26/2/1959 How first we met

A poem from Mr Nash written on Thursday, 26 February 1959. This one is marked with two pencilled ticks - an indication that he particularly liked this one, and wanted it to be considered for publishing with Marianne's consent. It's also numbered in the top left with a '2', indicating the order he wanted his chosen poems to appear. I'm not sure we have all the numbers though.

Shall I, then, describe
How first we met?
For you might never know
Or never care.
But I, who came within
The orbit of your lovely eyes
Must tribute pay
Or must for ever silent stay.
What did you wear?
I do not know, for clothes are cast
And character is not.
Where did we meet?
It would not matter save that here,
Among my books we found
A common interest.
Yet here, among these books
Your bright swift searching eyes
Had read another page if you had wished
A page that was my heart.
I could not read the writing there
Myself, for who can comprehend
The glory of the stars that were
Reflected there?
Yet now I know in part, since that
Remembered gaze, so idly cast
Fills all my waking days.
And I can nothing give to you
Who nothing lack, save this
The homage of my praise.

26/2/1959

Books Marianne bought from Jon Ash

While the poems that Mr Nash wrote to Marianne are no longer in the original books from whence they came (and really, that detail is neither here nor there, as the poems were written prior to Marianne choosing whatever book she wanted to buy), we've started to look through the books to find notations either from Cyril or Marianne - or indeed both! And also to become familiar with the collection, and what Mummy was particularly interested in. Here are some snapshots of just a few little gems that she bought over the years...

Little Mr Bouncer and his Friend Verdant Green
by Cuthbert Bede (1873)

The Paraclete. Or Family Oracle.

AN IMPORTANT 

COLLECTION OF VALUABLE AND USEFUL

RECIPES; 

Most of which were given by that wonderful and surprising man 

HENRY JENKINS, 

Who lived to the amazing age of 

ONE HUNDRED AND SIXTY-NINE YEARS.

(really?!)

OUR VILLAGE:
Sketches of rural character and scenery
by Mary Russell Mitford
1824

'Our Village' was a definite purchase from Jon Ash bookshop, in the same year that Cyril was writing Marianne poetry. Look below - here are Cyril's pencil notes about the book and its price, and Marianne's signature and date of ownership :-)

I've just Googled the author Mary Russell Mitford, and not only was 'Our Village' based on a village just a few miles from where I (Eleanor) currently live, she also lived and died there. I could go and find her grave at the weekend if I wanted! (It's true, I like a mooch around a graveyard in my spare time...)

References by Mr Nash - "2nd ed, Wants half title"(??) 4/6. Miss Mahoney

Marianne Mahoney
bought of Jon Ash
1959

Marianne had lovely handwriting. She studied calligraphy.

Pretty gilded book covers.
Including 'Poems by Currer, Ellis and Acton Bell'.
(more popularly known as Charlotte, Emily and Anne Bronte!)

17/2/1959 I have known...

I'm far from an expert on poetry, but I think today's poem is lovely. Here is Cyril's work from 17 February 1959. A Tuesday, it was. I wonder where he wrote his poetry? In the shop? At home? How long did they take him?

I have known days
When some great theme of music
Filled with sound the world I knew
And bid me praise.

I have known time
When poets' language lifted me
To heights I had not dreamed could be
With thoughts sublime.

I have known all
The beauty of sweet summer days
When every flower a secret gave,
And still recall

These do I mind
When hearing, seeing, knowing you
I sing again all lovely things
Which are in kind.

17/2/1959

15/2/1959 She's my delight

Mr Nash continues his poetry 55 years ago today - a Sunday...

She's my delight,
Anent my fright;
Supposing she
Should taken be?
Lost is my light
In endless night.

15/2/1959

14/2/1959 A Valentine from Mr Nash

Bless Cyril. He wrote a poem for Marianne on Valentine's Day, 1959. And here it is. Happy Valentine's Day, everyone :)

When young mens' valentines are done,
Their fancies turned to other thing.
All days I give to you alone,
For beauty commands everything.

14/2/1959

11/2/1959 Sudden fears and bitter tears

To M.M.

How fragile are the bonds that daily link
Our little selves to all the things we love;
For every parting brings us to the brink
Where swift oblivion fondest hopes disprove -
Sad sombre thoughts, that spring from sudden fears
That some poor written word, misunderstood,
Might bring you needless pain; and bitter tears
For loss beyond recall, and all my good.

11/2/1959

You may notice that today's poem features a pencilled tick in the left hand corner. And on the reverse, there are two ticks. There is a letter from Cyril later on that we will blog about separately, but it basically outlined that the handwritten ticks marked the poem as one of Cyril's particular favourites, and that, with Marianne's permission, he would like to publish in time...

10/2/1959 An introduction & a postscript

The Virgin and Child with
St Anne & St John the Baptist
- Leonardo da Vinci

To M M

She told me that her name was Marianne
And wondered why I smiled
To see your her beauty unified
In one sweet name that meant
So much to me.

For Mary is Our Lady fair
All clothed with the sun,
and purest Anne her mother, she
Who was as tender as the Son Child
Her daughter bore.

10/2/1959

And then there was a separate postscript...

I wrote a letter to you yesterday... and tore it up! I dare not write, I find, just yet  for it would only be a love letter... and you would not wish for such a one from me!

