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OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS: THE POETRY OF FARZAN RADFAR

Dear Reader

Below you will find five of my poems written in the past twenty years or so. Originally, I started writing poems in early eighties. But at that time I was writing few poems. It was in early two thousands that I started to write a lot more frequently.

 

All my poems are written in both English and Farsi. Most of the time I find inspiration for a poem through a single word or a short phrase. Depending on the language of the inspirational word or phrase, either English or Farsi, I write first in that language, say, Farsi and then in English and vice versa. Of course, here you will only find the English versions.

 

I do write both structured and free verse poems. I always mention the date and place of writing of each poem at the bottom of the page. This is just a tradition of Iranian poets that I adhere to like Mehdi Akhavan Sales and Ahmad Shamloo. (See https://anmly.org/ap34/fatemeh-madani-sarbarani-translates-ahmad-shamloo-and-mehdi-akhavan-sales/).

 

I hope you enjoy what follows.

 

We Are All Poets

When I write of all these emotions
Of highs, lows, love and life
And all that is so deep within our soul,
When I sense the call
To pass a smile to all
Those with whom by fate or chance
I have somehow come to dance
To enhance my desire for a human touch

When I pick my pilot pen,
Take the beginning of a thread
And free my thoughts to spread
And my feelings of any shred of doubt,
With the wish that sometimes, by someone
It is hopefully read.
And as my pen glides like a mesmerised black dancer on ice,
By chance I take a glance
At all the scribbles so free,
The contrast, metaphors and lists of three,
Of some of which consciously or not
I do not care or even dare
To claim to be aware,
As I open my heart for all to call and watch.

And so at times
I feel as though my pen takes the lead
And I happily follow
As we are so carefree of the need
For some grammatical correctness,
Whether right or wrong,
Or if everyone can hear this structural rhythm
Or notice that far fetched rhyme
As we don’t see it as a crime
That sometimes it is hard
To ponder a proper prime rhyme.

So if someday by chance
For whatever reason you take a short glance at this
And if by some kind of magic
You hear the same call,
Never allowing any petal to fall
Of the fortress fashioned of petals
By the people poet we politely call
Who bring to life any emotion while
Praying that you read it with all your heart and smile.
Our privilege to call over a heart and gently touch.

Perhaps because somehow
We are all poets to the core
That we play with words and we open the door
To a world honest, true and pure
In search of a smiling helping hand
or a cure
Without fear of shame or danger of ridicule
As we allow our pen to be free,
Letting it glide, dance on paper
And blossom for all to smile,
Cleanse our soul and per chance
Blow away our hearts.

February 2009
Wirral


Still

Still light in the eyes
Still a warm breath in chest
Still questions and whys
Still a chance to do one’s best

Still a scent to smell
Still a piece of bread to bite
Still a story to tell
Still morning, day and night

Still a poem on the lips
Still a passion in the heart
Still tests, trials and slips
Still a new beginning, start

Still a sun in the day
Still a moon at night
Still the flowers in may
Still colours so bright

Still spring and birdsong
Still shade of summer’s oak
Still autumn’s colourful sarong
Still winter’s white cloak

Still the warm fire within
Still passion and human’s love
Still blood, bones and skin
Still so much to be grateful of

Still a moving body and soul
Still a shaking pen in hand
Still a pinhole, chink in wall
Still buds, dawn and hope so grand

April 2020
Wirral


This Is My Home (Iran)

I’m walking in the streets of my city
Every step
Closer to my roots
Every root
Seems to softly wave
From inside the hot tarmac

Here
Everything has a familiar scent
From the forehead’s sweat
Of the loving gardeners of the city
To the understanding that green leaves
Have not easily grown here

From the way watchful crows
Perch on electricity cables and old pines
To the ballet of pedestrians crossing in between cars and motorbikes

And from the sounds, smiles, swears and cries
To the doors and walls and concrete light poles
I know them all

This is my home
Me and ninety odd million others
With all its brotherhoods and inequalities
With all its uptowns and downtowns
Here, with all its mountains, rivers and fields
Even in its smoke filled streets
I breath easier
This is my home.

