Titus Andronicus (Bakersfield College 2026)

I am getting close to having seen every Shakespeare play live at least once in my life. 

 

For what it is worth, now that I have finally added Titus Andronicus to the list, I only need to see King John and The Two Noble Kinsmen. I am pretty sure that the only other play I haven’t written about for this blog is King Lear, which I haven’t seen in at least 20 years. Luck of the draw, I guess. 

 

So anyway, seeing Titus brought me closer to completing the canon. 

Titus Andronicus is not Shakespeare’s best play. It is an early tragedy - perhaps his earliest - and was written in imitation of the “revenge plays” popular at the time. It isn’t just that everyone ends up dead, but that there are torture and maiming and rape and, in this case, cannibalism. It is meant to shock and titillate and so on. 

 

However, in Shakespeare’s hands, it becomes something more. If anything can be said about Shakespeare’s approach to violence, it is that he sees it as pointless and self-defeating. In this play, with few exceptions, everyone is destroyed by the cycle of revenge, honor culture, and bloody warfare. 

 

Like many of Shakespeare’s plays, this one is set in Roman times, but isn’t really historical. The title character is thought to have been drawn from a 12th century Byzantine emperor, Andronikos I Komnenos - but the actual plot has nothing to do any event in his life. Likewise, Saturninus, who becomes Roman Emperor in the play, wasn’t an actual person. 

 

The play could essentially be set anywhere. 

 

In the world of the play, Titus has just returned from the war, having lost twenty-one sons in the conflict. He has triumphed (for now - this war seems to never end), and has captured Tamora, queen of the Goths, her sons, and Aaron the Moor, her lover and probably a mercenary. 

 

In accordance with tradition, Titus sacrifices Tamora’s oldest child as revenge for the loss of his sons, despite her pleas for mercy. 

 

Titus then refuses to become Emperor (the old one just died), and instead recommends Saturninus. To seal the deal, Saturninus asks for the hand of Titus’ daughter, Lavinia. The problem is, she is already pledged to Saturninus’ brother, Bassianus.

 

As a consolation prize, he takes Tamora instead. 

 

She isn’t happy about this, but she sees a chance to revenge herself on Titus. And really, everyone else.

 

I won’t get into the plot details, but it is one lurid, gruesome plot. Lavinia is brutally raped by Tamora’s other sons, her tongue cut out, and her hands cut off. So she cannot identify her rapists. (She does anyway, though.) 

 

And yes, we have more killings, severed heads, severed hands, internal organs, and people baked in pies. 

 

Nearly everyone ends up dead, and those left are traumatized, and one imagines the cycle will just continue. 

 

As I said, it’s not Shakespeare’s finest. 

 

However, the Bakersfield College production of this play was incredible. 

 

As is usual for BC, the setting was changed from its original, although the “Romans” and “Goths” retain their names. 

 

In what I have to say is an inspired choice, the Wild West became the time and place. And why not? It is the quintessential Honor Culture, toxic masculinity, and retributive violence subculture. 

 

And, of course, it looks great on stage. For most of the play, the lighting on the blank canvas behind the set was the stereotypical “western sunset” - all oranges and reds. The set was fairly bare bones, almost a ghost town look. 

 

In several moments in the play, the action was pantomimed to music, rather than explained by the characters, and the most thrilling and effective one was the opening war sequence, set to “Knights of Cydonia” by Muse. 

 

I mean, it’s a freaking amazing song to start with, and the lyrics seem custom made for the brutal events of the play. And, I tend to think, the music video gave birth to the overall aesthetic of this production, as well as the fight sequences. 

 

While this was the best one, and really set the tone for the play to follow, the soundtrack throughout was perfectly suited to the moods and action. 

 

The opening war was staged in a fascinating way. There was the general melee, so to speak, but as the song progressed, everyone would freeze, and only a single combat would continue, with the light on it, then shift to another, and so on around the stage. A lot of choreography - and practice - went into it, and the result was a professional-grade spectacle. 

