revolution are ripe for revival. Valjean finds himself caught in the epicentre of the conflict. Now as the loving guardian of a beautiful young girl named Cosette - the "little lark" - he is consumed with his desire to care for her forever and protect her from his past, but blossoming love may serve to alter his newly found purpose. Not only do unsettling reappearances of the rogue Thenardier bring upheaval to Valjean's life, but he continues to be hunted by Javert, an Inspector of Police whose adherence to the law leaves no room for mercy to others - or himself. 
Though Valjean is the central figure of the novel, the characters surrounding him (some of which I've already mentioned) are equally profound and fascinating...
The beautiful and tragic Fantine who falls into degradation in order to keep her daughter alive...
Marius, a romantic, idealistic young man...
Enjolras, a principled, and daring Revolutionary, surrounded by young men whose desire for liberty and equality will send them to their early graves...
Eponine, a ragged girl whose unobserved, sacrificial love will save the lives of many...
Gavroche, a quick-witted, courageous young urchin who calls the streets of Paris his mother and fights alongside the Revolutionaries...

Statue of Gavroche and his two younger brothers. Valetta, Malta.

Despite the beauty and depth of Hugo's work, his writing style is far from perfect - Les Mis is accused by the same translator as being, "loaded down with digressions, interpolated discourses, passages of moralizing rhetoric" and many other "sins" of the novelist writer.
In fact, the first advice I received when beginning to read this book was to skip the first few chapters!
Hugo certainly "says everything, and more than everything." Not only do you get very detailed historical accounts - most notably, the Battle of Waterloo - but you tour the hidden world of a nunnery, climb into the cesspit of the Paris sewers, and hear many eloquent speeches on politics and the ideals prevalent of the time.
And yet, there is something beautiful and almost assuring about these wanderings that helped me surmount his rabbit-trails and kept me from skipping, despite the passages on politics and religion that I either disagreed with or found difficult to understand. They cement a vivid picture in the minds eye and contribute to the realism of the story. The apparent "coincidences" and incidences all connect and entwine, conferring one of the many themes evident throughout: There is something - Someone - at work in our lives, orchestrating both the grand historical events, and the seemingly insignificant meetings, happenings and decisions.

When Les Misérables was first published in 1862, it captured an enormous audience of diverse social backgrounds, particularly the poor. It acknowledged their plight in ways contrary to any other piece of literature. People were drawn to sympathize and relate with the characters. Fantine is an illustration of the suffering of women, as well as sacrifice made for one's child, Cosette and Gavroche are the faces of waifs and strays - innocence and lost innocence - Valjean not only exemplifies imprisoned, broken men, ostracized forever from society, but hope and redemption, and Marius stands as an illustration of a wandering soul. Hugo wished to impress the cry of the poor and homeless into people's hearts, so often lost in the clamour of life's events. In no way have these themes and characters lost their potency; they still impact an immense audience - maybe none more so than now.

Les Mis remains the longest running Broadway musical in history, and was recently made into an award winning movie in 2012. Though the musical is not wholly true to the novel, it is a masterpiece in its own way. Musical scores such as Bring Him Home, I Dreamed a Dream, Who Am I?, On My Own, Stars, and One Day More, capture and bring to light the overarching themes and sentiments of the story. I find it inspiriting and refreshing to consider that God could not be erased from such a world renowned drama. It would be a meaningless story without Him!

Within Les Misérables, Hugo gave a summary of his intentions and aspirations for his masterpiece...

"The book which the reader now holds in his hands, from one end to the other... treats the advance from evil to good, from injustice to justice, from falsity to truth, from darkness to daylight, from blind appetite to conscience, from bestiality to duty, from Hell to Heaven, from Limbo to God..."

There is so much more I could say, but I will leave it at that and allow you to discover it for yourself if you wish, and conclude with a trailer of the musical...