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Leisure by W.H. Davies
What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.
No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.
No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.
No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.
A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.
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Why Juliet loves Leisure
Two reasons why I love this:
One has nothing to do with the poem and everything to do with memories. It reminds me of being a little girl, of big storybooks filled with pictures, of reading and being read to in a way that only happens when you are a child…. (this was one that was read to me and was in one of those big old books – and I now I think about it I have no idea where that book is..) And one is absolutely about the poem…. which reminds us to take time out from our crazy lives, to look up from our iPhones, take out our earphones and remember that we live in a pretty beautiful world…
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THE VERY LOVELY & TALENTED JULIET SIMMONS SENT ME THIS POEM FROM LONDON. Interestingly, Juliet and I have never met in person. We’re part of a group of creative types called REBOOT and without ever having corresponded in person previously, she was one of the first peeps to respond in writing to my request. Safe to say, I was pretty psyched.
And I think the first two lines of the poem offer us the perfect sentiment to start this endeavor. For what is Poetry if not an opportunity to stand and stare?
Now, I’d never read this poem before. Nor had I heard of W.H. Davies, which is actually a pretty awesome experience, because it means you get to listen to the poem without any of the preconceived notions that often come from knowing of an author and his time period. I related to Davies’ words as a modern woman who is constantly trying to balance Doing with Being. I read the poem and let out a deep sigh of relief. My plight is not only my plight. It’s W.H. Davies’ plight too. And I felt that calm that comes from being known by another.
My instinct said that it was a pretty recently penned poem; maybe written in the 1980s or so. There was something very modern about it. As though, in my mind, the concept of being too busy to stop and enjoy the wonders and magic of nature really only came about with the advent of technology. I’m sure I’m not alone in my romanticized view that life before emails and twitter feeds was blissfully slow and calm. As though in the 1940s, people had days on end to stop and stare. So you can imagine the surprise, when I looked up old W.H. Davies, my 1980s buddy, and found out that he was actually born in 1871 and was dead by 1940.
It’s invigorating to be reminded of the fact that what we often consider to be our modern tribulations are actually ancient issues. The specifics may change and intensify even, but the root of the experience is the same. Wherever we are, whatever decade we are in, however fast life seems to be getting, it’s our own responsibility to take a few moments to just stop and stare. For without expectation, this is where the wonder lives and where the magic happens. No matter what the year.
So, my questions for you: firstly, were you familiar with this poem before or is this your first time like me? Did you like it, love it, respond to it in any way? Did it make you stop and think about anything in particular? I’d love to hear if so. And then I’d love you to make a promise to us both that you’ll take one moment every day of this week to go out and stop and stare. I will if you will. And then perhaps we’ll both report back on our experiences.
With love,
Nicola xo
P.S. Doesn’t Juliet have nice handwriting? And she uses a real life cartridge pen. Ink and all.
yum yum yum.
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{ Poetry Tuesdays }
MY PARENTS HAD SENT ME AN ENVELOPE PACKAGE IN THE MAIL FROM LONDON MID November (a Hello magazine celebrating the royal engagement, of course.) They then arrived in LA for a visit on December 23rd. Their package arrived on the same day. It had taken five weeks to arrive. Five weeks. Christmas post was mayhem, their local postman had told them, that’s totally normal. Then Juliet sent me her letter with Leisure inside. Also from London. It arrived in my postbox on Christmas Eve. The postmark said Wednesday, December 22nd. It had taken all of two days to arrive across the Atlantic. Two days. At Christmas. A little chrimbo poetry post miracle? I think so. NB
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{ Tidbits }
SO, AS I SAID, I THOUGHT W. H. DAVIES WAS SOME KIND OF ANTI-TECHNOLOGY ZEN Buddhist, living in San Francisco in the 1980s. But No, he was actually born in Monmouthshire in Wales in 1871. Strangely enough, I have been to Monmouthshire in Wales; I have even been raspberry picking in Monouthshire in Wales. But I knew absolutely nothing about W.H.Davies till Juliet’s note arrived on my doorstep in La-La. Now, thanks to Google and Wikipedia and several riveting descriptions of his brain-boggling life story, I know several fascinating things about him. Which in turn precipitated a few thoughts. I know you’ll find that hard to believe.
