ALL AT SEA

A BOYS OWN ADVENTURE

The first book that I remember reading was ‘The Coral Island’ by J.M.Ballantyne a classic adventure story of three cabin boys, Ralph, Jack and Peterkin who were washed up on a beautiful Polynesian island, the sole survivors of a shipwreck. I devoured the book and its colourful descriptions of the tropical island, following their idyllic lifestyle as they fished in the pools and discovered marvels of nature. I think I must have been about 12 years old and in my imagination I ran alongside the three lads and shared in their wonderment at this new and vibrant world of wild animals, luscious yams and bathing under crystal waterfalls ! The only possessions they retained were a broken telescope, an iron-bound oar and a small axe with which they managed to build a shelter and construct a small boat. The book was written before Stevenson’s ‘Treasure Island’ and is said to have inspired William Golding’s later and darker novel ‘Lord of the Flies’. Of course not everything remained carefree and jolly for the boys as they had to deal with mad cannibals and blood thirsty pirates, but in all those trials I was at their side living each hair-raising moment from page to page ! Ralph Rover narrates the tale and I still thrill as I re- read the opening lines -" Roving has always been, and still is, my ruling passion, the joy of my heart, the very sunshine of my existence. In childhood, in boyhood, and in man's estate, I have been a rover; not a mere
rambler among the woody glens and upon the hill-tops of my own
native land, but an enthusiastic rover throughout the length and
breadth of the wide wide world…It was a wild, black night of howling storm, the night in which I was born on the foaming bosom of the broad Atlantic Ocean. My father was a sea-captain; my grandfather was a sea-captain; my great-grandfather had been a marine…Thus it was, I suppose, that I came to inherit a roving disposition." Those words bring me back to a draughty bedroom, lying under a mountain of blankets with just my head visible and cold hands clutching ‘The Coral Island’ while my child’s imagination basked in sunny climes and the exotic adventures of my three pals, Ralph, Jack and Peterkin..

Gerard O'Shea

AN OLD ANTHOLOGY

A BOOK MUCH TRAVELLED

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I have neglected of late to bring you gems from the window-sill of my front porch, so to rectify this oversight I have plucked a tattered yellow copy of The Penguin Poets Contemporary Verse edited by Kenneth Allott. This volume first saw the light of day in 1950 and the price of two shillings and sixpence marked on the front cover is a bit of a giveaway. I picked it up in a second hand bookshop along the way being a firm believer that a well thumbed yellow-edged book of poetry holds a special atmosphere that allows the works within to live and breathe. It’s a good feeling to thumb through an old edition where eyes and thumbs have strayed before, there’s a distinct feeling that you are not travelling alone. The poem I’ve selected from this book is one by Irish poet Louis Macneice (left} which though seasonally a little premature, is a work rich in atmosphere and mystery. In his introduction Allott says of Macneice’s writing, “ his best work was unequalled in the Thirties for its gaiety, grace and a lightness which was never silly or ostrich-like.”

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Gerard O'Shea

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SNOW

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The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

......
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

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And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

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Louis Macneice

THE FRONT PORCH COLLECTION ~ 5

Night Thoughts, compiled

by Simon Winder

It’s quite a while since I plucked a volume from the window-sill of my front porch and shared it with you. The books are not so sun-kissed of late but are bathed in a showery winter light and seem to be bearing up well ! This book has the slightly chilling title of ‘Night Thoughts’, a collection of prose and poems about the world of darkness celebrating the great tradition of ‘night-writing’.The book is the perfect companion for these long winter evenings when “Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, / While night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.”(Macbeth ) ~ GOSh. ~

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MY MIDNIGHT MEDITATION

Ill busi'd man! why should'st thou take such care
To lengthen out thy life's short calendar?
When ev'ry spectacle thou lookst upon
Presents and acts thy execution.
Each drooping season and each flower doth cry,
"Fool! as I fade and wither, thou must die.

"The beating of thy pulse (when thou art well)
Is just the tolling of thy Passing Bell:
Night is thy Hearse, whose sable Canopy
Covers alike deceased day and thee.
And all those weeping dews which nightly fall,
Are but the tears shed for thy funeral."

Henry King

THE FRONT PORCH COLLECTION 4

Another volume plucked from the

sun-basked window sill in my Front Porch.

SONNET

The curtains were half drawn, the floor was swept

And strewn with rushes, rosemary and may

Lay thick upon the bed on which I lay,

Where through the lattice ivy-shadows crept.

He leaned above me, thinking that I slept

And could not hear him; but I heard him say:

"Poor child, poor child:" and as he turned away

Came a deep silence, and I knew he wept.

He did not touch the shroud, or raise the fold

That hid my face, or take my hand in his,

Or ruffle the smooth pillows for my head:

He did not love me living; but once dead

He pitied me; and very sweet it is

To know he still is warm though I am cold.

