.
Remembrance
I
When I, a boy whom youth made bold,
Had bid my land of birth one last adieu,
To search for glory, fame and gold
On distant shores, as seamen do,
Drowning old worries in the waves of blue,
Exchanging comfort for the cold,
The land for sea, the self-same sea for land,
And that old tongue which often told
Tales of me finding on some strand
Not I in his, but Fate within my hand;
.
II
Remembrance of your misty eyes,
More overwhelming than ten storms at sea
In force, in passion, and in size,
In power and intensity,
Then called me back again, commanding me
No more to seek, but to despise
Long looked-for praise as vacuous and vain;
To scorn ambition’s newest prize,
And throw its trophies in disdain
Over the surface of the ocean main.
.
III
Look how a zephyr passing by
The flickering remnants of a rain-soaked fire
Breathes life where blackest ashes lie,
Raising those hidden cinders higher
Which time long tried, but never did expire;
Remembrance of your parting sigh
Thus fanned the spark of love, by tears made tame,
(Drenched, never doused, by weeping I),
And in that instant, passion’s flame
Consumed me whole, as I called out your name.
.
IV
So did I burn within my being
(Then wasting in the midst of wild emotion),
That, from my plans and future fleeing,
I dived, and swam with great commotion,
Thinking that I could melt away the ocean;
Sweet was the hope, the hope of seeing
Cold distance thaw before a heart aglow,
But fire and ice were now agreeing
That fire may live, yet never go
One metre more across the liquid snow.
.
V
Yet even as a raging blaze
Forcibly bounded in by sodden ground
Ascends the aether’s star-strewn maze,
Its smoke expanding all around
Until it conquers every hill and mound;
So having looked with languished gaze
Across the waves, their length unknown,
I turned my head towards the rays,
And murmured on the breeze a moan,
To tell you, oh my love, who are alone:
.
VI
Never will any length of mile
Stretch to the dreadful limit of destruction
Remembrance of your crimson smile
The moment of our introduction,
Which, being recalled, renews my first seduction;
The memories that now beguile,
The love I have, are not of time nor space:
Time cannot age, decay, defile
The fond recalling of your face,
Nor space imprison boundless love’s embrace.
.
VII
And as a lonesome hummingbird
Lately migrated from his winter nest
Warbles a wish, a wish unheard,
Once more to have his friend take rest
(After a blustery flight) against his breast;
So I, whom your sweet thought had stirred,
Made of my moan a most melodious form:
You will not hear, but feel each word
That then whirled out of passion’s storm
When, reaching you, they make the wind turn warm.
.
VIII
And when that breeze, that breath of Spring,
Blankets your soft and clover-cushioned skin,
Blows down each lash, so as to bring
Your eyes to close, your mouth to grin,
And thereby cause a daydream to begin;
Then shall you seem to hear me sing
Of that which was, as if that time were now,
Then shall you seem to feel me fling
My arms around you, as I vow
My sworn return: think not of when nor how.
.
.
Daniel Joseph Howard studied law in his native Ireland before taking his MA in philosophy at King’s College London. After working in the European Commission, he is now pursuing a PhD in Philosophy at Boston College.
Daniel, this is a beautiful and excellent poem of departure from a loved one and longing to be with them again. This is one of the best I have ever read as it relates to such fondness and desire as one sails off into the sunrise or sunset depending on the direction. I am reminded of a song sung by Roger Whitaker, titled “The Last Farewell” that begins with the lines:
“There’s a ship lies rigged and ready in the harbor
Tomorrow for old England she sails
Far away from your land of endless sunshine
To my land full of rainy skies and gales.
And I shall be aboard that ship tomorrow
Though my heart is full of tears at this farewell.”
Thanks for your kind comment, Roy, and for pasting the song which is new to me.
Thanks for your beautiful poem telling of love.
Thanks Allegra.
This is just marvelous — gut-wrenching, yet done with such great artistry that it doesn’t sound maudlin. The last line of your first verse, I found particularly impressive, as well as your ending “… think not of when nor how”. Your extended metaphor in verse three is absolutely exquisite! The imagery in it, and in other following metaphors, is beautiful and flawless.
Thanks Cynthia, Edmund Spenser was a master of the extended metaphor, as seen in some of his sonnets. Here is the opening octave of Sonnet LXXXIX:
LYKE as the Culuer on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
and in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,
for his returne that seemes to linger late.
So I alone now left disconsolate,
mourne to my selfe the absence of my loue:
and wandring here and there all desolate,
seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue.
Thank you, Daniel. That is beautiful.
A piece of Beauty, Mr. Howard. I echo what Cynthia has said. I also find the relation of 4- and 5-foot line lengths very compelling.
Thanks Julian, the pattern of 4- and 5-foot lines was inspired by St. John of the Cross’ ‘Canciones del alma’. In essence, I doubled the length of his stanza (connecting them via an interlinking rhyme) and added one foot for the shorter lines.
Thanks Cynthia, Edmund Spenser was a master of the extended metaphor, as seen in some of his sonnets. Here is the opening octave of Sonnet LXXXIX:
LYKE as the Culuer on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
and in her songs sends many a wishfull vow,
for his returne that seemes to linger late.
So I alone now left disconsolate,
mourne to my selfe the absence of my loue:
and wandring here and there all desolate,
seek with my playnts to match that mournful doue.
Daniel, you take full advantage of division into stanzas. Each one is a powerful picture contributing to the romantic narrative, and each final couplet strikes an impressive chord like the crest of a wave, with the last couplet of the poem a good overall conclusion. The fire image in III, the fire-and-ice in IV, and the bird-and-breeze in VII work especially well. For my taste, “grin” in VIII is a poor choice contrary to the general effect, but that may be the association of the word to me, and not too low as others read it. The whole is wonderful.
Thanks for your comment and insight Margaret.