I walked down Milsom Street today

A few weeks ago I visited Bath, for an afternoon's mooch around the Christmas market there. Walking along Milsom Street, I thought of Mr Nash as one of his earlier poems had referenced a visit he'd made to Bath in 1959 - and to this street in particular - and it was though-provoking to be walking in his footsteps some 50 years later.

Here are a few photos from my visit:

Milsom Street signage - as Mr Nash would've seen it too (minus Kiehl's!)

Bath Abbey

Burton Street and festive lighting

And here's an undated poem from Mr Nash. Wandering the narrow streets of Bath, I found a shop called The Tasting Room, which sold a wide range of wines and spirits. Including a bottle I hadn't seen for many years - since I was a teenager in fact, and Punt e Mes was my mother's favourite tipple. So I bought a bottle, and gave it a try when I got home. Verdict? It's grim! It's a vermouth, but very bitter, with a herbal/orangey aftertaste. The man in the shop suggested it was worth trying with gin and Campari but I'm not convinced that will improve it for me any more!

On with Mr Nash's words...

Give me leave to love
And I'll not listen
For think you that I love
And brook condition?
Or think you I will cease
Without possession?
Love me or love me not
I love without remission.

"This must not be"

So, after Marianne's rejection of Mr Nash's heartfelt poetry to her, the individually dated poems in swift succession appear to have stopped. This poem in the remaining collection is undated, but reading it in conjunction with those dated previously, it seems that this may have been the next in sequence. Typed up on official shop notepaper of the time - oh to be able to call Mansion House 2665, and get an answer...

Cyril writes here of the futility of tears, despite his grief at her rejection. And unknowingly dedicates this poem to those of us who are reading his work today; "some future eyes". Wasted tears fall from mine...

x

So when you said 'this must not be',
I took my grief and buried it in words;
For tears, beyond their first relieving flood,
Affront the inward man with their futility,
And lovely things, pursued as memories,
Might quicken old delights and newer pains.

If then, some future eyes, still dim
With wasted tears, should read this page,
Know that the senses do not err
If they will take with unperturbed gratitude
The gifts which undemanding nature brings:
And if they must remember, let this be
Recorded words of present ecstacies.
-- But these are idle self deceiving words,
As any man who ever loved will know.

22/10/1959 ...when you bade me stop

Another beautiful and wistfully romantic poem from Mr Nash to Marianne today. Nothing unusual in that, other than a pencilled footnote on it. Read on...

Written before Oct 22nd - when you bade me stop

And do you think Mr Nash did stop...?

19/10/1959 Autumn leaves fall at your feet

Let my thoughts as autumn leaves
Fall at your feet and spend themselves
In golden thriftlessness, that you enjoy
Their rustling canticles of praise,
Then, glancing at my nakedness, you'll say
He gave his all because he must, for me.

19th October, 1959

7/10/1959 This is the summer's end

From this poem from Mr Nash dated 7th October 1959, it seems that Marianne is still not visiting his bookshop. I wonder how he is getting the poems to her...

This is the summer's end
With golden days like gossamer
Now fled before rude winds which bend
All things, save memory, upon themselves.

When shall I see you stand
Again with your proud lissom grace
Mirrored against the sun's demand
Yet like a pearl that adds to beauty's breast?

This is the summer's end
When austere winds do rudely touch
On truth and dreams, yet leave for friend
Sweet memories, and hope for distant spring.

7th October, 1959

20/9/1959 September leaves

Thanks to Mr Nash, I now know that 'sear' also means 'withered'... And here's a strange little tale of leaves. I went into the garden last night, armed with my iPhone torch as it was pitch black out there, to find some autumnal leaves. I wanted a maple leaf-shape, but there aren't any such trees in my garden - just a few fruit trees, and several dreaded leylandii. But there it was, at the end of the garden, the perfect leaf. Just the one!

So tenderly,
So trustfully
The darling buds of May *
Appear.

So sear
September leaves display
Glad memories,
Sad phantasies

20-9-1959

*quite deliberately stolen!

17/9/1959 Seven long weeks...