December 2017
Wirral

 

The Creation’s Expanse

Last night I dreamed
That before dawn
I was running in the sky.
How exhilarating to race the wind
And what a feeling to shower in rain.
How refreshing to sit to breakfast
On a table of clouds
And what a scenery,
What a beautiful Earth

After breakfast
I popped to the moon.
Quick chat and then
Rolled to Mars,
Just in time for lunch,
Broth of bunches of the Sun,
Saffron flavoured rice from Venus,
And Jupiter’s exquisite chicken

Last night I dreamed
For dinner I was a guest at Uranus
Classic Neptune’s bread
Mince kebab from Saturn
And basil and horseradish from Mercury

Last night in dreams
I sat on the swing of rainbows
Keepy uppied with shooting stars
And hopped over every planet

Last night
In just one dreamy night
I roamed the length and breadth of our solar system
And yet I know full well
To see the entire creation’s expanse takes longer than that,
Much longer,
Even in dreams
An eternity is needed

May 2016
Wirral

 

The Wise Crow

For my dear brother Faramarz

An old crow on an oak tree
Sits there every day to see
People passing down below
In the sunshine or snow

Some walk fast and some slow
Some are high and others low
Some are young and some are old
Some are meek and others bold

Some are happy. Some are sad
Some feel so good, some so bad
Some are poor and some are rich
Some are lovely, some a bitch

Some are hungry, some are weak
Some are poorly, week on week
Some live on a piece of toast
Others seem to have the most

Some at dusk lonely as a post
Some like they have seen a ghost
Some are crying, some scream
Some in daytime in daydream

Some seem content, some unsure
Some look holy, some impure
Some are tired, some are bored
Some are seen and some ignored

Some are strong and some are weak
Some are nerd and some are geek
Some are straight and some reserved
Some have no luck, not deserved

Some are absent, some in daze
Like a pinhole in thick haze
Some suspicious, insecure
Some with visions so obscure

Some have purpose in their gait
Some on their way to a date
Some are dressed as if to kill
Others have to pay the bill

Some are in love, some in pain
Someone’s loss is other’s gain
Some hand in hand, some alone
Not every dog gets a bone

Some are deaf and some are dumb
Some are as daft as they come
Some are sober, some are drunk
All their inbox full of junk
********************
In every country, village or town
Some old crow is looking down
And the wise crow still sees
People in the autumn breeze

In the sunshine or snow
When midsummer is on show
Spring, fall and every day
Some are upset some are gay

Some are this and some are that
Some are quiet, others chat
Some in trouble, some in shame
Some seem to have all the fame

Some are one step from a fall
Some are divided by a wall
Some are drowning, at death’s door
Some in mourning, some in war

Some are desperate, some afraid
Some are running in air raid
Some have lost their love and land
Some with white flag in their hand
********************

In the heights of every tree
A wise crow sits watchful, free
And sees people passing by
All involved as life goes by

The wise crow sees the common man
Of every colour, hue or tan
Just looks for a better life
With less trouble, less strife

All in grapple with their lives
Some one faced, some in disguise
Common men have highs and lows
All know life has no more goes

Ordinary man needs no more
To be shaken to the core
Can live without killing fields
In wars or as human shields

The wise crow and human kind
Know that people are inclined
To love and to live in mirth
And say no more war on earth
********************
Foot note

The wise crow can’t understand
Why do humans hand in hand
Day and night they maim and kill
And say this is the God’s will

Humans killed and trees are burnt
As though caring they’ve not learnt
With madness, massacre and death
They don’t care for creatures’ breath

Crows do not kill their own
Species at night or dawn
They are perhaps above that
Won’t kill for the sake of that

I read somewhere recently
Crows are perhaps probably
One of the few creations
Who mourn their own relations

Or any other of their kind
And I’m sure that you will find
That perhaps this wisest bird
For whom not many have cared

Called ugly by this and that
And some curse it while they chat
Is worthy of praising high
High up and up in the sky

June 2018
Wirral

©Farzan Radfar 2026

 

 

Notes:

In addition to being a poet and the author of two books, Farzan Radfar is a playwright, translator, screen writer, singer, and songwriter. You can follow him on Instagram – @farzanradfar.

See also OTHER PEOPLES’ FLOWERS: HAFEZ OF SHIRAZ – HASSAN SHABANI & FARZAB RADFAR

 

 

OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS: DIANA SANDERS – POET & MUSICIAN

David Selzer By David Selzer2 Comments6 min read2.4K views

David shows so much generosity in sharing other people’s work on his website. It’s an honour to join this community and be included in ‘Other People’s Flowers’.  In this age of the individual, this is a breath of fresh air.  The themes of my recent poems are aligned with this way of thinking – how the self is intrinsically connected to other people, the creatures who live on this planet and the landscape in general.  The moods and colours of the landscape are reflected in me and sometimes I wonder if the colour of a dress I may be wearing finds its way into the landscape.

I live on a hill overlooking the Alwen valley with my husband Pete. The music of the land is all around – the streams, waterfalls, the river, the sound of trees in the wind.  Bird song is never far away, even in winter and the donkeys from the farm opposite are unrestrained in their braying. Chaffinches, goldfinches, siskins, blue tits, nuthatches, greater spotted woodpeckers, robins turn up at our door for breakfast, lunch, dinner and tea.   I think they eat better than we do. As well as the song birds there are the more subtle sounds of bats chattering in the roof, leaves unfurling, the sound of bees and hover flies.