 

The props department at BC must have had a lot of fun with this play. The two characters whose severed heads form a significant plot point, and their actual heads scanned and 3-D printed, and it was…disturbing. (Which it should be, of course.)

 

We also got severed hands, internal organs, and enough stage blood to drown an army. And that’s before you got to the troughs of water lit up with red light to look like blood as it was flung around. And the pies. 

 

One of my kids has a friend who is on the stage crew for the production, and he confirmed that cleaning up after this one was a major task. 

 

I will also mention that this play uses the orchestra pit as both a lift and a, well, PIT. As in, people fall into it dramatically. A number of the actors in this are literally doing their own stunts, and it was enough to get some good gasps from the audience. 

 

Before I get into the acting, I want to note that what made this particular production so good wasn’t so much individual performances (although there were those), but the overall coherence and vision. From the directors’ conception to the lighting to the music to the decisions of what lines to use and which to cut, to the props, to the choreography - the whole thing felt like a unified idea, a true story told with a vision and a purpose. 

 

That’s why I walked out feeling like I had seen a truly excellent production. 

 

For the acting, like all BC productions, it was a mix of students, faculty, and community actors. This means that there will be some variation in talent. And that is okay. Everyone starts somewhere, and many of the best thespians here in Kern County were in productions at BC when my wife and I started going together 27 years ago. Naturally, one would expect the veterans to be the standouts, and that is mostly the case here.

 

What was interesting to me this time, though, is that I couldn’t point to a weakness. Everyone enunciated. Everyone projected. Everyone brought their “A game” throughout. It is a testament to the fine work that the BC faculty has been doing over the last several years, and the hard work the students have been putting in to achieve excellence. 

 

Without in any way meaning to slight anyone’s performance, I did want to mention a few. 

 

Randall Messick founded the Kern Shakespeare Festival 42 years ago, and taught at BC until his retirement. Back in the day, my wife took a couple of Shakespeare classes from him, and had a good time. He played the title role, which did suit his particular style. 

 

In many ways, his antagonist in the play is Tamora - although in the end, they both lose. She was played by Messick’s real-life daughter, Cody Ganger, who teaches at BC, and has been in so many amazing roles around town for literally decades. As always, she was fantastic in the role, ruthless and vicious and deeply wounded. 

 

Jason Sanders has been in most of BC’s plays the last few years, and has such a delightful way of speaking that carries without seeming particularly loud or forced, and he did a nuanced performance of Aaron the Moor. As an outsider, he isn’t really trusted by anyone, and ends up as a kind of uber-villain, so humanizing him isn’t an easy task. 

 

I’ll give some props to Nolan Long as Lucius, Liliana Thompson as Lavina, and Cory Guertsen as Marcias for strong performances. 

 

And again, good acting throughout, so no shade on anyone not specifically mentioned. 

 

There are a few changes the directors made to the play itself, which I thought I might comment on. 

 

First is the usual you see in many modern Shakespeare tragedies: some gender swaps. There is the problem that many of these plays lack female parts - there are historical reasons for that, of course. 

 

One of the swaps was pretty minor: Marcias become an aunt, not an uncle. This changes pretty much zero about the plot or the feeling of the play - and Cory Guertsen can channel as much masculinity as any part requires. (Or femininity - she’s a total pro with many years of playing very different parts.) 

 

The other one, though, did change the emotional landscape of the play. Tamora’s eldest child becomes Alarba, a daughter. When she is sacrificed and her entrails placed on the caskets of Titus’ sons, it hits pretty hard. 

 

This then means that the revenge taken on Lavinia feels less like gratuitous misogyny, and more of a literal “eye for an eye” - or better, “a daughter for a daughter.” 

 

As creepy and gross as Tamora’s other sons are - they seem to relish the rape far too much - it becomes more understandable why she would betray her own gender, so to speak. If she has suffered the loss of a daughter, so must Titus. 

 

The final significant change was a bit unexpected. 