So it seems that Marianne's visits to Jon Ash bookshop on Cullum Street in the City of London had come to an abrupt halt according to the poem Mr Nash wrote below on 17 September 1959, and he clearly felt that impact deeply. But it didn't stop his adoration or poetry-writing...

Reading again the verses I have made for you
I live once more the moments' ecstacy
When I did see you as you were, and are,
- Who could but worship where such beauty dwells?
And now, in retrospect I see, when silence
Held me in her sifting self-absorbed embrace
For seven long weeks, where every moment
Still was filled with your sweet presence felt,
That to myself I have been true
And all my words which, wounding as they went
From me, have laid me bare
Yet must I praise, for there's my destiny.

17/9/1959

20/7/1959 I have seen your cedars once again

This poem from Mr Nash, written on 20th July 1959, speaks of reminiscence. Her 'old Streatham days' may have been when she had a boyfriend who lived there a few years previously, as mentioned in a previous blog post. 

I presume Cyril was familiar with the place too but any more detail than that, I don't know. He lived in Croydon at this time, as far as I'm aware. And the cedars? They obviously had great significance and sentiment to him, in his keen efforts to connect with her.

I have seen your cedars once again;
Did you not know I know that they
By you are known? Cast back your mind
To those old Streatham days, for though
I did not know you then, you would have seen
These noble trees that reign with beauty
In this old world Rookery.
Yet underneath their brooding boughs
Your presence I discern, and feel with equal pain
The sad old music of remembered make-believe;
Ah yes, I have my dreams, and if they waken
Painful thoughts, then think of me
And my deep misery, for underneath their leaves
I think and weep for you.

20th July, 1959

17/7/1959 My poor unlovely self...

As it's National Poetry Day today, I thought I'd add a poem that I overlooked posting a few months ago - from 17th July 1959. As was clear from other poems Mr Nash wrote to Marianne around this time, her visits to his bookshop were now less frequent, her being overwhelmed by his attention in the form of adoring verses. He writes to state his case, to justify his actions, to stand firm in his feelings, but promising to cease in respect of her apparent wishes. 

A pencil-written note on the poem refers to him wanting to publish this particular poem, but knowing Marianne would object. And then lightheartedly stating that he's changed his mind about his promise to stand down with his attention, as he is unable...

Since I have lost the battle for your time,
For you no longer wish to speak to me
Alone, I will not stage a pantomime;
Let me depart and seek fresh company.

I have not wished to tyrannize, or force
My poor unlovely self upon your view,
But equally, I can have no remorse
For things I've said and versified for you.

Or do you think me just a little mad?
I must admit I am was with beauty crazed;
My words were not extravagantly clad
For I have seen quite clearly all I've praised.

I will not then molest you any more,
But live on memories of things I saw.

17th July, 1959

I like this very much but know you will not let me use it - and I have changed my mind! I will always molest you - I cannot do otherwise

Damaged books, and a poem from 18 July 1959

As previously mentioned, the hundreds of books that Marianne collected over the years rather took over every room in the family home. And after she died in 1989 aged just 52, things in our house slowly but inevitably got rearranged, with some of her book collection being boxed up and moved into the garage and summer house to free up some space.

Imogen and her face of woe

Which was fine, until one day three summers ago we discovered that disaster had struck - the summer house roof was no longer watertight. And yes, boxes of valuable old books had been drenched in rainwater as a result. Then left to go mouldy as they lay damp and undiscovered for several weeks.

It was a very depressing operation trying to rescue the books from their sodden mouldy state. We emptied all the boxes, and spread the poor books out on a dry floor on top of layers of kitchen towel, attempting to wipe the mould off with a damp J-cloth, all in a pretty futile effort to save them. We had to throw a fair amount of books away as they just didn't seem to be worth saving - crinkled up, mouldy, stuck together, torn :-(

Absolutely heart-breaking. Look how beautiful some of these books are - their hand-coloured illustrations, the embellished front covers. Look - Wuthering Heights written by "Ellis Bell", the name that Emily Bronte used when first published, as she and her sisters believed at the time that "authoresses are liable to be looked on with prejudice".

And more pictures of tragedy...