The love I feel for this wild place, on this earth, is unconditional.  The kind of love you feel for a partner, a parent or a child.  It is precious. When we harm the earth, we harm ourselves.  It is self-harm.   I quote Just  by Radiohead (1995). ‘You do it to yourself, you do and that’s what really hurts, is that you do it to yourself, just you. You and no one else’.

The poems and music that I have included here are words that comment on how humans are harming this world but also how people are finding innovative ways to heal landscapes.  There is also a celebration of the beauty of this incredible world.  All the poems and the song are also on a specially created video  – which is available on my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/100063451100133/videos/4070467436574443

My first poem, 235 decibels is from ‘I Am Nature’, a recently released book of eco poetry written by Leaf Pettit, me, Patricia Sumner and Andrew Sumner.  This is available from https://www.veneficiapublications.com/product-page/i-am-nature  235 decibels was first published, though, by Abergavenny Small Press in June 2021 and looks at how submarine sonar effects the creatures in the ocean.

 

235 decibels*

hard to remember how it was
when they improvised and tossed
a tune for days on end
when small one set his voice free
when they all played catch bubbles O
                                                          O

   O
O

when a chorus of bass notes
overtones    tail-slaps         clicks     rumbles
filled the sea
when wind sang the lighthouse

there was a time when they could answer
songs from beyond the krill place
a time when their voices
were loudest

but now dark ones ____________________
won’t stop ___________________screaming
and lurk ___________________in the deep places
stealing music and sleep _________________________

sometimes muscles _______________remember old patterns_________________
but they ______________can no longer tell _____________what they sing

moon still licks it tongue ________________over their backs
but there is no meaning in this water_________________

* A Submarine sonar is 235 decibels.  The loudest rock concert is 130 decibels.

 

The following lyrics were written for a song called The Seal recorded by The Amazing Clouds in 2019. The Amazing Clouds were Pete Regan, me, and Dom Oakes.  It was written after visiting Ramsey Island just off the coast of Pembrokeshire.  It was Autumn and the seals and their pups were in full voice.

Seal

I sit on polished rock
and listen to the seals.
Their song coils into my mind.
I dive into water.
I swim with the cormorant.
I swim with the gannet.
Bubbles are jewels on my skin.
I am born for water.
I am a shape-shifter.
The setting sun blinds me,
I’m lost on the stormy sea.
Seal pushes me to shore,
it’s there I leave my human skin.
I am born for water,
I am a shape-shifter.

 

I am continuing the theme of water with The man who called back the fishes. This poem is also from I am Nature and is based on the work of Dr Tim Lamont and Dr Stephen Simon who are trying to regenerate coral reefs by planting new corals and then playing sounds of a healthy reef through underwater sound projectors.  This process has been found to encourage sea creatures back to the reef.

The man who called back the fishes 

He began at dawn, playing reef music
whilst planting coral polyps in rock
cervices under the rippled, sunlit surface.

He purred for shoals of angel fish,
grunted for male frill fin gobies —
played the güiro for the spiny lobster.

The volume rose in a steady crescendo
through the day until it peaked at dusk.
In his dreams he painted outlines of eels,

filled in the colours of damsel fish
and the others who lived here before
the cyclones, before the bleaching.

The music rode ocean currents,
skirted islands, entered caves,
followed rafts of driftwood.

Ray by ray, fish by fish, urchins,
triggerfish, shrimp, parrotfish,
whitetip sharks, reef octopus,

manta ray, barracuda, trumpetfish,
yellowtail snappers, glassy sweepers
and starfish came back for his music.

They joined in with an eruption
of pops, howls, chirps and grunts,
whistles, snaps, bumps,

buzzes, squeals, heart beats,
teeth-gnashing, tail-slapping,
gill-flapping and staccato clicks.

He floated in this new oasis,
turned off the music
and listened.

 

The next poem, Blossom Symphony is about the natural music in an orchard and how the cycles of the seasons spiral into the future.  I’ve used the pantoum form to enhance the feeling of repetition.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blossom Symphony

Blossoms unfurl —
a single phrase repeated
over and over —
orchards heartbeat.

A single phrase repeated,
embellished by bumble bees —
orchards heart beat —
leaf veins breathe.

Embellished by bumble bees
and nightjar churr —
leaf veins breathe —
voles chomp on June-drop litter.

Nightjars churr —
counter melodies from wasps.
voles chomp on June-drop litter —
hawk-moths purr.

There are counter melody from wasps
and woodpecker drumrolls,
whilst hawk-moths purr
along with mineral-water arpeggios.

Woodpecker drumrolls
whilst sky rests in roots.
Mineral-water arpeggios
swell embryo fruits.

