A Wordsworth Whirligig

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The Hall Writers’ Forum The Hall Writers’ Forum was launched online in 2013 with a view to fostering dialogue, collaboration, and creative writing. Its members include current and former students of St Edmund Hall, Oxford, members of the Hall’s academic and non-academic staff, and associates from outside the college who have been nominated by Forum members.

First published in the United Kingdom in 2020 by Chough Publications St Edmund Hall Oxford OX1 4AR This collection © 2020 Chough Publications Copyright for the individual contributions remains with the authors except where otherwise indicated 1

Introduction

The two hundred and fiftieth anniversary of the birth of William Wordsworth was marked on Tuesday, 7th April 2020. In normal times, there might well have been gatherings and readings in various parts of the country in order to pay homage to one of this country’s most celebrated and most loved poets.

But times were not normal.

By 7th April the whole country had been locked down in an attempt control the spread of the coronavirus which had first been reported China in December 2019 and which now was infecting thousands people in the United Kingdom and, all too sadly, causing hundreds deaths every day.

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The population had been instructed to avoid social contact outside the home as far as possible, keeping a distance of at least two metres from another person, and only being permitted to venture outside in order to buy food and medicine, to take one brief period of physical exercise a day, and to travel to work only if necessary.

The foregoing should be borne in mind when reading this anthology.

The Hall Writers’ Forum had decided that this important anniversary could not go unmarked and uncelebrated. Inspired by Lucy Newlyn, it was settled that there should be a twenty-four hour period during which contributions could be posted online in the Forum’s Facebook page; and in order to attract attention, the event was entitled the Twenty-four Hour Non-stop Wordsworth Whirligig, a name invented by Darrell Barnes for no apparent reason other than that it sounded slightly mad, yet exciting.

The only rules were that contributions (which could be made in any form) had to be posted within the twenty-four hour time slot, and had to include one or more words from the following list: Daffodils Leeches Walking Solitude Retirement Dorothy Love Death Memory Home Radical Apostasy Tory Duty

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These rules, with a slight bending in one or two instances (which were not sufficiently heinous as to warrant disqualification) were followed.

A great variety of contributions were made, some of them very short, some of them much longer, in a number of verse forms ranging from a haiku to what is probably the funniest sestina ever written. The editors’ blue pencil was taken to some of the pieces in order to make for easier reading of the anthology as a whole.

It had been announced that a prize would be awarded to the contribution that had attracted the most Facebook “likes”, this prize being a replica of Wordsworth’s death mask (deliberately malapropised as “face mask”); but there was no clear winner - except that everyone was a winner simply by taking part.

We hope that you will enjoy reading this small anthology of original pieces composed to honour one of our greatest poets.

Lucy Newlyn Darrell Barnes April 2020

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Here’s my first contribution to set the Wordsworth Whirligig spinning: No time for gloom or to mope ’n feel sad for oneself, so here’s hopin’ we’ll escape being blue.

I have this duty to do: I declare the Whirligig open.

Whirligig Master

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Wordsworth’s lockdown diary Shops closed. Went to the park, saw daffodils.

Coleridge bad with the piles. Got him leeches.

Still let out for exercise - assume walking qualifies. Having second thoughts about solitude, might rewrite The Excursion without retirement.

Sister calls it The Excrution. Haha Dorothy.

Not sure what I’d do without Mary and Dorothy.

Only so many ways to look at daffodils, who knew? Police now enforcing retirement: Coleridge fined for paddling in search of leeches, twice in one day. Ham for dinner. Solitude wearing thin - sleep often and dream of walking.

Said I was in the garden but snuck out walking.

Food supplies starting to run low. Dorothy resourceful as ever, nourishing our solitude.

Went to the park again, gave the daffodils a swerve. Coleridge asked me to swap the leeches bloody cheek, but at least a break from retirement.

Bored to tears. Started chewing books. Retirement brings out the worst in me. Chided for walking the cat three times a day. Coleridge’s leeches no longer an excuse. Fought with Dorothy because we have no biscuits. Dined on daffodils.

Lord bring a swift end to this solitude.

Mary v. cross. Divorce papers may list solitude as cause of differences. Can’t stand retirement diet. Swore at dinner: no more ruddy daffodils.

Silent treatment after. Had to sneak out walking.

Seems my outburst displeased Dorothy: Woke up to a breakfast of fried leeches.

