Poems for the New Year

It has been a while since I did a set of poems. New Years Eve is a good enough excuse.

Here are four on the subject that caught my fancy. I present them in chronological order.

The first is by William Blake, from Songs of Innocence and Experience (1794)

Blake described the series as representing two contrary states of the soul. However, despite the seeming naivety of the “Innocence” poems, they often have dark undercurrents, while the more jaded “Experience” poems sometimes show the naivety of pessimism as well.

This particular poem is from the “Innocence” poems, and treats the “New Year” as occurring where it has in most ancient societies: in Spring. It is one of the truly innocent and optimistic of the set, and utilizes Blake’s preferred images of innocence: birds, sheep, and children. He also uses an interesting form. The first eight lines of each stanza are a mere three syllables each. The concluding line is pentameter - two dactyls followed by three iambs.  

Spring

Sound the flute!
Now it’s mute.
Birds delight
Day and night.
Nightingale
In the dale,
Lark in the sky,
Merrily,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Little boy
Full of joy,
Little girl
Sweet and small.
Cock does crow,
So do you.
Merry voice,
Infant noise,
Merrily, merrily to welcome in the year.

Little lamb
Here I am
Come and lick
My white neck.
Let me pull
Your soft wool.
Let me kiss
Your soft face,
Merrily, merrily we welcome in the year. 

Christina Rossetti also uses the imagery of Spring in her set of three short poems entitled “Old and New Year Ditties,” from Goblin Market and Other Poems (1862). (You can read my thoughts on the collection here.) However, she writes of Spring as transient, a symbol not so much of new life but of the brevity of life and the quick passage of time. “Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day…” Rossetti wrote a great deal of devotional poetry, and these are somewhat in that vein. Her own life was difficult, as she battled ill health and was unlucky in love. To anyone who has experienced sorrow or hardship, these poems capture a bit of that feeling. The bittersweet nature of time and love, which never stays the same, no matter how much we want it to. The certain knowledge that life is too short for us to do and experience all we wish. And above it all, the desire for the Divine. 

Old and New Year Ditties

New Year met me somewhat sad:

Old Year leaves me tired,

Stripped of favourite things I had

Baulked of much desired:

Yet farther on my road to-day

God willing, farther on my way.

New Year coming on apace

What have you to give me?

Bring you scathe, or bring you grace,

Face me with an honest face;

You shall not deceive me:

Be it good or ill, be it what you will,

It needs shall help me on my road,

My rugged way to heaven, please God.

2

Watch with me, men, women, and children dear,

You whom I love, for whom I hope and fear,

Watch with me this last vigil of the year.

Some hug their business, some their pleasure-scheme;

Some seize the vacant hour to sleep or dream;

Heart locked in heart some kneel and watch apart.

Watch with me blessèd spirits, who delight

All through the holy night to walk in white,

Or take your ease after the long-drawn fight.

I know not if they watch with me: I know

They count this eve of resurrection slow,

And cry, “How long?” with urgent utterance strong.

Watch with me Jesus, in my loneliness:

Though others say me nay, yet say Thou yes;

Though others pass me by, stop Thou to bless.

Yea, Thou dost stop with me this vigil night;

To-night of pain, to-morrow of delight:

          I, Love, am Thine; Thou, Lord my God, art mine.

3

Passing away, saith the World, passing away:

Chances, beauty and youth sapped day by day:

Thy life never continueth in one stay.

Is the eye waxen dim, is the dark hair changing to grey

That hath won neither laurel nor bay?

I shall clothe myself in Spring and bud in May:

Thou, root-stricken, shalt not rebuild thy decay

On my bosom for aye.

Then I answered: Yea.

Passing away, saith my Soul, passing away:

With its burden of fear and hope, of labour and play;

Hearken what the past doth witness and say:

Rust in thy gold, a moth is in thine array,

A canker is in thy bud, thy leaf must decay.

At midnight, at cockcrow, at morning, one certain day

Lo, the Bridegroom shall come and shall not delay:

Watch thou and pray.

Then I answered: Yea.

Passing away, saith my God, passing away:

Winter passeth after the long delay:

New grapes on the vine, new figs on the tender spray,

Turtle calleth turtle in Heaven’s May.

Though I tarry wait for Me, trust Me, watch and pray:

Arise, come away, night is past and lo it is day,

My love, My sister, My spouse, thou shalt hear Me say.

Then I answered: Yea.