Soggy Tennyson

Mouldy Kate Greenaway, among others

Beautiful hand-drawn cartoon book, and other damaged victims

Many of these books would have been bought from Jon Ash book shop in the late 1950s and early 1960s. Many of them are probably fairly valuable. We'd almost rather not know - it's sad enough to know from a sentimental point of view that the books our mother collected and loved so much, have been damaged beyond repair. And of course, not really knowing what the books might be worth, they weren't insured.

However, at least a lot more of her collection remains safe and dry in the house! And shall remain so, we hope...

Here's a poem from Mr Nash to Marianne, dated 18 July 1959. I think his ability to deal with his unrequited adoration was diminishing, and it sounds as if Marianne had become somewhat aloof, visiting his bookshop less frequently in her weekday lunch hours in an attempt to not give him false hope.

Now bid me go
For I have seen
Your beauty unalloyed,
And I have worshipped you
According to my lights
And found you inaccessible.

You who are cold
And silent stay
To me who need you so
Not for your flesh so fair
(Though that were bliss indeed)
But for your many virtues rare

So bid me go
And free yourself
From one who cannot give
A fraction of your worth
In anything save words
And time, and thoughts and dreams - all dreams.

18th July, 1959

16 & 17 July 1959 Rockets and ships

Like to a rocket
Launched to outer space
I send this message to you now
Not knowing how it may be seen
Or how received into your spacious mind,
But it might blazon to the skies
And shew to you in its reflected light
The glory of your splendid eyes;
Then let it die, contented to have been.
Yet would I choose to be consumed
Within your own affection's flame
For heaven itself
Would then revolve round me.

16th July, 1959

I have seen great ships in London Docks
Take on their cargoes for far distant lands;
Cootamundra, Chicacole, and Sind.
And in times past I would have joined
To do their battle with the unknown seas.

But I am launched on seas more troublesome
With crazy compasses that point at me,
My own uncharted, undiscovered heart.
Pray for the sailor out at sea
But think of me, for you command my destiny.

17th July, 1959

14/7/1959 You are my only audience... a letter and two poems

We made an exciting discovery last weekend while clearing out a cupboard in the family home - a box of letters, mostly to Marianne from her father (who left Hilda and the family home when Marianne was about 5, and eventually moved to as-was-then Rhodesia), but also a few letters from Mr Nash, which give more insight into why he wrote poems for Marianne, and how he suggested she interpret them. Below is one of these letters - read it and have a little romantic sob - we did... And here's a silly photo of us - me in my mum's 1960s glasses, and my sister with a book we remember reading as children, that we'd been given by Mummy from her collection of 'old books', or maybe just from a 1980s jumble sale! 

Marianne,

I offer these fresh poems and hope you will see in them the small addition in power I seem to see in them.

Of their contents.... you see how things are with me, for I have reached the depths. I know there is nothing to be done about it.

I hope they will not cause you any disturbances. Try to think of them as from someone you would like to have them from and I am sure they will then give you pleasure.

I ask only one little thing... do give me just a word or two about them. You are my only audience, remember, and no-one likes to play to empty stalls... although, God, help me, I am not acting

I hope you like your book.

Cyril

And, playing catch-up with Mr Nash's constant flow of poems, here are two more, both dated 14th July 1959.

If I could span the years
And cross time's bridge of sighs,
My shyness I would place within,
Your own sweet hands, as potter's clay,
Shaping myself to all your will.

And even now, when time's great tide
Runs strongly in between,
I set my sail to your far distant shore
Safe in the searchlight of your eyes,
Where I may serve till time itself is still.

14th July, 1959

If music be the voice of angels
Since earthly meaning it transcends,
And if the language of true love
Sweet music is, why then,
I have the key to all my bitter tears.
For now I may possess myself in peace
And love you, making willing sacrifice
Of all time's seeming pleasantries,
Save this, that I must see you now
For angels' music feeds on heavenly views.

14th July, 1959

13/7/1959 - Since you will not let me see you

The poems continue almost daily, but the content of today's poem make it clear that Marianne's visits to Jon Ash bookshop had dwindled in frequency. And when she did come to the shop, it was briefly, and with a companion. Do we assume the intensity of Mr Nash's poetry had become too much for Marianne? Regardless, he continued writing poems for her. And these poems of sadness and emptiness are in Marianne's possession, so she must have continued her visits to receive them when buying a book from his shop.