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Ravenously hungry. Ate some of the leeches, not half bad. Went through poems. Crossed solitude out in all the manuscripts (had Dorothy do half). Relationship slightly mended; retirement makes rapprochement essential. Still walking on eggshells with Mary. Seeing daffodils.

Had a dream: Dorothy killed me with leeches, had daffodils for fingers. Dined on solitude.

Called 111 for retirement. Said to try walking.

Tom McLucas

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Old Will had the touch of a poet, From Helicon (or just below it).

He could toss of a rhyme In almost no time, Or an ode, both profound and inchoate.

Bruce Graver

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The Solitary Rhymester: A poem for his Birthday Behold him, single in the field, Yon solitary Lakeland Bard, Musing and muttering to himself, Stumbling, and breathing hard.

Alone he walks - alone in mind, Although his sister trails behind And fills the valleys with the sound Of words and syllables profound.

Strange fits of passion though he show, His oddness is not ours to judge, Who in Dove Cottage long ago Settled, and would not budge.

Though chimneys smoked, and tea grew dear, And Coleridge stayed for half a year, Assiduous as the mule (that brays) He clung to his untrodden ways.

But up! my Friends, and quit your books!

Outdo the sparkling waves with glee!

His birthday celebrate, who now Can neither hear nor see.

Though slumber now his spirit seals, The fullness of our bliss he feels!

His mighty Being is awake, And bids us haste to cut the cake.

Margaret Graver (1989)

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Wordsworth Hi Q Flowers in the breeze, I remember them often.

My heart dances too.

Brian Smith

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I don’t much care for daffodils: I find them far too showy.

They dance and flutter in the breeze, their pollen makes me cough and sneeze if the weather turns too blowy.

It’s true I wrote a verse or two: it’s “Daffodils” I’m known for.

They often feature in a quiz, and when you’re stuck and in a tizz that’s what you use your phone for.

I much prefer dandelions (please stress the second vowel); the trouble is they make me leak I changed the bedclothes twice last week and dried off with a towel.

You’ll wonder why I tell you this, such intimate confessions.

It’s ’cos I’m human, just like you, though all too often someone who commands poetic sessions.

I wonder what will happen next, perhaps in 2020?

Will: folk will celebrate your birth with laughter, joy, side-splitting mirth and gratitude a-plenty.

Darrell Barnes

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The tables Turned My memories of childhood sing to me Of rivers, birds, and dearest Dorothy That little tomboy girl whom I love best, Who brings me words and will not let me rest Until I’ve written them as she sees fit.

For now, I cogitate, and dream, and sit.

She’ll copy all I write, in journal prose, And claim the credit for the verbs I chose.

No matter; it’s a gift economy.

We live together here, no enemy Except that loon who turns up once a day, Distraught, bedraggled, walking all the way From Keswick with his shirt-tails hanging out: A wretched addict, an unworthy lout, Who thinks he is ‘dejected’ when he’s drunk In self-indulgent dreaming lost and sunk.

He clings to me and will not let me go, Like winds that in the tangled branches blow.

O Dorothy, my trusted childhood muse, Please grant me strength to argue and refuse All of the pleas he makes for shelter here.

Come sit by me and draw your darning near.

The sheep are bleating on the cold hill side, But here we are, all snug and warm inside.

Give me your words, and let me find my own Only when I am walking, all alone.

Read to me gently, keep me safe from harm.

Rock me to sleep with your soft-breathing balm.

Like little playmates on a rocky shore, Let us our long-lost memories restore And go on writing, ever, evermore.

Lucy Newlyn 12

We all anticipate a brighter day; we could not know that life would come to this, so now we stand apart and stay away.

We shut our doors to keep the beast at bay; our lives enfeebled by paralysis, we all anticipate a brighter day.

Not so long ago our lives were gay, but now we live that life’s antithesis, for now we stand apart and stay away.

We think our solitude both grim and grey, each happiness so easy to dismiss.

We all anticipate a brighter day.

But could it be a memory holds sway of dancing daffodils, a fleeting kiss?

Though now we stand apart and stay away there is a name to celebrate today: a man who wrote for all eternities.

We all anticipate a brighter day though now we stand apart and stay away.

Darrell Barnes

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Ballad There was a man, as I heard tell, Who lived beside a pond.

He was a poet, free and bold, Of walking he was fond.

He talked to tramps, and tinkers too.