Sky rests in roots
liquid sun rushes through branches —
swells embryo fruits.
Under trees they clink glasses.

Liquid sun gushes through branches
they listen to the bubble fizz
under trees they clink glasses —
share a cider kiss.

They listen to the bubble fizz
over and over —
share a cider kiss
as blossoms unfurl.

 


My next poem was written in the North of Sweden just after midsummer.  There is nothing quite like walking up a mountain with no one else there, reaching the peak at midnight and it still being light.

Midnight Circle

Sleep is vacuum packed as we walk
above sun-lit clouds into midnight.
You haven’t shaved for five days;
your face as raw and uncomplicated
as glacial scoured rock.

Our shadows                     stretch out
behind us                          touching
the lemming                      that sped
between                            birch trees,
the golden plover              who stood sentinel
over her chicks                  and tracing our boots
as we trod softly                on elk and Sami trails
and finding you                 watching me
swim naked                       in a mountain stream.

Our shadows pause           trembling
on the glittering river         where I found
a rounded stone                which I roll

like a precious egg in my hands.

 

Lastly, I return to the Pembrokeshire Coast with a poem about the Smalls Lighthouse which is about 20 miles West of the Pembrokeshire coast in the Irish Sea.  It is a wild and remote place.  It is hard to imagine how the lighthouse keepers kept their sanity on these windswept and lonely rocks.  This also appears in I am Nature.

https://www.veneficiapublications.com/product-page/i-am-nature 

 

Guardian

The Smalls Lighthouse

 

Gannets skim the boat
borrowing updrafts.

He watches until birds disappear
until the boat is a dot

until engine noise is lost

under the voice of waves
under the creak of barnacles.

He works alone

repairing horn and light
until sunset.

Stretched out on rock –
hair thick with sea salt

he listens to night spirits –

to ones who worked the light before
to the wreck-chatter of the deep.

Ripples of phosphorescence
flame from his watery toes

 

pulsing out to dark places.

 

 

 

©2025 Photographs, poems and text – Diana Sanders

 

©2025 Music – Pete Regan & Diana Sanders

 

 

 

 

BETWEEN RIVERS AUTUMN 2022: JANE BRERETON – ALAN HORNE

BETWEEN RIVERS is a quarterly series – https://davidselzer.com/2022/05/between-rivers-introduction/  – focused on the area bounded by the rivers Alyn, Dee and Gowy, on the border between England and Wales in Flintshire and Cheshire.

For Autumn 2022 we have a special edition devoted to a selection of the work of Jane Brereton (1685-1740), a Welsh poet writing in English:

Melissa to Sylvanus Urban: from the Gentleman’s Magazine, October 1735 (excerpt);

To Cynthio. In imitation of the thirty third Ode of the first Book of Horace;

Letter to Miss ****, In answer to hers of December 2, 1739;

An Account of the Life of Mrs BRERETON (excerpt).

 

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Jane Brereton

Jane Hughes was born in Mold in 1685. She was the only surviving child of her parents, and her father took pains with her education. She soon began writing her own poetry, and went on to live the life of an educated gentlewoman of modest means. In 1711 she married Thomas Brereton, and they moved to London to pursue their common interest in literature at a time when women poets were beginning to emerge into publication. Unfortunately, the marriage did not go well. Thomas was prone to fits of temper and failed with both money and work. In 1721 Jane separated from him and returned with their children to Mold. Thomas soon obtained a post not far away, with the Customs in Parkgate on the Wirral, and the couple’s relationship may have been cordial; but he died in an accident the following year. After that, Jane Brereton moved to Wrexham, joining the literary circle around Mary Myddelton of Croesnewydd. She lived in Wrexham until her death in 1740.

We know of Brereton for two reasons. The first is that during the 1730s she was a regular contributor of poetry, under the pen-name Melissa, to the Gentleman’s Magazine, published in London by Edward Cave: the magazine has received some attention in more recent times. The second is that, on her death, friends and supporters subscribed to a volume of her work, the splendidly titled Poems on Several Occasions: with letters to her friends and an account of her life. Copies of this, placed in the National Library of Wales and British Library, might have mouldered down the centuries but for the growth of interest in the ‘Atlantic Archipelago’ as a curative to British history focused on London or England. Thanks to the British Library’s programme of digitization, the complete work is now available for you to read online here and a facsimile paperback edition is available. Brereton features in Sarah Prescott’s Eighteenth-Century Writing From Wales: Bards and Britons, published in 2008 by the University of Wales Press.

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Four selections from Poems on Several Occasions are given here: an excerpt from the verse correspondence in the Gentleman’s Magazine; the short poem To Cynthio, an example of her more serious work; a letter to an anonymous correspondent; and an excerpt from the account of her life, which tells of her relationship with her husband, and his untimely death. Some eighteenth-century typesetting conventions are replaced for ease of reading; otherwise, the text is as in the original.