9/2/1959 Will she come?

To M.M.

Why do I count the moments pass
To wonder, will she come?
Am I a lover, then
Who importunely questions time
As if t'were his indeed?

I have eternity wherin to wait
For earthly time has nought for me;
Yet does her presence open wide,
Howsoever she may be,
The very gates of Paradise.

9/2/1959

8/2/1959 Adoro Te

To M.M.

Adoro Te

This is the measure of my love -
There's no despair when all desire
Is purged away.
There but remains to burn,
This lowly flame before
Thy lovliness. 

8/2/1959

7/2/1959 Who knows of Life?

To M.M.

"I want a book" he said,

"That deals with love" -

And smirked.

I gave him one.

It was 'The Hound of Heaven'

And smiled.

7/2/1959

She said, "give me a novel

True to life" -

Expectantly.

I said, "There isn't one.

Who knows of Life?" -

And turned away.

7/2/1959

With today's poem from Cyril, I learn that The Hound of Heaven is a religious poem written by Francis Thompson in 1893, which describes Man's futile attempts to run away from God and His Love - the Hound of Heaven. Are we learning that Cyril was a religious man? A cynic? And with a somewhat dry sense of humour..? 

6/2/1959 Confiteor - I Confess

To M.M.

Confiteor

You are the Song

And the Sadness

You are the Thong

And the Gladness

You are the Hone

And the Share

You reign Alone

Everywhere

Today, 55 years ago, Cyril wrote this poem for Marianne. 

Today, 25 years ago, Marianne died. RIP Mummy x

5/2/1959 - They met in the City...

So here is the first of the dated poems that we found - written exactly 55 years ago today, 5th February. Cyril writes of a collision of hands as two bookshop customers linger over two different books in his shop - Boccacio's 'Il Decamerone', and William Ralph Inge's 'Lay Thoughts of a Dean'. One book featuring tales of love and adventure, the other presumably gloomy religious philosophy. A reflection on the two different characters?

To M.M.

(Part of the 'urge' and more of me!)

They met in the City -

In Cullum Street - that's slung

Between old Leadenhall

And Billingsgate odiferous both odorous,

In a bookshop (antiquarian)

Where the dust lay thick alike

On 'Il Decamerone'

And 'Lay Thoughts of a Dean' -

No, not quite alike, for youthful

Hands had fingered quite a lot

Boccacio, with saucy pictures in.

In fact, his hand stretched out

(His conscience panicked at the last)

For grim old Inge's severe piece

Just as she, much bolder (grip on life!)

Decided on Decameron.

In that swift clash of hands

The heavens fell, and all

The Nudes of Gill, and harems bright

With all that charms a young man's sight

Disappeared - and gathered in

A small pale face, with lovely eyes

Of grey (or were they blue?)

All dressed in green (unlucky hue!).

And she? The instant moved for quick instinct

And all was done.... until they came to bed

At last, and there the body's rapture ends.

For all desire was caught and held

In that quick moment of eternity

When in a bookshop (antiquarian)

In Cullum Street - that's in the City -

Two met to grasp Boccacio

And petered out with "Lay Thoughts of a Dean"

5/2/1959

 A Tale from the Decameron, a painting by John William Waterhouse

Over London Bridge...

There are two poems written by Cyril, entitled 'To M. M. (as part of the urge!)'. Below is the first. The second one is dated, and I'll post it tomorrow, 55 years to the day it was written - the first dated poem in the collection. What urge? I'm not entirely sure. The urge to write poetry and share it with selected customers? Anyway, this poem is a reflective look at the journey home of many a London commuter in the 1950s, Cyril himself included it seems.

In my online quest to find a photo of London Bridge to use in this post, I learned that the London Bridge that is there today, is not the one that was there in 1959 when Cyril wrote this poem! I'd heard tale of an American buying the old London Bridge and moving it to the Arizona desert, but not when it had happened. You all knew that, didn't you? <shamefaced>

To M. M.

(as part of the urge!)

Over London Bridge they go

Caught in streams of human woe

Bent on home and television

Five o'clock, and with precision

Leave to catch the 'Purley slow'

Over London Bridge they went

Determined, striding with head bent

Lovely lady's legs denying

Which this morning set them sighing

Only armchairs mean content

Over London Bridge the steam

Filtered to a lovely cream

Cauliflowered from the stack

Build on Bankside's river slack

Where the BullRing's but a dream

Over London Bridge the sun

Smouldered down, the day now done

Crimsoned, merging in the smudge

Draining east to violet sludge

Where green daylight had begun

Over London Bridge I go

Caught and strangled in the flow,

Straining upwards for the light

Thankful for this day's delight - 

Memories' reflected glow

Like a gazelle...

Another undated poem from Mr Nash, but with a subtle, early tone to it. In a few days time, 5 February to be precise, we have the first dated poem from Cyril to Marianne in 1959, to share. Do please return to visit :)

Like a gazelle, like a gazelle you are, 

So gently fleet, so sure of feet,

With senses perpetual spring.

Your lovely eyes the light of the skies.

Make me the grass beneath your feet

My green guise a joy for your eyes,

Fit setting for your supple grace,

Myself your food, pursuer, and pursued.