This poem has the double tick, indicating Mr Nash would like it published one day, and it's numbered 17, detailing the order he would like them published in. I'm adding them to the blog in date order however (where we have a date), as I think they tell a fuller story this way. Of a bookshop owner infatuated with one of his customers, to the point where it seemed to take up a large part of his daily thoughts and dreams, and the lack of acknowledgement was driving him to distraction... But how could he expect her to reciprocate? She was just 23 at this point, and undoubtedly a shy 23-year old still living at home. He was over 30 years older than her, married, with children the same age as her. Perhaps he just wanted a muse for his poetry?

Since you will not let me see you
- Your fleeting visits once a week
Sometimes with some one else
I may not countenance, for then perforce
I am with others' wants engaged -
I look for you in all things beautiful
And glimpse, now here, now there,
The faintest shadow of yourself
In flowers, faces, trees and skies
And from these wring some measure
Of your loveliness, that I might live
From hour to hour until we meet again.
Thoughts are but thoughts though they
Are with me night and day
And dreams are too intangible for me.
Those pictures in my mind which come
So easily, do but torment in their passivity
For you are your eyes, your lips,
Your voice, your matchless laugh,
Your personality, that makes all music
Murmurings, and poetry a needless sigh.
So, of your charity, come soon, come soon,
And save this all that's good in me
For, starved for a sight of you,
It must most surely die

13th July, 1959

10/7/1959 Who says I am in love with love?

Another of Mr Nash's favourite poems for Marianne, indicated by a tick on the reverse, and numbered '19'. Here Cyril speaks of his love/hate relationship with love - unrequited love, it seems...

Who says
I am in love with love?
It is not true;
I love while hating love,
Its bitter brew.
Laughter thrusts more deep the knife
Into my warring mind
And weeping will not do
For tears would drown me with despair.
Since seeing you means fleeing me
Till to myself I'm blind -
But then, when you are gone, all life
And light depart from me
To bring but hell's extremity.
Who says I love, says true,
But love to me is rue.

10th July, 1959

8/7/1959 Half the world...

At the end of one of his poems dated 18 June, Mr Nash added a postcript that he would be on holiday "for a fortnight from Tuesday next", which would have been 23 June 1959. So this poem was likely written upon return from his break, during which we know he visited Bath. Being at least two weeks since he had seen Marianne at his shop in London, it seems to have been playing fairly heavily on his mind...

Note the single tick top left of the piece of paper - indicating Mr Nash liked this poem, and wanted to get Marianne's thoughts on it. (Other poems featured 2 ticks and a sequential number, which meant that it was a particular favourite, and that Mr Nash sought to publish them with Marianne's permission, in the order he numbered).

I would walk half the world to see you now
If by some sad mischance, extremity
Had parted us so far, this I do vow
For you are all my homing, instancy.

What matters it, if half the world away
Or you had gone this moment from my side?
Here or there, you would not bid me stay
Or could not care, perhaps might me deride.

If must be so - Age can make no demands
On you, and would not wish to make amiss -
Then For taking soils the givers' and the takers' hands
And both might lose eternity's grave kiss.

But if you called? How could I then refuse
For you are heaven, so I have nought to lose.

8th July, 1959

1/7/1959 A fuchsia tree

Thinking of you
I saw a fuchsia tree.
To myself said
What shall my future be?
Like lighted lamps
Matched only by your eyes,
Or these red drops
Of blood which fall when their light dies?

1st July, 1959

28/6/1959 Bath

This poem, written on a Sunday, talks of Mr Nash spending the day in Bath, but having Marianne on his mind. On a book-buying mission? With his family? He was certainly in a literary mood, referring to Jane (I presume, Austen), while also drawing comparison to his namesake Beau Nash, the dandy who helped put Bath at the forefront of the 18th century English social scene.

