Archive for September 5th, 2008

Image and info…Wikipedia

A Friday-night poem to enjoy!

Alfred Noyes (September 16, 1880 – June 28, 1958) was an English poet, best known for his ballads The Highwayman (1906) and The Barrel Organ.

Born in Wolverhampton, England, he was the son of Alfred and Amelia Adams Noyes. Noyes attended Exeter College, Oxford, leaving before he had earned a degree.

At 21 years of age, he published his first collection of poems, The Loom Years. From 1903 to 1908, Noyes published five volumes of poetry books, including The Forest of Wild Thyme and The Flower of Old Japan and Other Poems.

In 1907, he married Garnett Daniels. He was given the opportunity to teach English literature at Princeton University, where he taught from 1914 until 1923. Noyes’ wife died in 1926, resulting in his conversion to Roman Catholicism. He wrote about his conversion in The Unknown God, published in 1934.

Noyes later married Mary Angela Mayne Weld-Blundell, from an old recusant Catholic family from Ince Blundell in Lancashire. They settled at Lisle Combe, near Ventnor on the Isle of Wight and had three children: Hugh, Veronica, and Margaret. His younger daughter married Michael Nolan (later Lord Nolan) in 1953.

He later started dictating his work as a result of increasing blindness. In 1953, his autobiography, Two Worlds for Memory, was published.

Noyes died at the age of 77 and was buried on the Isle of Wight. He authored around sixty books, including poetry volumes, novels, and short stories.

During the next five years, Noyes published five additional volumes of poetry, including Poems (1904). One of Noyes’ most ambitious works, Drake: An English Epic, was first published in 1906. The twelve-book, two hundred page epic is thought to be too long by some critics, but nonetheless, an impressive example of Noyes’ talent and creativity. Arguably Noyes’ most beloved poem, The Highwayman, was published in Forty singing seamen and other poems in 1907.

Noyes spent much of the Second World War in North America, returning to Great Britain in 1949. Two Worlds For Memory, in which he described his life between America and Great Britain, was published in 1953. He published his last volume of poems in 1956, A Letter to Lucian, and his last book in 1957, The Accusing Ghost, or Justice for Casement. (During the First World War Noyes, while engaging in propaganda work for the British government, publicly alleged that the recently-exexcuted Irish Nationalist Roger casement had been a homosexual. After WB Yeats published a poem on Casement in the 1930s attacking Noyes by name, Noyes announced that he now believed the diaries cited as evidence of Casement’s homosexuality were forged. THE ACCUSING GHOST argues this case. The diaries were not then available to the public; they were released after Noyes’ death and most (though not all) commentators now believe them to be genuine.)On 25 June 1958, Alfred Noyes died on the Isle of Wight and was buried in the Roman Catholic cemetery at Freshwater.”



The Highwayman a poem by Alfred Noyes

The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.

He’d a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He’d a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle
His rapier hilt a-twinkle
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened–his face was white and peaked
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”

He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o’er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching
Marching marching
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
“Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”

She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.

Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding
Riding riding
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.

Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight
Her musket shattered the moonlight
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.

He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.

And still on a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy’s ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding
Riding riding
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter
Bess, the landlord’s daughter
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

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English readers…scroll down to the green writing…Omtrent twee maande gelede, mag korter wees, het ‘n besoeker op my blog my ‘n booskap gelos op een van die inskrywings wat ek gemaak het oor die area waar ek groot geword het. Sy kantoor kyk uit op die “Kloof” waarvan ek geskryf het. Ek het nie op my laat wag nie en hom dadelik gekontak via email. Na die oor-en-weer nuus uitruil, besef ek dat sy ma my gr1-st1-Onderwyseres was destyds toe die plaasskooltjie nog bestaan het, voordat ons na die dorpskool moes oorskuif na die sluit van die plaasskool.  Ons was natuurlik hartseer, want die plaasskooltjie was natuurlik ‘n groot bederf! Sement-swembad reg langs die skool, sop op koue dae…en ek kan nog onthou hoe ek as 5 jarige op Vrydae skooltoe gegaan het, r-gebrei het en al die groter kinders my op hul skoot geneem het en r-woorde laat sê het sodat hulle kon “oe!” en “a!” oor die “oulikgeit” daarvan! Ook het ek mooi foto’s gekry van die waterval waarheen ek (ons) so baie gestap het…die waterval was sowat 1.5-2km se stap vanaf die plaashuis op in die kloof verby ‘n paar ander plase, maar steeds deel van ons plaas. Die plaas waar ek groot geword het – ek was 5 toe ons vanaf Pretoria na die familie-plaas verhuis het – was jare terug…in my voorgeslagte…een groot plaas en toe later opverdeel. Op hierdie oomblik behoort slegs die kerkhof aan ons – en ek wil my verstout om te sê dat minerale regte ook uitgehou is. In elk geval, ek wil vir julle hierdie foto’s wys wat Christo vir my gestuur het…en dit was wonderlik om te hoor dat sy ma nog leef ook en goeie gesondheid het! Sy was ‘n dierbare onderwyseres en nog al die jare sing ek lofliedere oor haar. Al die jare het ek my tafels 100% geken…te danke aan haar in st 2! toe sy saam met ons dorpskool toe gegaan het. Ek kan ook nog onthou ons het ‘n “leeskompetisie” gehad in die dorpskool – toe ek nog omtrent st 1 was – en ons was na ‘n vertrek met omies geneem en ons moes daar stukkies voorlees…destyds het dit vir my soos die ouetehuis gevoel! lol! almal omies met brille en het so belangrik en vol wysheid gelyk! Ons het natuurlik die dorpskool uitgestof met die “kompetisie” en roomys daarna gekry…maar vandag dink ek terug en dink dit was maar seker ‘n span inspekteure wat hulle daardie tyd vermom het as die “ouetehuis-omies”..of is dit vir ons vertel om ons dalk nie op ons senuwees te maak nie…hehehe…sal graag wil weet! Hierdie foto’s het my hierdie volgende “gediggie” laat aanmekaarslaan!

