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Ralph Vaughan Williams

INTO MY HEART

David Selzer By David Selzer1 Comment1 min read832 views

In a little less than two hour’s drive from here

I could be motoring through A.E. Housman’s

‘land of lost content’. Softly playing

on the radio is George Butterworth’s

A minor Rhapsody A Shropshire Lad,

its pianissimo opening chords

evoking Housman’s ‘blue remembered hills’.

 

From his boyhood home near Bromsgrove,

the poet could see the summit of Brown Clee Hill –

above the smoke of Kidderminster

that lies in-between. The opening line

of the first poem in A Shropshire Lad

begins ‘From Clee to heaven the beacon burns’.

 

I am not sure whether it is harmonies

like Butterworth’s and Ralph Vaughan Williams’,

and cadences like those of Housman and

Edward Thomas, that conjure for me,

immediately and movingly,

a prelapsarian England in which

my ancestors had no part, a country

that exists as if the Western Front’s

criminality – which murdered both

Butterworth and Thomas – had never been,

or whether what summons such nostalgia

is merely that sense of loss I feel about

my own life’s absences.

 

 

THE OLD RAPTURES

‘When on a sudden, “Crickley,” he said. How I started
At that old darling name of home, and turned,
Fell into a torrent of words warm hearted
Till clear above the stars of summer burned
In velvety smooth skies.
We shared memories,
And the old raptures from each other learned.’

CRICKLEY HILL, Ivor Gurney, Lord Derby’s Military Hospital, Warrington, July 1918

 

Vaughan Williams’ ‘Fantasia on a Theme

by Thomas Tallis’ was first performed

in 1910 at the Three Choirs Festival,

held annually in the cathedrals

of the three great cities of the Welsh Marches,

Worcester, Hereford and, that year, Gloucester.

 

The composer himself conducted the piece

for double string orchestra. Applause

in church then was unfashionable

so the last long attenuated chord – that

moves from fortissimo to pianissimo,

from slight discord to silent harmony –

hung untroubled in the Nave’s towering air.

 

In the audience were two close friends, sons

of local tradesmen, musically gifted,

articled pupils of the organist –

who had said of the Fantasia, “a queer,

mad work by an odd fellow from Chelsea.”

 

Ivor Gurney and Herbert Howells both

became composers, and one a poet.

The friends, so rapt by the music, walked

all night through the city’s gas-lit, summer streets –

north past the Cattle Market’s pens and sheds,

west to the Severn, south to the Docks

and the ship canal, east, as the sun rose,

along the London Road – their young voices

inspired, impervious. Herbert will die

revered in a nursing home, mourning his son.

Ivor will die alone in a madhouse.

 

LEITH HILL PLACE, SURREY

On this late summer Sunday afternoon

a line of smoke drifts from woodlands below

that seem to stretch almost unbroken

to the South Downs distant, cerulean.

Out of sight is England’s long southern coast.

Dressed limestone forms the house’s facade.

It is imbedded with severed fossils.

 

Through an open window there is music,

a piano. On the lawn are cream teas

and wasps. A buzzard is circling far off.

Josiah Wedgwood retired here, Darwin

visited and Ralph Vaughan Williams composed.

They were related, a Victorian

pantheon – industry, science, art.

 

We cross mowed pastureland to the car park.

A cow frolics away amongst the ferns.

I think of bottle kilns dark in smoke,

and the wet shine of clay revolving,

evolving on a humming, ceaseless wheel,

and, some bright morning, the rising of a lark.