 

In the original, Titus asks Saturnius if a father should kill his daughter after she has been raped, because she is now worthless without her “honor.” When Saturnius answers in the affirmative, Titus kills Lavinia, before disclosing the rape. Yeah, honor killings, honor culture, etc.

 

In this version, Lavinia is allowed to live - indeed, about the only survivors are Lucius, her brother (who now becomes Caesar), and her aunt Marcias. And her, although she is maimed and traumatized. 

 

This to me felt like a positive change. Why shouldn’t she be allowed to survive? She is just about the only innocent person in the entire freaking play - everyone else is horrid and violent and all that. She alone has been victimized without getting revenge on others. 

 

That, I think, brings me to my final thoughts on the meaning of the play. 

 

A telling moment is at the dinner table with Titus and his family, when a servant kills a fly, and Titus flips out. 

 

Shakespeare isn’t at his most subtle here, but the implication is clear. Titus has spent his life treating other peoples’ children as if they were flies, to be dispatched at his whim. 

 

The problem is, as many thoughtful people have pointed out throughout history, the problem with creating a world in which life is held to be cheap, the life that might be treated that way will eventually be yours and the lives of those you love. 

 

Although the story didn’t start with Titus or any of the other characters - there has been at least 20 years of war leading up to these events - he failed to even attempt to stop the cycle of violence and retribution, and it eventually came for him.

 

I also want to mention in this connection a contemporary event that seems to tie in incredibly well. 

 

The driving ideology behind guys like “Whiskey” Pete Kegsbreath and others in the Trump misadministration is this idea that “manhood” is all about dominance and power and, let’s be honest, violence. A man is a man because he kills without mercy. 

 

That’s how you end up with the idea of an execution being live streamed. Followed by the claim that this will somehow serve as a deterrent to further violence. 

 

The stupidity behind this is deeply rooted in an ignorance of history. And literature. Shakespeare was no fool, and he was clear that not a single one of the public killings in this play stopped or even slowed the cycle of violence. Instead, each bit of blood and gore and humiliation leads to an escalation. The more bodies, the more bodies result. Every killing begats another, more horrific one, until eventually the only thing that stops the cycle is that nearly everyone is dead. 

 

The directors of the play note in the program that they discovered some handwritten notes in the text, presumably from when the KSF did this play in 2002. 

 

Revenge does not long remain revenge.

Revenge is a confession of pain.

Revenge is a season in hell.

 

Or, as Edwin Starr put it:

 

War, I despise

'Cause it means destruction of innocent lives

War means tears to thousands of mothers' eyes

When their sons go out to fight and lose their lives 

It ain't nothing but a heartbreaker

Friend only to the undertaker, aww! 

War has shattered many young men's dreams

Made them disabled, bitter and mean

Life is much too short and precious to be fighting wars these days

War can't give life, it can only take it away 

 

 Our own leaders could stand to learn this lesson. 

 

Revenge is a season in hell. It leads only to the undertaker. And it leaves the survivors disabled, bitter, and mean. 

 

I think that is ultimately the meaning of Titus Andronicus, and BC’s production told that story and made that meaning abundantly clear.  

 

White Holes by Carlo Rovelli

Source of book: Borrowed from the library

 

I love Carlo Rovelli. He is brilliant at making advanced physics understandable to us mere mortals, while also bringing a deep humanity to the discussion. 

 

I have previously read (and definitely recommend) Seven Brief Lessons on Physics and The Order of Time. Although you can read either of those in whatever order you want, I do think that you should read both of those before reading White Holes, unless you already have a fairly good understanding of the topics. It also helps to have a decent understanding of how black holes work - The Little Book of Black Holes is a great place to start. 

 

So what is this book about? Well, it is a theoretical look at the life and death of black holes - and what comes after. 

 

Without trying to explain things entirely, the fact that the event horizons of black holes give off Hawking Radiation means that they are losing energy - that is, the other form of mass - and this eventually means a shrinking of the horizon, and some very weird stuff. 