Christina Rossetti

Rossetti was born in London in 1830 and during her early years educated at home by her mother. In the 1840s her family was stricken with severe financial difficulties due to the deterioration of her father's physical and mental health. When she was 14, Rossetti suffered a nervous breakdown which was followed by bouts of depression and related illness. Rossetti began writing at age 7 but she was 31 before her first work was published — Goblin Market and Other Poems (1862). Rossetti continued to write and publish for the rest of her life although she focused primarily on devotional writing and children's poetry.Rossetti's deeply religious temperament left its marks on her writing. She was a devout High Anglican, much influenced by the Tractarian, or Oxford, Movement. Rossetti broke engagement to the artist James Collison, an original member of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood, when he joined the Roman Catholic church. She also rejected Charles Bagot Cayley for religious reasons. She maintained a large circle of friends and for ten years volunteered at a home for prostitutes. In 1893 Rossetti developed cancer and Graves' disease then died the following year due to the cancer on December 29, 1894
In 'After Death', which she wrote in 1849, the poet-speaker lays on a bed, with a shroud on her face, observing the surroundings before the burial. "He did not love me living; but once dead / He pitied me; and very sweet it is / To know
he still is warm tho' I am cold."

THE FRONT PORCH COLLECTION

Continuing gleanings from the rich garner of my Front Porch Collection,this curious little volume is called The Gardener's Year by Karel Capek.Capek apparently was a well recognised Czech writer who coined the word 'robot' for the first time in one of his plays. The Czech original was published in Prague in 1929 and it has been described as "a timeless classic of wit and wisdom,sure to capture the heart and imagination of every gardener."A Sunday Times reviewer at the time of publication of this English translation remarked "This delightful little book is cram full of information,philosophy,and humour." And the Observer enthused "As packed and delightful a volume of humour and entertainment,not without wisdom and poetry,as one can expect to meet in a year's reading" The illustrations are done by Karels brother Josef,himself a well-renowned artist who died in Belsen concentration camp during World War 11. -GOSh.

THE GARDENER'S YEAR

Roses,phloxes,selenium and coreopsis,hemerocallis,gladiolus,campanula,and monk’s-hood, and inula,and dragon’s-head, and marguerite-thank God! Flowers enough yet for these bad conditions! Always something flowers and something is fading; always you must cut withered stalks, murmuring (to the flower, not to yourself):”And with you also it is over.”
Look at those flowers, in very truth they are like women: so beautiful and fresh, you can feast your eyes on them and never see all their beauty, always something escapes you, good Lord, when beauty is so insatiable; but as soon as they begin to fade, I hardly know, but they cease to look after themselves(I am talking of flowers),and if one wished to be brutal, he would say that they look like rags. What a pity, my sweet beauty (I am talking of flowers),what a pity that time is so fleeting; beauty comes to an end, and only the gardener remains.

Karel Capek

KAHLIL GIBRAN

TALES FROM THE FRONT PORCH !

Continuing with selections from my dog-eared,sun tanned Front Porch Collection,this is a poem by the Lebanese poet Kahlil Gibran.Born in 1883,Gibran produced many works of poetry and philosophy writng in a dramatic Biblical-type style.His most famous work is The Prophet which became a cult classic amongst the Sixties Flower Power generation. The piece below is taken from A Treasury Of Kahlil Gibran,and is a gentle evocation of an ocean wave.

SONG OF THE WAVE

The strong shore is my beloved

And I am his sweetheart.

We are at last united by love,

And then the moon draws me from him.

I go to him in haste and depart

Reluctantly, with many little farewells.

I steal swiftly from behind the blue horizon,

To cast the silver of my foam upon the gold of his sand,

And we blend in melted brilliance.

I quench his thirst and submerge his heart;

He softens my voice and subdues my temper

. At dawn I recite the rules of love upon his ears,

And he embraces me longingly.

At eventide I sing to him the song of hope,

And then print smooth kisses upon his face;

I am swift and fearful, but he is quiet, patient, and thoughtful.

His broad bosom soothes my restlessness.

As the tide comes we caress each other,

When it withdraws, I drop to his feet in prayer.

Many times have I lifted drowning souls

And carried them tenderly to my beloved shore.

He gives them strength as he takes mine.

Many times have I stolen gems from the depths

And presented them to my beloved shore.

He takes them in silence,

But still I give for he welcomes me ever.

Alas! Sleeplessness has weakened me!

But I am a lover, and the truth of love is strong.

I may be weary, but I shall never die.

KAHLIL GIBRAN

THE FRONT PORCH COLLECTION

This is my Front Porch Collection, or more precisely a collection of sun-yellowed,dog-eared volumes which nestle cosily on the window-sill in my front porch! There are presently 19 books in the august collection and I hope from time to time to bring you bits and pieces gleaned from their pages. To start the literary ball rolling I have chosen a poem from Selected Poems by T.S.Eliot, an anthology selected by the poet and first published in 1954. The short poem is taken from a longer work The Waste Land,one of Eliot's most regarded pieces.

DEATH BY WATER

Phlebas the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,

Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep sea swell

And the profit and loss.

A current under sea

Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell

He passed the stages of his age and youth

Entering the whirlpool.

Gentile or Jew

O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,

Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

T.S.Eliot