I walked down Milsom Street today
And though you were a hundred miles away
I saw you - and sweet Jane -
Although she will never walk Bath again;

And I, whose surname forced a glow
On fair maids' cheeks, when by the Beau
So dubious, they received a glance,
Would give a world to make this quick advance

So I walked on down Milsom Street
Having no one to stay or greet
For these my dreams have gone astray
And I despondently must surely stay.

28th June, 1959

22/6/1959 The pallid moon

Cyril's poem to Marianne on 22nd June 1959 was written on 'official' shop notepaper, the first dated poem to appear as such. Typed in a hurry in case of a lunchtime visit?

I saw you in the pallid moon last night
So beautiful, but so remote;
Your garments were of gossamer and white
And you were distant as a nun
About to take her final vows.
But I, with gaze more steadfastly,
With contemplation's fervent strength,
Saw in your face and dress a hundred hues
And all the warmth that lives
In every lovers' first sweet kiss -
Away! Away, you tantalising moon,
That would make madness and dull mockery
Of this, my utmost misery.

22nd June, 1959

Thanks to Clogsilk for her stunning shot of the moon 

18/6/1959 - Double the poetry...

Two poems from Cyril, the bookshop owner, 55 years ago today. There he is, pouring his heart out to his muse. And then, suddenly back to reality in his sign-off to let Marianne, his revered customer, know that he was off on his summer holidays for a fortnight...

Who has not looked into your lovely eyes
And left behind more than mere memory?
Did not I seek for countless weary days
To find among the stars, the skies,
Each limpid pool, the running rivulet,
The glistening dewdrops on fresh morning lawns,
Deep lonely lakeland tarns and meres where
All the mysteries of earth and sky are held
Imprisoned for eternity? - their glory?
I sought in vain the paths
Of rain where every gleaming leaf
Lay diamond-wise;
I spent long hours in contemplating
Ever changing seas, even the haloes
Of the moon where her magnificence had cast
A fairy veil about the sky.
All these and more, I vainly sought
Until at last the goal
Of all things beautiful, your eyes
I saw again, and there found paradise.

18/6/1959

Now I am come to lengthened pain
Who once before the gates of Paradise
Did stand, and would have entered there
Had I the merits of your price.

O fearful agony!
How shall I bear the ruth
And scourge of bitter time
Without consoling youth?

18/6/1959

I shall be away for a fortnight from Tuesday next

15/6/1959 You once did say...

You once did say
That you could not say 'no'
To anyone. To question this
Would be impertinence for me
Who gladly would say many things
If you'd agree, but I
Want only that which cannot be
And mere agreement would not do.
But if, for once, in charity
You would say 'no' to me
When I write things you do not like
(However great my misery)
I would not venture so again
For, whate're you say, my only aim
Is but to please
Although it cost me more
Than I might care to say.

15/6/1959

9/6/1959 You did not come...

Oh Cyril... It seems that today, 9 June 1959, Mr Nash was hoping his young lady customer, Marianne, would pay his bookshop in Bishopsgate a visit at lunchtime. And it seems that she didn't turn up...

Today I shall see you
And you will enter
With your sweet decisive step
And I shall lose long moments
Seeking other people's wants
While you are where all time,
All seeking ends for me.
And soon, so soon, you'll say
Those farewell words inconsequent to you
But which do sentence me
To stay with fantasies of memory
Until your presence brings again
Those moments of reality

9th June, 1959

You did not come....behold this dreamer

Mr Nash writes a poem for another customer

Laurence Worms, who bought Jon Ash bookshop from Cyril Nash and Hugh Jones in the early 1970s, put me in touch with another regular customer from the time of Marianne's visits - Alan Cole. Alan very kindly shared with me the following:

"I used to visit Jon Ash almost every lunchtime when I was working for a French bank in the City. From them I obtained much of my collection of early books, manuscripts and letters. After I retired I started teaching palaeography at the University of London and the latter acquired the collection of some 140,000 items covering the history of writing from around 6500 BC to the present day to become the Museum of Writing Research Collection."

Alan Cole, founder of the Museum of Writing
and Lecturer in Paleography at University of London

"Laurence Worms forwarded your blog to me, which I read with great interest and much reminiscing, because Messrs Jones and Nash played an important part in my life for some 15 years.

