Hughlings Himwich: Anthology

It is with great pleasure that I share this poetic memoir from my friend Charles Eaton, who is now entering upon his eighty-seventh year. It is a precious gift to those who already know and love the man and his dear wife Pauline. Those who will here discover our Charles for the first time will recognize, as do his friends, that Charles' story is also our own.

Download MY NAME IS CHARLES

Rilke on writing poetry when one is no longer a young man

Ah, but poems amount to so little when you write them too early in your life. You ought to wait and gather sense and sweetness for a whole lifetime, and a long one if possible, and then, at the very end, you might perhaps be able to write ten good lines. For poems are not, as people think, simple emotions (one has emotions early enough)--they are experiences. For the sake of a simple poem, you must see many cities, many people and Things, you must understand animals, must feel how birds fly, and know the gesture which small flowers make when they open in the morning. You must be able to think back to streets in unknown neighbourhoods, to unexpected encounters and to partings you had long seen coming; to days of childhood whose mystery is still unexplained, to parents whom you had to hurt when they brought in a joy and you didn't pick it up (it was a joy meant for somebody else--); to childhood illnesses that began so strangely with so many profound and difficult transformations, to days in quiet, restrained rooms and to mornings by the sea, to the sea itself, to seas, to nights of travel that rushed along high overhead and went flying with all the stars,--and it is still not enough to be able to think of all that. You must have memories of many nights of love, each one different from all the others, memories of women screaming in labour, and of light, pale, sleeping girls who have just given birth and are closing again. But you must also have been beside the dying, must have sat beside the dead in the room with the open window and the scattered noises. And it is not yet enough to have memories. You must be able to forget them when they are many, and you must have the immense patience to wait until they return. For the memories themselves are not important. Only when they have changed into our very well blood, into glance and gesture, and are nameless, no longer to be distinguished from ourselves-only then can it happen that in some very rare hour the first word of a poem arises in their midst and goes forth from them.

Excerpt from The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge.

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PoetryMatters 51: Rivers of Rain

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PoetryMatters 49: It's raining tonight in Albuquerque

PoetryMatters 48

Poetry Matters 47

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Poetry Matters 46: Robert Hass and Arthur Sze

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PoetryMatters 44

Eavan Boland

I am sorry to say I discovered the Irish poet Eavan Boland only because she died recently on April 27. The death of poets of her rank is happily and sadly newsworthy. It is likely many of you already know of Eavan’s work. I am thinking especially of those who attended Stanford where she was the Director of the Creative Writing Program for the past twenty years. Eavan died of a stroke in Dublin where she had gone to care for her family during the current Covid-19 health crisis. She was 75. One way of describing her work is that she writes of those history has forgotten but yet still haunt our lives, a past alive in the shadows cast by a schoolyard tree or in the whispering of family secrets. What she has to tell us is profoundly relevant to our present experience.

Quarantine Eavan Boland Reading

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking – they were both walking – north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

The Lost Art of Letter Writing Reading

The ratio of daylight to handwriting
Was the same as lacemaking to eyesight.
The paper was so thin it skinned air.

The hand was fire and the page tinder.
Everything burned away except the one
Place they singled out between fingers

Held over a letter pad they set aside
For the long evenings of their leave-takings,
Always asking after what they kept losing,

Always performing—even when a shadow
Fell across the page and they knew the answer
Was not forthcoming—the same action:

First the leaning down, the pen becoming
A staff to walk fields with as they vanished
Underfoot into memory. Then the letting up,

The lighter stroke, which brought back
Cranesbill and thistle, a bicycle wheel
Rusting: an iron circle hurting the grass

Again and the hedges veiled in hawthorn
Again just in time for the May Novenas
Recited in sweet air on a road leading

To another road, then another one, widening
To a motorway with four lanes, ending in
A new town on the edge of a city

They will never see. And if we say
An art is lost when it no longer knows
How to teach a sorrow to speak, come, see

The way we lost it: stacking letters in the attic,
Going downstairs so as not to listen to
The fields stirring at night as they became

Memory and in the morning as they became
Ink; what we did so as not to hear them
Whispering the only question they knew

By heart, the only one they learned from all
Those epistles of air and unreachable distance,
How to ask: is it still there?

PoetryMatters 35: PoetryMatters 35: "On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous": Ocean Vuong on War, Sexuality and Asian-American Identity

PoetryMatters 34: Sirens, Sibyls, and Kissing in the Dark

PoetryMatters 33: Judy Chicago's "The Dinner Party

Poetry Matters 31: Dreaming of America

PoetryMatters 30 / A Remembrance

PoetryMatters 29

PoetryMatters 28: Garden of Love

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PoetryMatters 26

PoetryMatters: James Baldwin

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PoetryMatters 24

PoetryMatters 23: Winterreise (Winter Journey)

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hhimwich is the author of all poems and other writing unless indicated otherwise.

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