 

Also, because time slows the further one goes from the event horizon toward the core - the star remnant - at the center, spacetime gets stretched in a really weird way. Until the sides of the cone that is formed come close enough to trigger quantum effects. 

 

In Rovelli’s opinion, this eventually runs time “backwards” in a way of thinking, unwinding the effects of the horizon and allowing information to escape. The black hole becomes a white hole. 

 

That is as far as I will go with that, because it gets pretty deep into the limits of my ability to grasp. 

 

I should be clear here: Rovelli admits that he cannot at this point know for sure if white holes exist. He could be wrong. He thinks he is more likely right, though, and explains why. 

 

As this is a Rovelli book, though, it is about a lot more than the dry physics of the thing. In this case, the book is saturated with references and analogies to Dante’s Divine Comedy. Conveniently, I have read the first two parts of that, Inferno, and Purgatorio - and those are the ones that form the core of the analogy. 

 

After all, Hell is, in Dante’s vision, a cone descending into the core of the earth. After traversing the entire distance, Dante and his guide, Virgil, emerge on the other side of the earth, then ascend the inverse cone of Purgatory, before Dante is granted access to Heaven with a new guide, Beatrice. 

 

An Italian-American friend of mine once explained to me that Italian schoolchildren study Dante the way we English-speakers study Shakespeare, so it is no surprise that Rovelli is intimately familiar with the work, and is able to sprinkle appropriate quotes throughout the book. It’s really fun.

 

Rovelli is clearly well-read in other literature as well, including English literature, as other works make it into this book. His ability to seamlessly switch from theoretical physics to great literature is amazing, and is one of the reasons I enjoy his writing so much.

 

As with his other books, this one is short - a mere 141 pages. But this is plenty of room for him to explain his topic. 

 

There are, as always, some great lines. Like this one. 

 

When I was studying for my doctorate in Padua, Mario Tonin taught us theoretical physics. He told us he thought that every week the good Lord reads Physical Review D, the celebrated physics journal. Whenever He came across an idea He liked, shazam! He would put it into practice, rearranging universal laws accordingly. 

 

In another passage, about the brilliant physicist Schwarzchild, who was killed in World War One (one of so many great lights extinguished in that pointless conflict), he expresses my thoughts these days about most wars. 

 

“What can be more stupid than to die for a border?”

 

Yeah, seriously. I’m not talking about defending against an invasion, but the whole idea of rigid borders is stupid, and fighting over where to draw a line is the height of that stupidity. 

 

Here is another excellent passage, about how hard it is to give up on long-held beliefs, even when those beliefs turn out to be wrong.

 

In order to digest such ideas, the difficulty lies not so much with the new concept as it does with becoming liberated from old ones that seem so obviously to be true; bringing them into doubt seems inconceivable. We are always convinced that our natural intuitions are self-evidently right, and it is this that prevents us from learning more.

 

I am reminded strongly of so many arguments I have had with my mom over the decades. She tends to default to “I just know I am right.” And yes, I have confirmation that she is still doing this, particularly about her beliefs that everything from yoga to Harry Potter will give you demons. 

 

One of the fascinating points of this book and others by Rovelli is that it appears that everything in the universe eventually gets to quanta that are too small to be further divided. We know this to be true for atoms (break an atom and the element is no longer the element),and light (photons) but also for time. Rovelli notes here that it looks likely that space itself has quanta. 

 

Applied to space, this basic idea implies that there should be elementary grains of space, of finite size. Quanta of space. That is, there are no arbitrarily small things; there is a lower limit to divisibility. Space is a physical entity, and like any other entity, it is granular. Einstein’s theory and the mathematics of quantum theory combine to imply this fact.

 

Quantum theory - specifically loop quantum gravity - also implies that a rebound and expansion of a black hole is possible. In fact, this basic idea may be what happened with the Big Bang. 

 

I also want to mention a philosophical idea. Rovelli mentions this in context of colleagues he disagrees with on the theories in this book, but he makes it more universal. 