Thomas Hardy saw an epic change in the world during his long life. Born solidly in the Victorian Era, he lived through World War One to see the Roaring Twenties. “At the Entering of the New Year” was written in 1918, and has a simple note at the bottom: “December 31. During the War.” Presumably, Hardy intended that the poem be read in that light, as a representation not only of the difference between youth and age, but also of the progress of the war from youthful ambition to the devastation of a generation. The first part captures this exuberance: the rousing party that can be heard from far away. The second part echoes Rossetti with its picture of the incoming year representing an unwanted visitor, the passage of time that is inevitable but nonetheless unwelcome. 

At the Entering of the New Year

I

          (OLD STYLE)

Our songs went up and out the chimney,

And roused the home-gone husbandmen;

Our allemands, our heys, poussettings,

Our hands-across and back again,

Sent rhythmic throbbings through the casements

        On to the white highway,

Where nighted farers paused and muttered,

        "Keep it up well, do they!"

The contrabasso's measured booming

Sped at each bar to the parish bounds,

To shepherds at their midnight lambings,

To stealthy poachers on their rounds;

And everybody caught full duly

        The notes of our delight,

As Time unrobed the Youth of Promise

        Hailed by our sanguine sight.

          II

          (NEW STYLE)

We stand in the dusk of a pine-tree limb,

As if to give ear to the muffled peal,

Brought or withheld at the breeze's whim;

But our truest heed is to words that steal

From the mantled ghost that looms in the gray,

And seems, so far as our sense can see,

To feature bereaved Humanity,

As it sighs to the imminent year its say:—

"O stay without, O stay without,

Calm comely Youth, untasked, untired;

Though stars irradiate thee about

Thy entrance here is undesired.

Open the gate not, mystic one;

        Must we avow what we would close confine?

         With thee, good friend, we would have converse none,

Albeit the fault may not be thine."

The history of the Twentieth Century is some ways one of unbelievably bloody war. From the trenches of World War One spoken of by Hardy, to the final fall of Communism. U2 was founded amidst the seemingly endless strife in Ireland, and many of their songs had their genesis in that environment.

However, “New Years Day,” from their album, War, is about the struggle of the Polish Solidarity movement that would eventually free Poland from the Soviets. This song came out in 1983, but it wouldn’t be until six years later that semi-free elections would be held in Poland, with Lech Wałęsa becoming the first non-communist president of Poland since the Soviet takeover.

U2’s lyrics are anything but naive, but they are hopeful. “Nothing changes” on New Year’s Day - but perhaps it might. And again, we see what may well be a longing for the Divine. Perhaps two can be one, and Love can triumph in the end.

U2 New Years Day

All is quiet on New Year's Day

A world in white gets underway

I want to be with you

Be with you night and day

Nothing changes on New Year's Day

On New Year's Day

I will be with you again

I will be with you again

Under a blood red sky

A crowd has gathered in black and white

Arms entwined, the chosen few

The newspapers says, says

Say it's true it's true...

And we can break through

Though torn in two

We can be one

I...I will begin again

I...I will begin again

Oh...

Maybe the time is right

Oh...maybe tonight...

I will be with you again

I will be with you again

And so we're told this is the golden age

And gold is the reason for the wars we wage

Though I want to be with you

Be with you night and day

Nothing changes

On New Year's Day

So, happy new year, everyone, whether you feel excitement, hope, sorrow, or dread. May Love triumph over Time, when all is said and done. 

Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience by William Blake

Source of book: I own a pocket-sized Folio Society hardback of this book, a delightful gift from my thoughtful wife.

For me, Blake is indelibly associated with images. Images created both by words and by illustration. In addition to his poetry, Blake was also a master of the the visual arts. I am fond of his illustrations of Dante’s Divine Comedy, which grace my shelves. I also was thrilled when the Huntington Library exhibited his exceptional artwork for Paradise Lost. His drawings have an unmistakable style, ethereal, fantastic, and deeply disconcerting - like his poetry. Perhaps no work of his is more integrally connected in this way than the matched pair, Songs of Innocence and Songs of Experience.

These works were originally published with Blake’s illustrations and handwriting, with each version slightly different, essentially a unique work of art. My book reproduces the copy owned by King’s College, Cambridge.

In form, and on their surface, the Songs are essentially children’s poetry. Simple, childlike, and firmly in the tradition of earlier works of their sort. However, like all things Blake, they subvert the genre, and are, like the old fairy tales, full of meaning for adults.

Blake was one of the English Romantic poets, a contemporary of Wordsworth and Coleridge, and shared some of their concerns with the injustice of society, the hypocrisy of the established church, and a reverence for the “natural.” Blake was particularly focused on social ills much the same way that Charles Dickens would be a generation later.

Although some of his poems are often interpreted as advocating for “free love,” he was rather devoted to his wife, despite the inauspicious start to their marriage. Blake was on the rebound from a failed relationship. (The lady in question refused his proposal.) Blake asked Catherine, who was smitten with him, if she pitied him. When she responded in the affirmative, he stated that, “then I love you.” Their marriage lasted 45 years until his death. She was illiterate at marriage, signing her name to the certificate with an “x,” but she eventually became his creative partner and vital assistant.