Melissa to Sylvanus Urban: from the Gentleman’s Magazine, October 1735 (excerpt).

In an era when the ability to write correspondence in verse was an educated accomplishment and a means of clarifying one’s thought, Brereton wrote a number of letter-poems, and came to public attention through those published under her pen-name Melissa in the Gentleman’s Magazine, especially in ‘the Controversy with Fidelia, Fido &c. which so agreeably entertained the Public in the Years 1734 and 1735.’ Melissa to Sylvanus Urban is one of her contributions to that controversy.

A prize of £50 had been offered for ‘the best POEM by May next on five Subjects, viz. Life, Death, Judgement, Heaven and Hell.’ Another woman correspondent, Fidelia (possibly Kezia Wesley, youngest sister of John Wesley), responded in verses declaring that an extra zero should be added to the prize for such a task; or that an alternative prize for women could be marriage to Jonathan Swift, whose splenetic poem  The Furniture of a Woman’s Mind, had been published in the magazine. Others replied with their own displays of wit, including Melissa (Brereton), who suggested – incorrectly, it would seem – that Fidelia’s verses were really written by the editor. Brereton discussed this and further submissions with Thomas Beach, one of her friends in Wrexham. Without her knowledge, at least at first, Beach joined in the correspondence, using the name Captain Fido and posing as Fidelia’s admirer.  There was then a rather flirtatious war of wit between Melissa, Fidelia, and Captain Fido, who eventually signed off with some disparaging remarks about women writers. But Beach then wrote again, with a new persona, Mrs Prudence Manage (who has a daughter: Miss Manage). Brereton, perhaps catching on, carried out her own switch of gender: her final verses were in the name of clerical heart-throb Parson Lovemore. Our preconceptions as to what women might write about in the 1730s are set right: there is much poking of fun, discussion of who admires whom, and a joke about farting. In this excerpt, Melissa has put Captain Fido in his place, and turns her attention to Fidelia. She is responding to witticisms about her own supposedly devastating beauty. Urban is Edward Cave, who used the name Sylvanus Urban in his role as editor.

But, now, for Fidelia’s Epistle profound,-

(Which she hobbles about, like a Lancashire Round)

That her Vein is most easy, by Fido’s decreed;

But I’m greatly concern’d, now, I find she can’t read:

But to those that can, I appeal for this Truth,

That I neither pretended to Beauty, or Youth.

Whoe’er will my Lines condescend to revise,

Will find I make free with my own hollow Eyes.

‘Twas Fido, the Head of your triple Alliance,

First sent the poor Things (and my Pen) a defiance;

The innocent Peepers, he attack’d with much spight,

Abandon’d Fidelia, wou’d veil them from Light.

Yet longs for to see of my Face every Feature;

Good Urban! convey my kind Thanks to the Creature.

I hope she’ll be satisfy’d, when she is told,

Melissa declares herself – ugly and old.

And surely the Publick, will grant this Confession,

From a Woman’s own Hand, is an ample Concession!

But if Fidy persists, – I’ll here lay before ye,

For her Consid’ration, a very short Story.

A Monarch more famous for Wit, than for Grace,

Once pluck’t off a Mask, from a Lady’s foul Face;

But finding her vext, that her Face had been shewn,

He appeas’d her, by shewing a worse of his own.

My Meaning, as plain as a Pikestaff, I’ll make,

For I find dear Fidelia is apt to mistake.

‘Tis rude to expose my poor Phiz to disgrace,

Unless, like the Monarch, she’ll shew a worse Face.

As Fido to Sylvius; – so now, I declare,

If Fidy replies not; – here ends all the War.

Her Champion is gone; – and with her, I’ve done;

Who stood out a Blunderbuss, scorns a Pot-gun.

 

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To Cynthio. In imitation of the thirty third Ode of the first Book of Horace.

Away from the freedom of her informal epistolatory verse, Brereton’s serious poetry can seem rather conventional to the twenty-first century reader. This is not a matter of the rhyming couplets, peopled by Jove, Phœbus & Co., but of seemingly conventional sentiments of piety, pro-Hanoverian patriotism and Enlightenment virtues. The sketch of her life in Poems on Several Occasions says that she worried that her displays of wit might be prideful, and perhaps these were curbed in the poems. But some of the concerns which seem conventional to us were not to her. The Hanoverian settlement and the Enlightenment were battles being fought during her lifetime. The Stuart rising of 1715, which attempted to place James Edward Stuart (the Old Pretender) on the throne, took place when she was thirty; and the last burning of a woman for witchcraft in Britain was in 1727: one of Brereton’s verses refers to the Witchcraft Act of 1735, which abolished the offence. In a way Brereton was a political poet, with a new perspective as a Welsh woman. Only our distance from the events of those days causes these poems to seem conventional at first sight.

