How To Live, Part Sixteen: "Whisper Of A Thin Ghost"

A. S. J. Tessimond had a somewhat disenchanted view of the world. However, his outlook was softened by his humor, and by the fact that he did not exempt himself from his sometimes rueful assessment of how we try to make it through life.  In the following poem, Tessimond warns us of the danger of becoming a thin ghost.  I suspect that he was acquainted with this fate.

          Whisper of a Thin Ghost

I bought the books of the Careful-Wise
And I read the rules in a room apart
And I learned to clothe my flinching heart
Against hate and love and inquisitive eyes
In the Coat of Caution, the Shirt of Pride.
And then, the day before I died,
I found that the rules of the wise had lied:
That life was a blood-warm stream that ran
Through the fields of death, and that no man can
Bathe in the stream but the naked man.
And that is why my ghost now must
So grope, so grieve, as grieve all those
In whom death found no wounds to close,
In whom dust found no more than dust.

A. S. J. Tessimond, Voices in a Giant City (1947).

As is often the case with Tessimond's verse, the formal qualities of the poem are unobtrusive, perhaps because of the conversational tone.  Thus, one might not notice at first that "Whisper of a Thin Ghost" is a sonnet (with an uncommon rhyme scheme).

                         Marion Adnams, "Spring in the Cemetery" (1956)

"Whisper of a Thin Ghost" brings to mind Frank Ormsby's "My Careful Life," which I have previously posted.  For instance, these lines by Ormsby fit well with Tessimond's "books of the Careful-Wise" and "Coat of Caution":

But still my life cries: 'Work and save.
Rise early.  Stay home after five

and pull the curtains.  They are blessed
-- prudent, abstemious -- who resist.

All things in moderation.  Share
nothing.  Be seemly and austere.'

Frank Ormsby, A Northern Spring (The Gallery Press 1986).

                           Ernest Procter, "All the Fun of the Fair" (c. 1927)

Lists, Part Six: "The Candle A Saint"

I confess that the following list by Frank Ormsby leaves me a bit perplexed. But, no matter:  the poem sounds lovely and, in addition, provides a good piece of advice.

                    Under the Stairs

Look in the dark alcove under the stairs:
a paintbrush steeped in turpentine, its hairs

softening for use; rat-poison in a jar;
bent spoons for prising lids; a spare fire-bar;

the shaft of a broom; a tyre; assorted nails;
a store of candles for when the light fails.

Frank Ormsby, A Store of Candles (1977).

                              Samuel Palmer, "The Lonely Tower" (1879)

Wallace Stevens was fond of candles.  For instance, consider this:  what would the night be -- in fact, what would the whole of the universe be -- without a candle?  Your own particular candle.  Keeping "a store of candles" is indeed a wise idea.

                      The Candle a Saint

Green is the night, green kindled and apparelled.
It is she that walks among astronomers.

She strides above the rabbit and the cat,
Like a noble figure, out of the sky,

Moving among the sleepers, the men,
Those that lie chanting green is the night.

Green is the night and out of madness woven,
The self-same madness of the astronomers

And of him that sees, beyond the astronomers,
The topaz rabbit and the emerald cat,

That sees above them, that sees rise up above them,
The noble figure, the essential shadow,

Moving and being, the image at its source,
The abstract, the archaic queen.  Green is the night.

Wallace Stevens, Parts of a World (1942).

For more on "the topaz rabbit and the emerald cat," you may wish to visit Stevens's "A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts," where you will be introduced to a "fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk" and a rabbit "that fills the four corners of night."

                             Samuel Palmer, "The Weary Ploughman" (1858)

How To Live, Part Ten: "A Life Reprehensibly Perfect"

The following poem by Philip Larkin provides a good companion piece to Frank Ormsby's "My Careful Life."  As one might expect, jolly old Philip suggests that a careless, ostensibly rebellious and romantic life may be every bit as hollow as a careful life.  This would seem to lead to what some might call a characteristic Larkinian conclusion:  we are doomed either way.

But might there be more going on here?  As is often the case (and, as I have noted before, he shares this quality with Robert Frost and Edward Thomas), Larkin gets cagey with us at the end of the poem.  Something is given; something is taken back.  Maybe, come to think of it, the choice is not between "careful" and "careless."  Perhaps, in the end, there is no choice at all.  One should remember what Larkin said about the poetry of Edward Thomas:  "The poetry of almost infinitely-qualified states of mind, so well paralleled by his verse."

            Poetry of Departures

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,
As epitaph:
He chucked up everything
And just cleared off,
And always the voice will sound
Certain you approve
This audacious, purifying,
Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.
We all hate home
And having to be there:
I detest my room,
Its specially-chosen junk,
The good books, the good bed,
And my life, in perfect order:
So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd
Leaves me flushed and stirred,
Like Then she undid her dress
Or Take that you bastard;
Surely I can, if he did?
And that helps me stay
Sober and industrious.
But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,
Crouch in the fo'c'sle
Stubbly with goodness, if
It weren't so artificial,
Such a deliberate step backwards
To create an object:
Books; china; a life
Reprehensibly perfect.

Philip Larkin, The Less Deceived (1955).

                                 William Ratcliffe, "Attic Room" (1918)

How To Live, Part Nine: "My Careful Life"

I tend to be a "belt-and-suspenders" type of person.  Hence, a poem about a "careful life" (whether that poem be humorous or deadly serious) is likely to be just my cup of tea.  After a certain amount of time on earth (or Earth), you begin to let go of things, don't you?  And you wonder why some things (which now seem laughable and/or appalling) once seemed important.  Yes, there is much to be said for a careful life.  But not wholly careful.

                  My Careful Life

My careful life says:  'No surrender.
Not an inch.'  Sometimes I wonder

what thrills the darkness as I pass
the scented gardens of excess

or pause in the twilight to condemn
the parked cars rocking in the lane.

But still my life cries:  'Work and save.
Rise early.  Stay home after five

and pull the curtains.  They are blessed
-- prudent, abstemious -- who resist.

All things in moderation.  Share
nothing.  Be seemly and austere.'

My careful life sighs:  'Love?  Forget it!
Avoid what is sexually transmitted.

The "wasteful virtues," I'm afraid,
earn nothing.  They put you in the red.

Samaritans get mugged.  Be wise.
Pass watchfully on the other side.

Your youth was stainless.  Now your joy'll
be the middle years full of self-denial,

and an old age as ripe and warm
as is commensurate with decorum.'

Frank Ormsby, A Northern Spring (1986).  A note regarding Lines 15 and 16:  the introductory poem to W. B. Yeats's collection Responsibilities (1914) contains the line:  "Only the wasteful virtues earn the sun."

                                  Jeffrey Smart, "Newtown Oval" (1961)