English readers: These pictures are from the farm where I grew up as a child. I used to go for long walks in the mountains and you can see the waterfall too. One visitor to my blog had me very excited awhile ago when he said that his office overlooks the place where I grew up and he sent me these images! I used to spend many a day walking to the waterfall and enjoying nature! When I uploaded these images it inspired me to write a little poem and it’s here in Afrikaans…it’s all about the fantastic memories of those days in the field/mountains/nature etc. December is summer hols in South Africa and then it was the time when the extended family visited us and us kids sometimes camped at the waterfall just for fun! The bottom picture reminded me a lot about the farm when I found it last night…

Die holtes van my gedagtes
As kind het ek
die punte van my siel
laat ploeg in die akkers
waar mensestemme
voorheen opgeklink het

Skrams het ek gevoel
hoe die tuimelende bergstilte
‘n deursigtige telegram
van vrede laat deursypel
na die binnekamers van my hart

Die diggeweefde bergstilte het
spatsels waterdruppels moeiteloos
in my gemoed afgeprent
en ek smag na die
holtes van my gedagtes

©–Nikita 4 Sept 2008 20:30


Vroeër vanjaar het ek die gedig geplaas met ‘n waterval-foto wat my laat dink het aan die een op hierdie foto…in hierdie gediggie het ek verwys na die waterval…en die rante…nou sien julle presies waarna ek verwys het!

Suid-Afrika – my skaduwee

In die skadu’s
van die groot ou Eik
stoot ek weer in die sand
Boeta se karretjies een-vir-een
‘is verstommend hoe die mierleeus uit hul tonnels
krioel met kierang-hier en kierang-daar

Langs die waterval
sit ek, halfbewus
my gedagtes vind perspektiwiteit
en rol ragfyn ligstraaltjies voor my uit
op die kabbellende water

Op die meulwiel van vervloë
versamel ek babakatjies
pas gebo’, versteek
teen elemente daar buit’
en ek streel die sagtheid
wat ek koester
verder op my reis

Ek verdwaal tussen rante
soekend na onweerstaanbare
toktokkies en miskruiers
‘k neem ‘n honger teug
uit die kom van fluisteringe

Hoe sal ek jou kan vergeet
jou alledaagse ontwykende
en eindlose horison
bly jy daar vir my
en ek vir jou
Hoe kán ek dan
Vergeet van: “ons-vir-jou”…?

©Nikita 17 Junie 2008

En hier is die eintlike waterval [vol-foto] deur Francois vdM aangestuur na my in Junie 2011. [Dankie Francois] – hy is ‘n groot pêl van Christo – hierbo genoem.

Hierdie volgende liedjie het in my gedagtes opgekom en ek weet nie eens of ek hom korrek het nie, dus, enige hulp sal waardeer word indien ek moet korrigeer!

Die berge, bome, blomme
Die berge, blomme, bome
Die helder water strome
Hul wink ons van daar ver (2x)

Ons sing en klap die hande
Ons klim en stap die rante
Uit pure lewenslus! (2x)

tra-lie-trala, tra-lie-trala… uit pure lewenslus, uit pure lewenslus!(2x)
Ek het geen idee of dit die hele liedjie is, ek het net dink hy pas so goed hierby toe hy in my gedagtes opskiet! dus…help asseblief…of sê my as dit reg is!

Image: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/15/Lousios-kloof.jpg

This is an Afrikaans song by a blogger friend, Jasper. He sings about “memories”.

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