 

I think that certain of my colleagues err out of impatience (they want everything resolved before the end of evaporation, where quantum gravity becomes inevitable) and because they forget to take into account what is beyond that which can be immediately seen - two mistakes we all frequently make in life. 

 

He goes on to note that the alternative to his theory requires a good bit of hand-waving regarding what happens to the information that enters the black hole. He notes that this leads to some strange speculations that sound not unlike magic. I am not enough of a scientist to be able to evaluate the relative merits here, but one of his lines certainly applies to ideologies in general.

 

Basically, they are clutching at straws - looking, like all dogmatists in difficulty, for abstruse ways of saving the dogma. 

 

I cannot help but be reminded of Young Earth Creationism and the bizarre twists they do to protect their dogma of a 6000 year old earth. But it could equally apply to everything from the subordination of women to anti-LGBTQ bigotry. 

 

Toward the end of the book, it starts to overlap a bit with The Order of Time. I won’t rehash that discussion, but I do want to quote a good bit. Time exists because of disequilibrium in the universe - inequality of entropy. When our part of the universe reaches equilibrium, not only will we have long since ceased to exist, all possible existence will cease, and indeed time itself will no longer be possible. 

 

If a system reaches complete equilibrium, there are no more traces, no more memory, nothing to distinguish the past from future. Sooner or later, every memory vanishes, canceled through the wear and tear of time. Sooner or later, of our proud civilizations, of everything that we have understood, of the words in books such as this one, of our controversies and of our desperate passions and loves . . . no trace will remain. 

 

Hence why dying for a border - or any of other other reasons for killing each other - is beyond stupid and meaningless. 

 

I was a bit surprised to see Spinoza come into this book alongside Dante. But it actually fits. 

 

But as Spinoza clarified in the seventeenth century, freedom is our way of designating the fact that we are not able to fully reconstruct what happens in the decision making, to predict what we will decide. 

 

Both Spinoza and Rovelli are ambivalent about the extent to which free will exists, and how much of our lives are governed by determinism. I guess this will always be a paradox, something that can never be definitively shown to be entirely one way or another. At the population level, determinism seems to be stronger than at the individual level, for example. 

 

Another line comes in to the more philosophic ideas at the end of the book. 

 

We always make the mistake of thinking of ourselves as different from the world around us, of thinking that we are looking at it from the outside. We forget that we are like other things - that we, too, are like the things we look at. 

 

One final thought in the book. If Rovelli is right, time is massively distorted in a black hole. In his thought experiment about the experience of entering and leaving the horizon, he notes that time for the traveler will be completely different from the observer. 

 

Whoever enters the horizon instead (as we did, together with the matter that forms the hole by collapsing), or does so at any subsequent moment, would arrive at the quantum zone in a fraction of a second - or at the most in a few hours, if the star was truly gigantic - crossing it in a heartbeat, and in an equally short space of time coming out of the white hole’s horizon, finding herself transported into a very distant future, in just a brief moment of her time. 

 

In the meantime (whatever that means), time for the observer would have stretched many billions of years. 

 

Whatever your view of time and eternity, this is mind-blowing stuff - and not really controversial, as Einstein’s theories have proven true over and over. 

 

I enjoyed this book, even if I cannot claim to understand it at the level that a math genius would. I appreciate that Rovelli makes these advanced concepts not only understandable, but beautiful and even poetic. 

 

Late Lyrics and Earlier by Thomas Hardy

Source of book: I own this

 

This is the third collection of Hardy’s poetry I have read, and the longest. For reasons I do not remember, I started backwards, with Winter Words, followed by Human Shows, Far Phantasies, Songs, and Trifles. 

 

As with the other Hardy collections, I find that I have mixed feelings about Late Lyrics and Earlier. There are some excellent poems, but also a lot of Victorian dreck. Introspective poems that have aged well, next to lurid stories of dead women. So many dead women. 