Some of the poems are more personal. An example is To Cynthio, with its wry reflections on love which, in the last verse, are suddenly turned back against the ‘I’ of the poem.

Cease, gen’rous Cynthio, cease to mourn!

And let the proud Eliza’s Scorn

No more thy Anger move:

No more in soft Complaints declare,

The giddy injudicious Fair

Prefers a meaner Love.

 

The beauteous Cloe Damon loves;

But he Corinna more approves,

Though stock’d with much Ill-nature,

While she regardless of his Sighs,

As he from Cloe, from him flies

T’embrace another Creature.

 

Thus cruel Love maintains his Sway!

The Rich, the Mean, the Rude, the Gay,

Unequal he insnares:

In vain or Sense or Merit pleads,

In vain sincerest Truth persuades;

He laughs at all our Cares!

 

E’en I this mad Caprice have prov’d,

When gentle Youths admir’d and lov’d,

And did my Grace implore:

Ill-natured Cymon I receive,

Rough as the wild Hibernian Wave,

That beats our Cambrian Shore!

 

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Letter to Miss ****, In answer to hers of December 2, 1739.

In addition to the letter-poems, five of Brereton’s prose letters are included in Poems on Several Occasions. They are discussions with friends (all anonymized by the editor) about faith, philosophy and society. They show that Brereton’s Christian belief was carefully thought through. All the letters are vivid and direct: arguably her most striking work. Brereton generally moves between protesting her lack of wit and contradicting the opinion of some established authority: in this case William Law, for whose devotional works she expressed a great, but by no means uncritical, liking despite his Jacobite loyalties. Here she takes issue with his fictional character Miranda, a model of the frugal gentlewoman. The Downs, mentioned at the end of the letter, is an anchorage off Deal in Kent, at the junction of the North Sea and the English Channel.

I grant you, Madam, that Pride is an insinuating and predominant Passion; but that there is the least Appearance, or Symptom of it, in your Letter, is what I can by no means admit. Nothing can be more just than your Sentiments of that Passion; and nothing less so, than your Application of it to yourself. There is certainly a Pleasure in the giving, or receiving a just disinterested Approbation; but I cannot believe, that a Pleasure of this Nature is either a Cause or a Consequence of Pride: On the contrary, I apprehend it to be, the pure Joy, and Satisfaction, which a benevolent Mind receives from whatever is Praise-worthy.

It must be confess’d that Pride is a sort of a Proteus; it can vary its Form, to gratify its own Vanity, or to elude Discovery: It is sometimes imperceptible, where it bears the greatest Sway; and, on the other Hand, it is often suspected to be where it really is not. As, for Instance, in the Article of Dress: A fashionable Garb, put on in a genteel Manner, is, in the Opinion of some rigid People, an infallible Indication of Pride. But if, as some have thought, (and if my Memory deceives me not, Mr Ray says) the improving and beautifying the Earth, with Plantations, Gardens &c. ought to be considered as a religious Duty; why is it not laudable in the Chief of the Creation to adorn themselves with all the Elegance of Dress, suitable to their Age and Condition, and conformable to the Mode of the Country they live in?

Some Divines have taught, that the Consideration of the richest Garments being chiefly made of the Bowels of an ugly Worm, should humble the Wearer. -True;- But may not this be an Argument for wearing that, which affords an humbling Consideration?

Mr Law, in his character of Miranda (in his Call to a devout and holy Life) says, she dresses meanly, that she may be able to support indigent Families. There are Calamities and Circumstances, which ought to be particularly considered. But, in the general, is there not greater Charity in employing the Industrious, and, consequently, preventing them from being reduc’d to Poverty, than in relieving them when they are so? There may be, I am persuaded, as much Pride in the Contempt of Dress, as in too great a Fondness of it. Who doubts, but that Diogenes was prouder in his Tub than Plato on his Carpet? The Remark which that polite Philosopher made on seeing the Cynic up to the Chin in Water was certainly very just. – But where am I rambling! – I know not how far I might have expatiated on this Topic, which you threw in my Way; had not the shocking Thought of the Situation, the mad Cynic was in, joyn’d with the severe coldness of the Weather, set me a shuddering, tho’ by a good Fire, and, happily for you, put a stop to my Speculations.

I should be glad to know the Name of the Ship, which your Friend goes in, that I may rejoyce with you, tho’ at the Distance of two hundred Miles, when I read the News, that she is safely arriv’d in the Downs, with a rich Prize.

I have made a long Paper-Visit; but as I have not been able to say any thing entertaining, I think the most obliging Thing I can do, is to take my Leave: So shall only stay to assure you, that I am,

Dear Madam!

