My chapter-a-day-of-a-thought-filled book endeavour is still going reasonably well, and no one is more surprised about this than me. I often start these things with great enthusiasm only for it to slowly wane into forgetfulness, missed days and before you know it not a lot.
My book for October was Vesper Flights by Helen Macdonald which was, sadly for me, the right book at the wrong time, so I substituted J.B.Priestley’s Grumbling at Large from Notting Hill Editions and have warmed to a man I’ve barely read and knew even less about, more to come on that. The grounding of Vesper Flights might have been more about occasionally feeling sated with nature reading so I will come back to it, probably after the winter hibernation.
Meanwhile I also seem to be making a few wrong book purchases and I’m grateful to Waterstones who take them back. We agreed it’s because there are no chairs in the store now...that’s what it is. Nothing to do with my fickleness of reading mood at all; this is all because I can’t sit down with a pile of books and get a feel for them before I commit to buy. Anyway I returned a book on recycling through history which had looked interesting but proved dense (to me) and another which was a follow up to a highly successful first book on walking around the coast (it will have its moment) and I came away with The Fire of Joy by Clive James and some money on a gift card ( towards future mistakes and returns) instead.
'In the last months of his life, his vision impaired by surgery and unable to read, Clive James explored the treasure-house of his mind: the poems he knew best, so good that he didn’t just remember them, he found them impossible to forget. The Fire of Joy is the record of this final journey of recollection and celebration. Enthralled by poetry all his life, James knew hundreds of poems by heart. In offering this selection of his favourites, a succession of poems from the sixteenth century to the present, his aim is to inspire you to discover and to learn, and perhaps even to speak poetry aloud.
In his highly personal anthology, James offers a commentary on each of the eighty or so poems: sometimes a historical or critical note on the poem or its author, sometimes a technical point about the poem’s construction from someone who was himself a poet, sometimes a personal anecdote about the role the poem played in his own life.
Whether you’re familiar with a poem or not ― whether you’re familiar with poetry in general or not ― these chatty, unpretentious, often tender mini-essays convey the joy of James’s enthusiasm and the benefit of his knowledge. His urgent wish was to share with a new generation what he himself had loved. This is a book to be read cover to cover or dipped into: either way it generously opens up a world for our delight.'
I discovered Clive James many years ago after an event at a local literary festival. His wry and laconic TV persona was enhanced by a deep and serious intelligence which had never struck me before. He signed a copy of his essays for me and that was me confirmed as a dedicated follower. His latter years prior to his death in 2019 were not wasted. He faced down a terminal diagnosis, that really took its time to play out, with humour, fortitude and intelligence and often with some embarrassment that having declared his time was up, it clearly wasn’t. He really did give credence to that Keats poem about dying before the teeming brain has time to
When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has gleaned my teeming brain,
Before high-pilèd books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripened grain;
The harvest, to continue Keats’s metaphor, was a steady stream of books that contained so much wisdom and humility that it’s hard to know where to begin. I bought each one as it emerged and see them as incredibly powerful manuals for life, for understanding it, for an awareness of what is possible and so much more. Follow the links for my thoughts on Injury Time and The River in the Sky
It was an article on The Fire of Joy that alerted me to its existence and also something that always awakens my interest about learning poetry by heart. Ted Hughes edited a volume, By Heart, years ago and I keep an old damp-wrinkled copy in the car in case we ever break down, or get stuck in a blizzard, and at least I have something useful to do. I had the cassette of it somewhere, Ted Hughes reading, and if you’ve never heard Ted reading seek him out, stop whatever you’re doing and have a listen.
Clive James had a rich store of poetry known by heart thanks to a school that didn’t allow its pupils to go home each day until they’d recited a learnt poem. It really makes my own store look very meagre and how I wish I’d learned more when my brain was so capable of stashing it. I’m pretty good on a few Shakespeare soliloquies; 'To Be' and 'Tomorrow and Tomorrow' will come tumbling out at the slightest provocation.
An Example :
A while back, parking in the multi-story to head to Waterstones, and taking note of where we were...because the day we forgot and somehow found ourselves trapped by a one way door on the emergency access only staircase of the Drake Shopping Centre is never to be repeated. Anyway we’d parked in Bay 2B and that was all it took for me to launch the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I can also summon up Archimedes Principle whenever the need arises for a body totally or partially immersed in a fluid.
In his last days Clive James derived huge pleasure and comfort from his store of poetry. His daughter would read aloud to him and it is suggested that readers do likewise with The Fire of Joy. Even better there are helpful hints on how to read a poem aloud and they make complete sense. I’ve listened to some absolute shockers in my time ...the poets that assume the ethereal drone monotone (not Ted, oh no not Ted). Clive is all about pauses and intonation, keeping the voice up towards the end of the line, try to figure out the poem before you start etc. Each poem in this eclectic and sometimes surprising collection comes with a brief commentary, usually laced with Clive’s humour and an anecdote giving it some context, rather than any pseudo-intellectual analysis, which all makes for added enjoyment. I read the poem, read it again, read it aloud create my own context and then read Clive’s. This is a book to get a person through the winter, no question.
Meanwhile, I’m sure I’m not the only one with lines learned by heart still ready to tumble forth, so off you go in comments go on...
And talking of poems being read...did anyone else catch our Poet Laureate, Simon Armitage, reading The Bed, at the Remembrance Day service at Westminster Abbey. It is a tribute to the Unknown Warrior and it was all and everything a poem (and a Poet Laureate reading it aloud) needs to be right now...
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