 

Perhaps the origin of the collection might help explain it. As Hardy’s introduction notes, the title refers to the fact that about half of the poems in the collection were recently written, while the other half consisted of older poems that somehow never managed to make it into earlier collections. 

 

Exactly when these were written is not always clear - some poems have dates to them, typically from the 1910s. But others do not, and Hardy himself couldn’t remember exactly when he wrote each of them. Some feel like juvenalia, some feel unpolished, but others seem simply to be poems written earlier that missed the cut.

 

It is also interesting how this collection, published in 1922, fit with Hardy’s personal life. His first wife, Emma, had died in 1912. As I have noted in previous posts about Hardy, the marriage wasn’t happy, and became increasingly miserable as time went on. 

 

However, instead of finding her death a relief, Hardy instead practically deified her. Many of the poems in this collection seem to be in that vein. Actually, in both veins, being either about a beloved dead woman or a harpy who deceived her man. 

 

Also in the mix here is that Hardy had quickly remarried a younger woman, Florence, who wasn’t exactly thrilled that Hardy was still writing poems about his dead wife. 

 

It’s a mess, to be sure.

 

Add in the Victorian tendency to write over-emotional pathos-drenched poems about beautiful and simpering women who died too young, well, you get a lot of poems that seem all too alike and not that interesting. 

 

Hardy may have lived through the Edwardian and well into the 1920s, but his aesthetic was still firmly Victorian. There is nothing of T. S. Eliot, Ezra Pound, or even W. H. Auden in his style. 

 

Where Hardy was ahead of his time was in his prediction of the fall of the British Empire - and indeed his deep suspicion of the entire project. For this, he was labeled a “pessimist,” which isn’t entirely accurate. 

 

As Hardy explains in the introduction, what is alleged to be “pessimism” is actually just his introspection and questioning the presence of evil in the world. To me, these are often his best poems, telling truth slant to an audience often unwilling or unable to hear what he is saying. 

 

Anyway, here are the poems from the collection that I liked best. 

 

I Sometimes Think

 

I sometimes think as here I sit

Of things I have done,

Which seemed in doing not unfit

To face the sun:

Yet never a soul has paused a whit

On such-not one.

 

There was that eager strenuous press

To sow good seed;

There was that saving from distress

In the nick of need;

There were those words in the wilderness:

Who cared to heed?

 

Yet can this be full true, or no?

For one did care,

And, spiriting into my house, to, fro,

Like wind on the stair,

Cares still, heeds all, and will, even though

I may despair. 

 

Is this pessimism? Or just the question of how the best that we do so often seems to go unnoticed, and unremarked? 

 

The next poem is labeled as a song, and the very many of these he apparently intended to be sung are titled with quotation marks. This one was written soon after his first wife’s death, and I suspect it is about her. 

 

“The Curtains Now Are Drawn”

 

I

 

The curtains now are drawn,

And the spindrift strikes the glass,

Blown up the jagged pass

By the surly salt sou'-west,

And the sneering glare is gone

Behind the yonder crest,

While she sings to me:

"O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,

And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,

And death may come, but loving is divine."

 

                                    II

 

I stand here in the rain,

With its smite upon her stone,

And the grasses that have grown

Over women, children, men,

And their texts that " Life is vain;"

But I hear the notes as when

Once she sang to me:

"O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,

And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,

And death may come, but loving is divine." 

 

The next one is one of my favorites. 

 

A Night in November

 

I marked when the weather changed,

And the panes began to quake,

And the winds rose up and ranged,

That night, lying half-awake.

 

Dead leaves blew into my room,

And alighted upon my bed,

And a tree declared to the gloom

Its sorrow that they were shed.

 

One leaf of them touched my hand,

And I thought that it was you

There stood as you used to stand,

And saying at last you knew!

 

Interestingly, Hardy often wrote poems that seem similar in title and theme. There are multiple poems about nights in various months, and more than one about November. Likewise, there are whole groups of poems about birds, and ones about other topics. 

 

I also like this next one for its atmosphere. 