He found them on the road.

Nothing would please him more than talk And this he often showed.

The bard set down in simple verse What vagrants said to him.

But he is in his grave and oh, My memories grow dim.

I’ve searched and searched among my thoughts To find what happened next.

But nothing comes, my power’s gone I’ll soon run out of text.

To freeze the blood I have no arts.

I cannot tell a story.

You’d better ask another man If you want something gory.

And yet, dear reader, if you care To read this verse again You’ll see there’s much on which to brood As if you were a hen.

A ballad is adaptable To any sort of need.

And if you can think long enough, Of this you will take heed: 14

If you have something sensible To say, then say it fast.

I’ve finished now. My ballad’s done, Be warned: it’s not my last.

Lucy Newlyn

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Floreat Forum I surfed as idly as a wink Through web and blog but all at sea, When all at once I spied a link, A forum full of poetry; Besides the verse and commentary, Articles, stories, all for free.

Encouragement beamed from every line And twinkled in a friendly way, The words of all just seemed to shine As each contributed their say: So many minds to share their thought, No more could anyone have sought.

The more I looked, the more I found, The wise, the daft, the full of glee, The draft dashed off, the work profound Within such joyful company: I wrote - and hoped - but little guessed How all my fears would lay to rest: For inspiration throngs me round, A welcoming and helpful guide Who does not turn away or frown, Who’s walking always by my side; Now, when I feel I write in vain, The forum lifts me up again.

David Braund

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I never studied Wordsworth much at school: lines of dreary poetry to read I couldn’t understand them as a rule.

Just what was so important that I need to store in memory his turgid lines, to utter like recital of the Creed, an incantation every schoolboy whines?

I’d far more interesting things to do: who’d not make hay while the sun in splendour shines?

But slowly, imperceptibly there grew an easing of that former barren verse.

Here was a man, a poet, someone who like a partner, for better times and worse, could lead you into deeper mines of thought to show the lode of meaning and to nurse that love of learning which my teachers sought, however hard, to din into my brain.

I wish I now could tell them I am caught.

Their desperation did not end in vain, for Wordsworth’s lines and poetry remain.

Darrell Barnes

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Daffodils planted in perfect rows.

A small child runs through them laughing.

Surprise party: daffodil tulip magnolia dance side by side Rose Anderson

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Numbers did her spirit seal: A poem without daffodils For Lucy N Numbers did her spirit seal; She feared she did not hear: She seemed to think she was a thing Bereft of singing ears.

No counting did she need to force A music, for it came: Not rolling surely, but in course With thought and tone and tears.

Marcia Karp

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Old poet, travelling As I was walking out one sunny day, Birds in the trees seemed very far away And yet their distant singing made me glad, Who but the night before had felt so sad.

When I was walking thus, all unawares, I spied a man whose clothes were full of tears.

While still I listened to the sweet birdsong He hectored me in couplets, loud and long.

His breath was short, his metre even shorter, As if he thirsted for a pint of porter.

“Good day”, he said, as I approached him near And asked politely what he did round here.

His words were solemn, and his eyes they glittered.

In loose tetrameters he daftly wittered.

And yet I stayed to listen to his voice, Much like a child who finds he has no choice: “Good day, well-met upon the road.

You greet me as I cart my load, Accosting me with this and that, Expecting me to doff my hat.

I have no pots and pans to sell, No leeches here to make you well.

I am a poet too, you see.

You’d best respect a man like me.

I’m old, a little down at heel, But all my verses make men FEEL, And so I pass the litmus test Of what, in poetry, is best.

I hum all day. I sing, I rhyme And when I’m hoarse, resort to mime.

What passes for the best verse now Is homely as the brindled cow 20

Which craps beside the wide blue lake, And stares to make your sister quake.

Leave off your prosing, and begin To tackle the best subject: SIN. Tell us the truth, you uptight lecher!

We’ll listen then, gods truth, I’ll betcha.

At last you’ll get what poets need: An audience to read and read And read until they’ve had their fill.

Your work will sell, and then you’ll be A nationwide bestseller, free To roam the hills with Dorothy.

You’re young, not down at heels like me; Now prove your worth, and earn your fee.”

While I strong-armed him, counting up to ten, The old man stopped, then started up again: “I am your double. Let me go.

It’s rude to shake a stranger so.

I am your double. Do what’s best: Go snatch a long and well-earned rest.