While some of his beliefs were a bit unorthodox, and he has a reputation in certain circles of being hostile to religion, he actually held the Bible in reverence, and was devout in his own way. His objection was to what he saw as the wrong focus of organized religion on the suppression of desire and love and its excusal of oppression of the poor. I am hard pressed to say he was entirely wrong in this. Rather, he adeptly identifies a constant temptation of the church throughout history to support the status quo and those in power regardless of any true sense of right and wrong.

Blake conceived Innocence and Experience as two “contrary states of the human soul.” Thus, each is meant to complement the other. I decided to read them together for that reason.

The introductions to each set forth Blake’s vision:

Introduction to Songs of Innocence (aka Piping Down the Valleys Wild)

Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,

On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me:

'Pipe a song about a lamb!'

So I piped with merry cheer.

'Piper, pipe that song again.'

So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;

Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'

So I sung the same again,

While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book, that all may read.'

So he vanished from my sight,

And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,

And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear.

I loved this one from the first time I read it in a children’s collection of poems.

The introduction to Experience has a completely different mood:

Hear the voice of the Bard!

Who Present, Past, & Future, sees;

Whose ears have heard

The Holy Word

That walk'd among the ancient trees,

Calling the lapsed Soul,

And weeping in the evening dew;

That might control

The starry pole,

And fallen, fallen light renew!

"O Earth, O Earth, return!

Arise from out the dewy grass;

Night is worn,

And the morn

Rises from the slumberous mass.

"Turn away no more;

Why wilt thout turn away?

The starry floor,

The wat'ry shore,

Is giv'n thee till the break of day."   

Innocence, despite its seemingly optimistic mood, is filled with poems that, like this one, have a surface innocence and happiness, but that have a nagging undercurrent that is just a slight bit dark. For example, one of my favorites from Innocence, The Echoing Green, reads as follows:

The sun does arise,
And make happy the skies.
The merry bells ring
To welcome the spring.
The skylark and thrush,
The birds of the bush,
Sing louder around,
To the bells’ cheerful sound,
While our sports shall be seen
On the echoing green.

Old John with white hair
Does laugh away care,
Sitting under the oak,
Among the old folk.
They laugh at our play,
And soon they all say:
‘Such, such were the joys
When we all, girls and boys,
In our youth-time were seen
On the echoing green.’

Till the little ones weary
No more can be merry;
The sun does descend,
And our sports have an end.
Round the laps of their mother
Many sisters and brothers,
Like birds in their nest,
Are ready for rest;
And sport no more seen
On the darkening green.

The image of the village green recurs later in the volume in the Nurse’s Song, which as a direct parallel in Experience by the same name. In the former, the children resist the call to come to bed, but in the latter, the nurse herself reflects bitterly on her loss of youth. The cavorting itself loses its luster in its very meaninglessness.

Like these, many of the poems have direct parallels in the companion volume. The most famous, perhaps, is Little Boy Lost and Little Boy Found from Innocence, which are paired with Little Girl Lost and Little Girl Found in Experience. The contrast of mood is striking, with the boy simply lost in the wood and aided by an angel. The girl, however, is surrounded by lions and tigers, which both protect and menace her.

Blake doubles down the imagery in a further pair with the concept of the lost children. However, both of these poems are found in Experience, and both demonstrate Blake’s vision of what the organized church believes are the ultimate in being “lost” in the spiritual sense. A “little boy” dares to question religious orthodoxy, and is burned at the stake. A “little girl” has a (vaguely implied) sexual encounter with her love, and faces the scorn of her father. I couldn’t help but find a parallel in our modern times in certain circles, where there is no worse crime for a young man than to question authority, and certainly no worse crime for a young woman than to sully her “virtue.” The values of the Nineteenth Century are alive and well in some places.

Another disturbing parallel is The Chimney Sweep from Innocence and its companion in Experience. Robert Pinsky wrote an interesting analysis of these poems on Slate.com a while back, and also let an illuminating discussion in the comments. I found it interesting that the version in Innocence is one of the most disturbing poems I have ever read. Blake exposes all of the trite homilies we spout about injustice to the light, showing the utter hollowness of the promise of “just be good and everything will be fine.”

From Innocence:

When my mother died I was very young,

And my father sold me while yet my tongue

Could scarcely cry " 'weep! 'weep! 'weep! 'weep!"

So your chimneys I sweep & in soot I sleep.

There's little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head

That curled like a lamb's back, was shaved, so I said,

"Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head's bare,

You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair."