 

The Wanderer

 

There is nobody on the road

But I,

And no beseeming abode

I can try

For shelter, so abroad

I must lie.

 

The stars feel not far up,

And to be

The lights by which I sup

Glimmeringly,

Set out in a hollow cup

Over me.

 

They wag as though they were

Panting for joy

Where they shine, above all care,

And annoy,

And demons of despair -

Life's alloy.

 

Sometimes outside the fence

Feet swing past,

Clock-like, and then go hence,

Till at last

There is a silence, dense,

Deep, and vast.

 

A wanderer, witch-drawn

To and fro,

To-morrow, at the dawn,

On I go,

And where I rest anon

Do not know!

 

Yet it's meet this bed of hay

And roofless plight;

For there's a house of clay,

My own, quite,

To roof me soon, all day

And all night.

 

I mentioned that a number of poems seemed to be about Hardy’s first wife. This next one is the most striking. 

 

A Wife Comes Back

 

This is the story a man told me

Of his life’s one day of dreamery.

 

A woman came into his room

Between the dawn and the creeping day:

She was the years-wed wife from whom

He had parted, and who lived far away,

As if strangers they.

 

He wondered, and as she stood

She put on youth in her look and air,

And more was he wonderstruck as he viewed

Her form and flesh bloom yet more fair

While he watched her there;

 

Till she freshed to the pink and brown

That were hers on the night when first they met,

When she was the charm of the idle town,

And he the pick of the club-fire set... 

His eyes grew wet,

 

And he stretched his arms: ‘Stay – rest! – ’

He cried. ‘Abide with me so, my own!’

But his arms closed in on his hard bare breast;

She had vanished with all he had looked upon

Of her beauty: gone.

 

He clothed, and drew downstairs,

But she was not in the house, he found;

And he passed out under the leafy pairs

Of the avenue elms, and searched around

To the park-pale bound.

 

He mounted, and rode till night

To the city to which she had long withdrawn,

The vision he bore all day in his sight

Being her young self as pondered on

In the dim of dawn.

 

‘ – The lady here long ago –

Is she now here? – young – or such age as she is?’

‘ – She is still here.’ – ‘Thank God. Let her know;

She’ll pardon a comer so late as this

Whom she’d fain not miss.’

 

She received him – an ancient dame,

Who hemmed, with features frozen and numb,

‘How strange! – I’d almost forgotten your name! –

A call just now – is troublesome;

Why did you come?’

 

Another one that seems to touch on their marital troubles:

 

Side by Side

 

So there sat they,

The estranged two,

Thrust in one pew

By chance that day;

Placed so, breath-nigh,

Each comer unwitting

Who was to be sitting

In touch close by.

 

Thus side by side

Blindly alighted,

They seemed united

As groom and bride,

Who'd not communed

For many years -

Lives from twain spheres

With hearts distuned.

 

Her fringes brushed

His garment's hem

As the harmonies rushed

Through each of them:

Her lips could be heard

In the creed and psalms,

And their fingers neared

At the giving of alms.

 

And women and men,

The matins ended,

By looks commended

Them, joined again.

Quickly said she,

"Don't undeceive them -

Better thus leave them:"

"Quite so," said he.

 

Slight words! the last

Between them said,

Those two, once wed,

Who had not stood fast.

Diverse their ways

From the western door,

To meet no more

In their span of days. 

 

After those somewhat bitter lyrics, here is one, from 1904, that seems merely melancholy. Another of my favorites.

 

An Autumn Rain-Scene

 

There trudges one to a merry-making

   With sturdy swing,

On whom the rain comes down.

 

To fetch the saving medicament

   Is another bent,

On whom the rain comes down.

 

One slowly drives his herd to the stall

   Ere ill befall,

On whom the rain comes down.

 

This bears his missives of life and death

   With quickening breath,

On whom the rain comes down.

 

One watches for signals of wreck or war

   From the hill afar,

On whom the rain comes down.

