Virginia Woolf was born on the 25th January 1882 - 130 years ago today. So here's a (sad) poem for her birthday from my collection Tattoo ~ Tatú (Arlen House, 2007).
I'm reading Virginia's short fiction at the moment. Hmm. Finding it a bit impenetrable. But I will soldier on.
See below for a just added second poem for Virginia by Adam Wyeth.
See below for a just added second poem for Virginia by Adam Wyeth.
The
day collapsed on me:
there
was nowhere to go
but
full forward,
so
my feet stepped on,
surer
than I that
there
was no way back.
I
loaded the pockets
of
my smock with
stone
on grey stone,
and
stood on the bank
smelling
the river-stink,
watching
the churn of weeds.
A
wood-pigeon broke
from
a high branch,
and
I lifted my head
to
the slap-flutter of wings,
the
flash of a purple throat –
a
momentary distraction.
I
eased myself into the Ouse,
let
its wet fingers mangle me,
and
the weight of my dress
pull
me down and down.
The
river swallowed me,
closed
in over my head.
The
day had collapsed:
I
had nowhere to go
but
full, fast forward,
so
my feet stepped on,
surer
than I that
there
was no way back.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Addendum:
Adam Wyeth just posted this in the comments (at least I am presuming it was Adam Wyeth!!!). It is wonderful:
Who’s Afraid
The stone knew nothing.
Any one of them could
have been selected.
But this one had a particular
shape and feel that she liked.
*
In the golden country
amid the South Downs,
she runs –
needing to unravel
barbed wire knots
that tear her mind.
Then stops – beneath
a large beech tree –
pulls paper and pen
from her flowery pocket,
swiftly scribbles.
In the middle of a tunnel
the only way out
is to walk through everything.
But the light grows dim,
she runs out of paper.
It is final then.
She makes her way down to the river,
stops to pick up a heavy stone
and forces it into her pocket.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _
Addendum:
Adam Wyeth just posted this in the comments (at least I am presuming it was Adam Wyeth!!!). It is wonderful:
Who’s Afraid
The stone knew nothing.
Any one of them could
have been selected.
But this one had a particular
shape and feel that she liked.
*
In the golden country
amid the South Downs,
she runs –
needing to unravel
barbed wire knots
that tear her mind.
Then stops – beneath
a large beech tree –
pulls paper and pen
from her flowery pocket,
swiftly scribbles.
In the middle of a tunnel
the only way out
is to walk through everything.
But the light grows dim,
she runs out of paper.
It is final then.
She makes her way down to the river,
stops to pick up a heavy stone
and forces it into her pocket.
17 comments:
Beautiful poem Nuala. I know what you mean about her fiction. I gave up on Jacob's Room and The Lighthouse gave me headaches but I did persevere. A great writer.
Yes, I always mean to go back to Mrs D and TTLighthouse.
She was a great non fic writer!
And there are good lines in the stories but overall they are just a bit dense and removed.
A fellow Aquarian like myself! Lovely poem Nuala! I now the area well, near where I grew up... I once met a man in Rodmell, a blacksmith in his late nineties who knew the Woolf's and was part of the search party who found her body, he remembered she always wore glamorous hats... Six degrees of separation! I wrote a poem years ago about it, but was never fully happy with it. I think yours is better! Here's my attempt!
Best,
Adam
Who’s Afraid
The stone knew nothing.
Any one of them could
have been selected.
But this one had a particular
shape and feel that she liked.
*
In the golden country
amid the South Downs,
she runs –
needing to unravel
barbed wire knots
that tear her mind.
Then stops – beneath
a large beech tree –
pulls paper and pen
from her flowery pocket,
swiftly scribbles.
In the middle of a tunnel
the only way out
is to walk through everything.
But the light grows dim,
she runs out of paper.
It is final then.
She makes her way down to the river,
stops to pick up a heavy stone
and forces it into her pocket.
Oh wow, Adam, that is so great to read. I am going to copy n paste it into the blog post. Thank you!!!!
Adam Wyeth - is that you!? I was so excited about the poem I forgot to comment on the story. How brilliant that was to meet the blacksmith. Thanks for sharing. N x
Thanks Nuala! Yes it is me! Mr. Wyeth!
I figured it had to be. Thanks again for sharing the poem. I love it. N x
Nuala, wonderful poem, and Mr. Wyeth, also love your poem! Isn't it fantastic that she is still within living memory?
Isn't it? Yes!
Thank you, Emily :)
Tatú was the first thing of yours I read, and I love it still. Such a surprise, bought on a whim; I knew nothing about Irish poetry then (not that I know anything now).
The Lighthouse is brilliant, with that dinner scene in the middle, meandering from mind to mind.
Ah, Virginia. Perhaps I should watch the Hours for her.
Ooh yes, it's a long time since I read or saw The Hours. I would like to revisit too.
Thanks for the random purchase of Tattoo :)
Loved this in Tatú - and with Adam's - just a feast. Thanks both for these.
Apparently I look like Virginia...
I do like her short fiction. It isn't reader friendly but it is accurate to the mind, I think. I like that she said the only fiction she was ever jealous of was that by Katherine Mansfield - a fave of mine. And, apparently you don't panic when you drown, just climb an invisible ladder, so much harder with your pockets full of stones....I wonder what the surface of the water looked like from beneath.
Thanks for the comment, Rachel.
I am persevering with her stories. There are some beautiful lines and insights. They are jsut not very story-like. N x
What a treat! I really enjoyed both poems. As always, it amazes me how two poets can write two beautifully different poems on the same theme. I am reading Woolf's writer's diary at the moment, it's very absorbing.
Go raibh míle, Doireann.
I'm curious now about her diaries. I read the book about her servants and it very nearly turned me off her completely. Such a snob!!
Nílim ach tuairim is leath-shlí tríd go dtí seo! There's plenty of the tra-la-la attitude in it about social engagements, etc... but it's such an amazing insight into her writing process, insecurities, etc. It's very heavily edited too, and I can't help but wonder about the elements that are missing.I am enjoying it though, I always love to read about other writer's processes.
After watching "The Hours" four times and then reading the same book, I ventured into Ms Woolf's fiction. It was indeed difficult but evey no and then a well turned phrase made me laugh...or cry.
Your poem is indeed sad and so beautiful. What indeed went through her head that day ? How lonely she must've been
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