And so he was quiet, & that very night,

As Tom was a-sleeping he had such a sight!

That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, & Jack,

Were all of them locked up in coffins of black;

And by came an Angel who had a bright key,

And he opened the coffins & set them all free;

Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run,

And wash in a river and shine in the Sun.

Then naked & white, all their bags left behind,

They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind.

And the Angel told Tom, if he'd be a good boy,

He'd have God for his father & never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark

And got with our bags & our brushes to work.

Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy & warm;

So if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.

And from Experience:

A little black thing among the snow,

Crying! 'weep! weep!' in notes of woe!

'Where are thy father and mother? Say!' -

'They are both gone up to the church to pray.

'Because I was happy upon the heath,

And smiled among the winter's snow,

They clothed me in the clothes of death,

And taught me to sing the notes of woe.

'And because I am happy and dance and sing,

They think they have done me no injury,

And are gone to praise God and His priest and king,

Who made up a heaven of our misery.'

Another pair that is telling is The Divine Image and its counterpart The Human Abstract. The former portrays the common grace poured out on all men, the image of God that remains in fallen humanity.

    The Divine Image (from Innocence)

To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love

All pray in their distress;

And to these virtues of delight

Return their thankfulness.

For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love

Is God, our father dear,

And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love

Is Man, his child and care.

For Mercy has a human heart,

Pity a human face,

And Love, the human form divine,

And Peace, the human dress.

Then every man, of every clime,

That prays in his distress,

Prays to the human form divine,

Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace.

And all must love the human form,

In heathen, Turk, or Jew;

Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell

There God is dwelling too.

The latter cites the same virtues, Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love; but they are all twisted and torn by human envy, fear, and cruelty.

The Human Abstract (from Experience)

Pity would be no more

If we did not make somebody Poor;

And Mercy no more could be

If all were as happy as we.

And mutual fear brings peace,

Till the selfish loves increase:

Then Cruelty knits a snare,

And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,

And waters the grounds with tears;

Then Humility takes its root

Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade

Of Mystery over his head;

And the Catterpiller and Fly

Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,

Ruddy and sweet to eat;

And the Raven his nest has made

In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea

Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree;

But their search was all in vain:

There grows one in the Human Brain.                        

Blake puts an uncomfortable finger on a sore spot with so many of these poems, which still seem relevant today.    

Not all of the poems are in matched sets. The Tyger is sufficiently well known, although it is not always associated with its location in Experience. If anything, the image of the tiger runs throughout that latter collection, sometimes as a source of fear, sometimes as a source of wonder, but always mysterious and non-tame.

Likewise, the contrast and connection of self-focused love and other-focused love run throughout the collection. Blake is an early modernist in his idea that one cannot love others and loathe one’s self, but he also acknowledges that self-love is empty by itself. Both self-loathing and self-obsession begin and end at the same place. Love must look outward.

The Clod and the Pebble (from Experience)

"Love seeketh not itself to please,

Nor for itself hath any care,

But for another gives its ease,

And builds a heaven in hell's despair."

So sung a little Clod of Clay,

Trodden with the cattle's feet,

But a Pebble of the brook

Warbled out these metres meet:

"Love seeketh only Self to please,

To bind another to its delight,

Joys in another's loss of ease,

And builds a hell in heaven's despite."

I will close with a couple of favorites that stand alone rather than in combination. Or perhaps, they are a combination with each other, contrasting yet again the good of love and empathy with the empty results of self-focused anger and revenge.    

A Poison Tree (from Experience)

I was angry with my friend:

I told my wrath, my wrath did end.

I was angry with my foe:

I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears,

Night and morning with my tears;

And I sunned it with smiles,

And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,

Till it bore an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it shine.

And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole

When the night had veiled the pole;

In the morning glad I see

My foe outstretched beneath the tree.

                       

On Another’s Sorrow (from Innocence)

Can I see another's woe,

And not be in sorrow too?

Can I see another's grief,

And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,

And not feel my sorrow's share?

Can a father see his child

Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear

An infant groan, an infant fear?

No, no! never can it be!

Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all

Hear the wren with sorrows small,

Hear the small bird's grief and care,

Hear the woes that infants bear --

And not sit beside the nest,

Pouring pity in their breast,

And not sit the cradle near,

Weeping tear on infant's tear?

And not sit both night and day,

Wiping all our tears away?

Oh no! never can it be!

Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all:

He becomes an infant small,

He becomes a man of woe,

He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,

And thy Maker is not by:

Think not thou canst weep a tear,

And thy Maker is not near.

Oh He gives to us his joy,

That our grief He may destroy:

Till our grief is fled an gone

He doth sit by us and moan.