Jan. 18, 1740                                         Yours, &c.

J.B.

 

***************************************************************************

An Account of the Life of Mrs BRERETON (excerpt).

We might think of Brereton today as a neglected poet, but at her death more than a hundred friends and supporters subscribed so that Poems on Several Occasions might be published by Edward Cave. In addition to the poems and letters, this includes an Advertisement, possibly written by Cave, and an account of Brereton’s life. The latter tends to dwell on Brereton’s virtues rather than her acts. But the following excerpt, about her relationship with her husband and the circumstances of his death, fills out Brereton’s hints, in verses and letters, at a difficult family life; and the anonymous author’s high-mindedness combines with the folly surrounding her husband’s death to give us an absurd tragedy. In this passage there is, in addition to Brereton’s husband, another Thomas Brereton, a relative and a member of Parliament for Liverpool; Mrs Hughes is Jane Brereton prior to her marriage.

When Major Brereton died, he left his Son a considerable Fortune in Money; but being too young, and in the Management of Guardians, and his Mother marrying Captain Brown, there was not the Care taken of his Education that ought to have been: Mr Brereton was so much a fine Gentleman that he soon ran out most of his Fortune. He went over for a short Time to Paris; and, at his Return, the Earl of Stair, then Ambassador there, was pleased to recommend him, in the strongest Manner, to the Duke of Marlborough, as the Son of his old Soldier Major Brereton, and his Grace seem’d determined to provide for him if his ill State of Health had not prevented it. Some time after this, Mrs Brereton was advised, by all who had any Regard for her, to separate from her Husband: But tho’ all the Reason in the World pleaded for it, yet she express’d great Reluctance at it, especially unless she could have her Children with her; and that being at last brought about, she left London about the Year 1721, and retired to her native Country Wales, where she led a solitary Life, seeing little Company, except some intimate Friends, Persons of great Merit; well knowing what a critical Case it is to behave without the Censure of the World, when separated from an Husband. Soon after this Mr Brereton had a Post given him by the late Earl of Sunderland, belonging to the Customs at Park-Gate, near Chester. This brought him down from London. That Nobleman had promised also to advance him on the first proper Vacancy; but he liv’d not to claim it; for on the [number missing] Day of February 1722, he was unfortunately drown’d in adventurously crossing the Water of Saltney, when the Tide was coming in. His Body was afterwards found, and decently interred in Shotwick Chapel belonging to Thomas Brereton Esq; one of the Representatives in Parliament for Liverpoole, his intimate Friend and Relation, and in whose Service he lost his Life; for this Gentleman being at that Time concern’d in an Election, with a very powerful Antagonist, Mr Brereton, out of his great Zeal for his Friend, wrote a sort of Libel against the Gentleman, and in it he gave himself such a Loose as to come within the Power of the Law; upon which Mr Brereton advised him to abscond to avoid Prosecution (tho’ he highly lik’d the Piece which was written by his Instigation,) and so, by making too much Haste to get beyond the Knowledge of his Persuers, rush’d into Eternity. He was an unhappy Proof of the Prejudice of an indulgent Education. He used to say himself, that he never in his Life remembered being contradicted. His Parts were naturally very good; but entirely neglected. He was very positive and passionate; but could upon Occasion command himself surprisingly; so that while he made his Addresses to Mrs Hughes, she took him for a person of a sweet calm Temper: And his first Fit of Passion, after their Marriage, was like a Thunder-clap to her; yet he would sometimes, in a handsome Manner, acknowledge his Fault, and seem so sensible, that any, who did not know him too well, would have imagined him secure against a Relapse. He was generous to a Fault; a very indulgent Father; used frequently to admire his Wife’s Oeconomy; and confess that his Fortune must have been spent long before it was, had it not been for her surprizing Management. He was remarkable for his skill in swimming, beyond most Men, on which he relied too much, at the Time of his Death; and he was entreated by people on the Shore, not to quit his Horse, which he would do, and so perished about the two and thirtieth Year of his Age. He frequently saw his Children, while he was in that Neighbourhood, and had that Satisfaction the very Night before he was lost. So sudden a Death was an inexpressible Grief to his Wife; she could hardly support herself under the Shock; she fell into violent Faintings, when a Clergyman of great Piety, and a Lady, her intimate Friend, acquainted her with the News, tho’ she was perfectly free from any Kind of Fits, till this unhappy Accident.

OTHER PEOPLE’S FLOWERS: ‘The Point of Vanishing Stability’ John Huddart

I set out believing I was a reader, a collector of books. It was marvellous that the children I taught could write engagingly – and it would certainly stand them in good stead when they became readers too. Years into teaching, struggling with the burdens of so many unread books, I was plucked from the classroom and deposited in the National Writing Project, because I had been snared by word processing.