The first bit of bio-interest was the fact that at the tender age of two, his father died (Boo) and when his mum remarried, he was sent to live with his grandparents. We won’t judge his mum without knowing all the deets, but I’ve often been fascinated by the backgrounds of artists and poets and how their early beginnings may have shaped who they subsequently became. Surely, losing a parent as a mere babe and being carted off to your grandparents could cause the kind of destabilization that creates a brain that is constantly questioning: Who am I? What is my place in the world? Where can i see beauty and use my imagination to escape the anxieties and fears that live inside my soul? The very questions that are a fundamental starting point for any artist, no? I have much more to say on this, but this is a blog and not a PhD paper, so i’ll leave it that.
The next piece of wiki-wonder was the discovery that, as the result of a tumble while jumping freight trains in the USA, Davies had a wooden leg. What was he doing jumping freight trains in the US? Looking for adventure and on his way to Klondike to make his millions, of course. (When he wasn’t begging and scrounging for work, that is.) Apparently he made the trip back and forth across the Atlantic seven times working on cattle ships. You can find out more by reading his autobiography The Autobiography of a Super-Tramp where he details all of the above and the fateful freight train journey with his fellow tramp, Three Fingered Jack. Cattleships? Super-tramp? Three fingered Jack? For real. Anyone who still doesn’t believe that life is more magical and bizarre than fiction is just nutso.
Now to the final biographical observation. For the artists out there (and that will be all of you) this is crucial reading. When he returned to London with his wooden leg, he was living a pretty crappy life, moving between dosshouses and homeless shelters. It was from one such locale that he self-published his first book of poetry “The Soul’s Destroyer.” He then went through the British book of Who’s Who (yup, it really exists and it’s exactly what you’d imagine) and sent his book to peoples he deemed of interest, including one chap who was a journo at the Daily Mail, who read it, loved it and ultimately helped launch Davies’ entire career.
Yes, that’s right, while living in a doss-house, he put his precious moolah towards publishing his poetry, which shows a) the carnal need for poets to share their work at almost any cost and b) on a practical level, the importance of really getting your work out there. To be repeated: for myself as well as for you. From a doss house, Davies put his money into creating his craft, he was rejected and rose again, (you’ll see how when you do more research) then ignored and finally rose to the highest echelons of English creative society, hob-nobbing with the likes of George Bernard Shaw and Yeats.
I emphasize this not to romanticize the idea of the La-Boheme-esque electricity-less, food-less writer’s garret, but rather to appreciate the fact that Davies’ innate talent was clearly in place even when he was in a pretty rotten situation. So for those of yous out there, living in trickiness, wondering whether it is worthwhile continuing with your art and your creations, I say yes yes yes. Or, even if that’s not the question. If rather, the question is: Could i really be talented at my art even when i am practically living off tinned tuna and don’t know how to pay the rent next month, the answer is quite simply Yes. You really can be that talented. And every time you feel the fear or the doubt set in, ask WH Davies to pop by and give you a little nudge in the right direction.
With love,
Nicola xo
P.S. Autobiography of a Super-Tramp? San Francisco in the 80s, anyone? I’m just saying.
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{ Poet Spotlight }
AS I JUST RECOUNTED OVER THE PHONE TO JANEAN, LAST MONDAY, JUST 24 HOURS AFTER I read and wrote about my experience with Davies and his poetry, i was unloading my shopping in the Whole Foods car-park and as i was taking my trolley back, i noticed a happy looking chap in his 60s or so in a bright orange t-shirt heading in the same direction with his trolley. We smiled at each other. (cos this is Venice, CA and this is what people do) and then i looked down and saw that he had a prosthetic leg; literally a swish modern looking piece of metal peaking out of the bottom of his cargo shorts. I offered to take his trolley back along with mine and when he accepted and said thank you, i realized that he also had an English accent. A rather spiffy looking guy in his 60s with a sunny demeanor, an English accent and the modern day equivalent of a wooden leg? Honest to goodness. I stopped suddenly and turned to catch him, but, alas, he was already driving away. Who was this chap? Is there any chance that he was a writer or a poet? Who knows? Perhaps one day he’ll read this and get in touch. But either way, i feel pretty certain that Davies was there in that moment, and it’s my hope, that he popped by to give his mini stamp of approval for what we’re doing with Poetry Post and to tell us that he was tickled pink with the fact that we chose to open the whole shebang with one of his poems. As are we. NB
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{ Tidbits }
/ˈtidˌbit/
n. A choice morsel
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{ Wordplay }