 

No care if he gain a shelter or none,

   Unhired moves on,

On whom the rain comes down.

 

And another knows nought of its chilling fall

   Upon him at all,

On whom the rain comes down. 

 

Here is another song that I thought was good - and perhaps also speaks of a crumbling relationship. 

 

The Rift

 

’Twas just at gnat and cobweb-time,

When yellow begins to show in the leaf,

That your old gamut changed its chime

From those true tones – of span so brief! –

That met my beats of joy, of grief,

As rhyme meets rhyme.

 

So sank I from my high sublime!

We faced but chancewise after that,

And never I knew or guessed my crime. . . . 

Yes; ’twas the date – or nigh thereat –

Of the yellowing leaf; at moth and gnat

And cobweb-time.

 

I love the form of this one, with the bookending of “gnat and cobweb time,” the rise in the first stanza and the descent in the second, and the way the rhyme scheme works. 

 

I’m also a sucker for epitaphs. This next poem is a fine example of the form. The idea that our atoms live on in the universe, becoming part of other living things, is delightful. 

 

Voices from Things Growing in a Churchyard

 

These flowers are I, poor Fanny Hurd,
Sir or Madam,
A little girl here sepultured.
Once I flit-fluttered like a bird
Above the grass, as now I wave
In daisy shapes above my grave,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

— I am one Bachelor Bowring, ” Gent”,
Sir or Madam;
In shingled oak my bones were pent;
Hence more than a hundred years I spent
In my feat of change from a coffin-thrall
To a dancer in green as leaves on a wall,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

— I, these berries of juice and gloss,
Sir or Madam,
Am clean forgotten as Thomas Voss;
Thin-urned, I have burrowed away from the moss
That covers my sod, and have entered this yew,
And turned to clusters ruddy of view,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

— The Lady Gertrude, proud, high-bred,
Sir or Madam,
Am I — this laurel that shades your head;
Into its veins I have stilly sped,
And made them of me; and my leaves now shine,
As did my satins superfine,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

— I, who as innocent withwind climb,
Sir or Madam,
Am one Eve Greensleeves, in olden time
Kissed by men from many a clime,
Beneath sun, stars, in blaze, in breeze,
As now by glowworms and by bees,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

— I’m old Squire Audeley Grey, who grew,
Sir or Madam,
Aweary of life, and in scorn withdrew;
Till anon I clambered up anew
As ivy-green, when my ache was stayed,
And in that attire I have longtime gayed
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

— And so these maskers breathe to each
Sir or Madam
Who lingers there, and their lively speech
Affords an interpreter much to teach,
As their murmurous accents seem to come
Thence hitheraround in a radiant hum,
All day cheerily,
All night eerily!

 

I’ll end with one involving musicians, because, well, you might imagine. I should also give a mention to “The Country Wedding” for its mention of the serpent, a rather unique obsolete instrument. (You can see and hear one in the A&E Pride and Prejudice series.) 

 

In the Small Hours

 

I lay in my bed and fiddled

With a dreamland viol and bow,

And the tunes flew back to my fingers

I had melodied years ago.

It was two or three in the morning

When I fancy-fiddled so

Long reels and country-dances,

And hornpipes swift and slow.

 

And soon anon came crossing

The chamber in the gray

Figures of jigging fieldfolk -

Saviours of corn and hay -

To the air of "Haste to the Wedding,"

As after a wedding-day;

Yea, up and down the middle

In windless whirls went they!

 

There danced the bride and bridegroom,

And couples in a train,

Gay partners time and travail

Had longwhiles stilled amain! . . .

It seemed a thing for weeping

To find, at slumber's wane

And morning's sly increeping,

That Now, not Then, held reign.

 

Hardy’s career started with Under the Greenwood Tree, about the transition from church bands to the organ, and I feel he has a soft spot for the old village players - the forerunner of community orchestras and bar bands. 

 

Anyway, those are my favorites from this collection. Hardy may or may not be your cup of tea, but he has some real gems.