Monday, 24 June 2013

Explain The Name


He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven


Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
W.B. Yeats
This is my favourite poem. I have known it off by heart for years now; of all poems, this is surely the most beautiful to carry around in the heart always. Resisting the temptation to write a long, dry analysis that no one would enjoy, I am just going to highlight a few of the things that I think make it great.

I adore it for its simple expression of the vulnerability assumed by a lover when declaring his feelings, and by a poet when laying himself bare at the foot of the reader. The poem evokes both the grand ambitions and the feelings of inadequacy experienced as a lover and artist; the grand ambitions presented with the richly lyrical, flowing first five lines and the powerful extended metaphor of the sky as 'embroidered cloths'. This opulence of language reverts to a gorgeous simplicity in the final few lines; the paucity of language (repetition, no adjectives) a reflection of the poet/lover's inadequacy.

The chosen rhyme-scheme of tight quatrains (ABABCDCD and so on) mirrors the weaving of a cloth (I don't know the technical term for rhyming a word with itself and google was not at all forthcoming, but the unforced way it is employed here is a tiny bit marvellous). The form also leads the reader to expect a traditional Shakespearean love sonnet; falling away after line eight serves to further our impression of the speaker's uncertainty, unable even to offer a full sonnet.

The fragility, the defiance of traditional forms, the doubts, and so on, all strike me as proleptically modernist in the very best sense. Yeats' confident manipulation of language perfectly presents the lack of confidence of a lover, a poet and, eventually, of an entire age. Gorgeous.


Sunday, 23 June 2013

Pleased To Meet You

Doing all the little tricky things it takes to grow up, step by step, into an anxious and unsettling world.  
Hello stranger.

I'm Ailbhe (pronounced alva; explaining this appears to be my burden in life), an 18 year-old thinker/tea-drinker from the tiny, sometimes troubled, city of Belfast. A levels depending (pray for me), I'm starting at Wadham College Oxford in October to read the glorious subjects of French and English Literature.

I believe that literature and ideas matter, that life is glorious but tricky and we owe it to the world to be wholly, unapologetically, joyfully, embarrassingly ourselves. I'm not as arsey as that makes me sound.

Expect thoughts on books and films (from the high to the most furrowed of low brow), the F word (...feminism), philosophy, ideas, the arts, places I love (Paris), a smattering of politics and fashion, my pursuit of happiness (à la Gretchen Rubin, Leo Babuta and Montaigne), and accounts of being fresh at Oxford. Also expect the unexpected, because I'm not quite sure what I'm about here.

Please comment with ideas for future blog posts, questions, opinions, criticism (but please be gentle with me; no bad vibes here if you don't mind), and if you're sad or bored or lonely just tell me your life story or whether you like marmite or not.

I also tumble and tweet @PronouncedAlva and wishingfortheclothsofheaven.tumblr.com for those technologically inclined.

Over and out,
Ailbhe
x
I have spread my dreams beneath your feet. Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.