I am your double. What you see Will haunt you through eternity.

You’ll wander on, and speak my verse To anyone who passes. Worse, You’ll go on babbling like a brook And write my words down in a book.

Good riddance, sir, but take good heed.

You never know what you might need.

Just stick to doggerel like mine, Believe me, you’ll be read, and fine.”

The old man still stood talking by my side Just by a lake: ’twas thirty metres wide.

But then his words dried up, and off he went.

I wandered home - all puzzled, worn, and spent.

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Long will his figure haunt me as I stray Along the paths in my poetic way.

Whenever I am sad, or uninspired, I’ll quote him to myself, and feel less tired.

Young poets oft begin in gladness But end as boozy tramps, enslaved by madness.

For now, the evening shadows on the hills Restore me, and I feel no earthy ills.

Dear Dorothy has made me tea again And I’ll wind up, by writing with her pen...

Lucy Newlyn

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Bleedin’ Wordsworf daffies growing in the park.

“Ball games are forbidden; the gates will close at dark.”

Stuck up in a tower above the traffic noise I pay my local dealer or risk the bovver boys.

I gaze down at the daffies from the confines of my flat.

Solitude is Tory the cuts have seen to that.

Darrell Barnes

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Upon teaching Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ I was teaching Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ To my tutees the Other day.

(You know the one I’m talking about.

The one everyone calls ‘Daffodils’ Even though that’s not its actual Name - or is it?

Anyway, you know the one I’m talking about, Of course you do!

Everyone does, It’s famous!).

Anyway, I was teaching Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ To my tutees the Other day (Mind you, When I say ‘tutees’ I don’t mean Undergraduates, or Postgraduates, or Whatever, like Some of you probably do You high-falutin lot!

I mean an Eleven year old, and A ten year old: Private kids tutoring, Wot pays a graduate’s Rent, like…)

So I was teaching Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ 24

To my tutees the Other day, Basking in my Private memory Of studying it As undergraduate (God! I loved That time of year).

And when we got To the bit About how they Were dancing (The daffodils, not My tutees), One turned to me, And asked “How were they Dancing?”

And I, As I was teaching Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils, Began to talk about Personification, And verb tenses, And agency.

And he agreed.

But then He asked again, “But how Were they dancing?”

And I looked at him, Confused.

“Like,” he continued, “Was it slow, or Was it, like, hip-hop, Or was it ballroom, 25

Like wot Mum Watches on Strictly.”

And I waited.

And he grinned at me.

And I said I wasn’t sure, But knowing Wordsworth, Dorothy would have shown him The steps to the dance first, In their home, And William would probably be Retracing them.

So that would be the dance, Of the daffodils.

And he didn’t get it.

But I shared a private smile With my old tutor In my head.

And then said again, “I don’t know.

What do you think?”

And he said, “Probably boring ballroom, Because this was a long time ago, And break dancing Hadn’t been invented yet.”

And I agreed.

And we laughed.

And we moved on.

I was teaching Wordsworth’s ‘Daffodils’ To my tutees the Other day.

And though They’re only young, 26

They thought about it.

It’s the poem about Ballroom-dancing Daffodils.

And my tutees Are young.

And so I think That reading Is beautiful, And OK. As the poem Lives within them now.

(In some weird form).

And anyway, At least now There’s some undergraduate’s dissertation In there Somewhere: “What dance Did Wordsworth’s daffodils dance In the breeze?

Discuss.”

Matthew Carter

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Wordsworth’s Birthday ‘Wordsworth! thou should’st be living at this hour: England hath need of thee…’

And he and Dorothy of course would take Their daily walks as usual, trudging rough Across the hills, and this would be enough They’d have each other, know well how to make The most of things, and for each other’s sake They would stay strong, even when things got tough; Find wonder in the ordinary. Their love Would get them through. Still, some days, he’d wake Like all of us, with heaviness and fear, The way ahead a tricky, uphill slog, Treacherous, obscured with mountain fog, Nowhere to turn; no noise and mess of crowds.

O Wordsworth, your bright truth is needed here A man who feels the loneliness of clouds.

Tabitha Hayward

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The world has now turned on its axis; in the night sky a purple moon waxes.

My duty is done: I hope you had fun.

Get home safe (there’s a long queue for taxis).

To be able to take part in this celebration, though at a distance, has been an opportunity to lift one’s spirits in a dark time.

Whirligig Master

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