"I first came across Jon Ash in October 1955, one week after starting my job in the City and I continued to go to the shop almost daily until 1971, with a break for National Service and a time working abroad. Hugh Jones was the silent partner, not in the legal sense, but vocally; he only said what was needed at any one time. Cyril on the other hand could be heard arguing the toss with a customer or dropping books down the back of the shelves and not quite silently oathing as he tried to extricate them. They often bickered about prices and whether they should purchase books that were offered to them. However, they were very close as work partners and I became very fond of both of them because of their idiosyncrasies and because they were such a knowledgeable, loyal and kindly pair.

Cyril Nash (l), Hugh Jones (r)

"I also knew Marianne quite well, as we were sometimes on opposing sides when after the same book, which happened on several occasions. She actually took me out to a nearby café on one of those occasions to sweeten me up and persuade me that I did not really want that particular book. In fact, I seem to remember that it worked that once and she walked out of the shop clutching the book in triumph. We were often in the shop at the same time, along with another small number of regulars and Hugh Jones named us The Clique, appropriately! We often joked that Cyril fancied Marianne, in a friendly way, as he always became very officious and slightly embarrassed, usually looking down when she was in the shop and he was trying to get the best price for a book she wanted. I know that he wrote poems about her and sometimes other customers, as I found him doing so one evening after the shop had closed and I was browsing - in the good old fashioned sense. I have one that he wrote about me somewhere in the loft that went on about penny-pinching bankers with half-eaten sandwiches trying to bankrupt him. It appears that he had been writing poetry for many years and the rumour was that he had written a book; whether it was poetry or not we never knew."

And here is that poem from Mr Nash, to Mr Cole. It's so exciting to read another of Cyril's poems, with a different slant on it, but still personal to the recipient and wryly observational of life in the bookshop. I notice the nod to Cyril's previous life selling insurance, as Laurence told me about (referenced in this blog post here). And I love finding out from Mr Cole that there was a gang of customers called 'The Clique', and that Marianne was part of it :-) I wonder what the book that she desperately wanted was - it must be in the collection at home somewhere!

The clock strikes twelve and I begin to tense,
as this is the time that the thirsty sandwich-munching bankers,
fresh from making their pile,
come to the shop on their way to a bar to try and bankrupt me.

They would not know a Shakespeare from a comic,
but they pick books from the shelf as though that is how they spend their day,
making ignorant comments and offering me a pound,
despite the fact that the book is marked ten pounds and is a first edition Hardy.

There are exceptions, of course, that help to pass the day,
He from the French bank, more interested in the written word than the printed book,
at least he know his stuff and buys more readily than most;
with not much of a quibble and as passionate as me, talking books for almost an hour each day.

Two o'clock and the bankers, overfull with beer,
wend their tottering and noisy way back to that humdrum existence I once knew.
I would give nothing to relive those times that I remember well,
but wish to be here, surrounded by books and friends, a life they will never know.

2/6/1959 Now that I so seldom see you

Hello June, and hello another poem from Mr Nash to Marianne. Seemingly, she was becoming a less frequent visitor to Jon Ash bookshop, which possibly fuelled Cyril's need to express his feelings in poetry.

Now that I so seldom see you
I look, when you are near,
At all your loveliness till it becomes
Essential part of me
And as the soil gives thanks
In fruitfulness for sunshed benefit
So shall I sing and praise
Until I yield myself at sundown
To old earth again
And link your beauty to eternity

2nd June, 1959

22, 25, 29 May 1959 - Matters of the heart

Cyril continued his love's laments over the second half of May 1959, going some way to explain his feelings and need to write poetry for Marianne. 

To M M

I write for you alone,
Yet I have need
That you should read
Or I become a stone.

That I may fitly praise
Your beauty here
Is bliss most dear
And I am pledged always.

I know you cannot give
Me anything;
Take what I bring
And read, that I may live.

To you my songs are said
And they will end
When you shall send
Them back to me unread.

22nd May, 1959

Marianne.... did you find my 'cedars' poem? That was a shattering and bruising blow! And I deserved it.