The Project had several key principles – one was that teachers of writing should be writers too. How can you expect them to, if you don’t? So I started to write, to record observations, to explore poems as models, and to enjoy technical formality. And in those days, teachers often met and worked with professional writers – today, they simply have to work with the National Curriculum.

And then there is David. Always wise, and always a writer, he has been a continual example and inspiration. If you are reading this, you are one of David’s fans as well, and look forward to his monthly collection.

I too have a poetry website, and publish what I write on it. The url is www.jahuddart.com, and I email my friends with regular updates, though in not so timely a fashion as David.

The Point of Vanishing Stability I wrote after a week’s sailing in very stormy weather off the west coast of Scotland, which explains the context.

Some poems rush into the world, almost fully formed, and find their connections to the wider sinews of life, almost instinctively. This is one of them – would they were all like that!

 

The Point of Vanishing Stability

In a yacht, the point of vanishing stability

is reached when the vessel decides

it has had enough of gales and tumult,

and will overturn. In the boat we are on,

this is a measurable angle, defined

by calculation and testing. We are pleased

to learn it is 120°.

Summoning up our mathematical imagination

we place the mast well below the surface,

with our boat springing back to save us

as we tumble about our ends.

It is a phrase that seizes. Passing

straight from the workshop manual

to the page of possibility. As we charge

the waves, and crash through with

jovial insouciance, the world and

its endless chaos breaks upon the

decks to tumble past in salty streams.

 

And so we trust to all designers

that the keel will hold beneath, that

the mounting pressure on the sails

will spill from the tops like so much

laughter. And so with all the lubberly

uproar from our safety-conscious lands,

with bitter crowds converging

on the monuments they would disown,

with grave ministers of state who

battle with the tide of numbers

competing for our panic or our grief.

 

May the bow split water still,

may whosoever did the sums

and placed us in this sea have got it right.

Through edgy fears and sacrifice

we stand fast to the wheel, and

still keep on tacking home, past tipping

points that howl but never come.

 

 

 

 

©John Huddart 2021

 

 

THE POET’S EYE

Maya Angelou would pronounce ‘poetry’

with each syllable given equal, gentle

weight, and the first two clear as a call, a soft

sonorousness as if water spoke.

 

***

 

There are few words in the English lexicon

with so many, diverse, Attic meanings

as ‘poet’: maker, inventor, composer,

speech writer, legislator, author:

images of workshops, and lecterns;

chambers with high ceilings and long windows;

the law’s austere and tempered modalities;

stanzas memorised then taught by rote;

strings of characters laid every way;

the declamations at gatherings,

or in the mind’s crowded, private silences.

 

***

 

Although partially obscured by leaves,

when it is dark enough, solar-powered lights,

strung across the Japanese cherry, switch on –

like fireflies, like paper lanterns soundless

on deep waters, floating, flickering, long, long

after we are sleeping.

 

 

 

THE ARMENIAN MONASTERY, SAN LAZZARO, VENICE

San Lazzaro island was the city’s

leper colony until the Doge

gave the Armenians sanctuary, no doubt

to annoy the Turks. An antique engraved print

of the monastery, which occupies

the whole island, hangs on the wall above

the small table I use for my laptop.

The monks did the engraving and print.

Their library is Alexandrian in scope.

 

Gordon Lord Byron, escaping the

blandishments of Shelley’s sister-in-law,

took an apartment on the Grand Canal,

in the Palazzo Mocenigo-Nero,

with his attendants – including dog, fox,

wolf and monkey – for two hundred pounds

a year. As always bored and curious,

he visited San Lazzaro, learned

Armenian and helped with translations.

 

The second book of poetry I owned was

a hand-me-down, leather bound, well read,

complete works of Byron – my mother’s father’s.

He was dead of a heart attack years

before my birth: Welsh, from Swansea, bit of a

bully, a whisky drinker, a bibliophile,

a bombardier badly wounded at Mons,

a Post Office Telegram Manager,

a travelling classified ads salesman.

 

I have the other books that survived his

middle daughter’s arson of this auto-

didact’s library:  BP’s ‘The Matabele

Campaign 1896’, ‘The Greatest

Show on Earth,’ ‘The Makers of Florence’, Wilde’s

‘Salomé’, with the Beardsley graphics, a first edition,

‘The Story of Atlantis.’ Imperialist,

circus master, aesthete, voyeur, dreamer,

he died in a boarding house near Altrincham.

 

We caught the 15.10 vaporetto, watched

the white campanile with its onion

cupola draw near. The boat slowed, rolled

in the swell, engines into reverse

with a roar of gears. The tour encompassed

printing press (‘per souvenir’), church, library.

In one corridor, I smelt meat cooking, glanced

through an open window. In the kitchen yard

below, the monks were playing 5-a-side.