The 'cedars' poem he refers to above, I think is the third poem in this earlier blog post.

Triolet

My heart is a lonely lake
That mystifies and taunts me
And always deeply daunts me
My heart is a lonely lake
Whose surface thrills to beauty
Of interlacing sky and tree
My heart is a lonely lake
Which mirrors all delight in thee

25th May, 1959

I know that you do think that I
Am deep in love with words;
And so I am, yet not alone, for they
Are as the air to mortal frame
Yet must defer to life itself
To which we have no claim.
So with these words which serve
To shew my praise for you
And have no other life for me,
For I have waited all life through
To know and praise your loveliness
Which makes all words mere foolishness.

29th May, 1959

8, 11, 15 May 1959 - Missing Marianne

The poems to Marianne from Mr Nash continued to flow in May, but it seems that her visits to the bookshop off Fenchurch Street in London were few and far between, as Cyril talks in the following poems of missing seeing her, and being reminded of her through music, busy High Streets and good weather, while she unlikely thinks of him in return. Woe... 

How strange and strong the spell
Of music on the ear;
And stranger still that I should hear
With quickened heart the swell,
The ebb and flow of Bach, the dear
Intricacies of sound, of melody
When you (alas, in fantasy)
Appear to be so near.
Yet I have never known you say
That Bach was all in all to you
Or if to Chopin you are true
Or if indeed prefer cacaphony
To strains of symphony, and jazz
To all that old Debussy has.
How then should I so surely be
Aware of your strong presence when
I give myself, and mental wherewithal
To sweetest ecstacies of madrigal?
And how tis then (and only then)
You are more near to me
Than when I see you here, elusively?

8/5/1959

I have put this down but think it could be improved upon with a little more time to gather my thoughts (if any) but it is all true!

You are always in my thoughts;
Even the busy High Street Saturday
With jostling bodies filling shops can be
A wilderness of loneliness, and I
Am filled, alas, with homesickness for you,
Who are remoter than the furthest star
And only seen when you decree.
Here, I look beyond all possibility
Among these many varied faces
Knowing that you may never come this way
And never think of me.

11/5/1959

All through this lovely week in May
The sun has shone with gaiety again
And yet, such is the power of your
Sweet personality, that missing you,
The days have been too long, and I
Have turned for consolation to cool night
Seeking to still my turbulence of mind.
and there I saw your beauty mirrored
At the midnight hour, for tracing their loveliness
Against the skies, giant cedars sang
Their praises to the distant stars;
And I did see - O could you then have
Been with me - the crescent moon
Sail as a coracle their seas of floating fronds
Propelled by fairy oars to Arcady,
And I had wished that we could be aboard.
But, no. forever must I dwell among
Their dim ecclesiastic shades of mauve
Waiting the rising of the sun,
And hope that you will shine on me again.

15/5/1959

No time to retype this legibly!

7 May - Happy birthday

No poem from Mr Nash in 1959 today, 7th May, which was Marianne's birthday. It's likely he didn't know her well enough yet to know this date. But poems to Marianne on this date in subsequent years, as well as books with inscriptions that he must have given to her as gifts, show that he went on to honour her birthday with his words. For example, on her birthday in 1962, he gave her The Handbook of Swindling, by Douglas William Jerrold under the pseudonym of Barabbas Whitefeather. Some fabulous illustrations by Phiz inside.

And another birthday gift (no year indicated) - the somewhat racily illustrated 'Eastern Love Poems' which features a pencilled inscription inside:

"— but true love is much nearer.

Wishing you a very happy birthday

Cyril"

So, happy birthday Mummy. She would have been 78 today. Here are a few photos of her from the family photo albums, there aren't many as she tended to hide as soon as a camera appeared...

Marianne and a hen - aged 7?

Marianne with her mother Hilda (far left) and friends

Peeling something in the kitchen, 1960s? I don't know what the Kinloch Policy is, and neither does Google.

A party somewhere in London - 1960s? No idea who the men are...

Holiday in early 1970s

Little me on the left, so it'll be from 1973!

Our last holiday together, Prague 1988, with family friend Joy

x x x