Review: "Hide Me Among the Graves" by Tim Powers

A couple of observations about Tim Powers and the books that he writes--First, he can weave a hell of a tale!  Second, he certainly does his homework, as his blending of historical fact within his fiction borders upon both the sublime and brilliant!  Hide Me Among the Graves is only the third novel by Powers that I've read, but it is easily the best.  The other two were The Anubis Gates and The Stress of Her Regard.

By way of background, and as some of you may know, I am a huge fan of the Victorian poet, Christina Rossetti.  Christina was the youngest sister of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood founder, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (a poet in his own right).  While a pious woman, Christina, for much of her life explored the breadth and depth of human emotion in her amazing poetry such as her long narrative epic poem, Goblin Market, or the intensely personal series of Monna Innominata sonnets, or in her slightly creepy poems The Ghost's Petition, My Dream or Love and Death. 

Portrait of Christina by Dante Gabriel Rossetti

I guess what I'm trying to say is that Christina Rossetti's poetry evokes a similar response in me as that when I view the art of William Holman Hunt or John Everett Millais, or even Christina's brother, Dante Gabriel--the paintings are lavishly colorful, ornate, detailed and bring to life the natural, spiritual and mythological world.  Christina Rossetti was, if you will, a charter member of the 'PreRaphaelite Sisterhood' and her poetry, in my opinion, was as intellectually creative and emotionally visceral as that of her male contemporaries in the visual and literary arts.  While Christina is perhaps best known for her epic poem, Goblin Market (1859), she was a prolific poet  who, through the course of her life, wrote something over 1,000 poems.  Like her older sister, Maria, Christina never married, and she ultimately died of cancer at the age of 64 in 1894.

What Powers has done in Hide Me Among the Graves is to create an entirely compelling and virtually believable and macabre story involving the Rossetti family and some of the characters from his earlier novel, The Stress of Her Regard.  Is it necessary to read The Stress of Her Regard first? Probably not, but I thoroughly recommend that you do so, as it will make your overall experience that much more meaningful.  In both, The Stress of Her Regard and Hide Me Among the Graves,  Powers has created a unique blend of historical, horror and fantasy fiction in a style that hearkens back to the Romantic period and Gothic revival portrayed in the poetry of Byron, Shelley, Keats and even Coleridge, and in the fiction of Matthew Lewis, Mary Shelley, and Ann Radcliffe.  Interestingly, and relevant to both  The Stress of Her Regard and Hide Me Among the Graves, shortly after Mary Shelley wrote Frankenstein in 1817, the maternal uncle of the Rossetti siblings, John Polidori, wrote a short story entitled The Vampyre (1819).  Polidori, who was also Byron's personal physician while Byron was in Europe, figures prominently in Hide Me Among the Graves as one of the immortal race of horrifying vampires known as the Nephilim.

While a horror story from start to finish, Hide Me Among the Graves is also a family story told on a Dickensian scale.  Powers completely captures the devotion to family that each member of the Rossetti family so zealously guarded and protected.  And while the Rossetti siblings, William, Dante Gabriel, Maria, and Christina are trying to rid London of their undead Uncle Polidori, the fictional characters John Crawford and Adelaide McKee are trying to find and save their young daughter, Johanna, from the clutches of the evil vampire.  During the course of the novel the reader encounters other such real-life characters as the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne, Dante Gabriel Rossetti's artistic muse and wife Lizzie Siddal, the linguist and Dante translator Charles Cayley, and the author and adventurer Edward John Trelawny.  The other major character featured in the book is the City of London and its history, from the depths of the oldest sewers to the "Whispering Gallery" in the dome of St. Paul's Cathedral.  Powers' portrayal of his characters in the London landscape increasingly reminded me of Charles Dickens' magnum opus Our Mutual Friend, both in the descriptive talents of the two writers, but also in the sheer elegance of each written word on the page.  These are characters that you can believe in, admire, and be repulsed and horrified by.  At the same time, over the course of the novel, the gritty and seamy urban environment of London is described so realistically that one almost expects to encounter little 'Jenny Wren' or the 'Artful Dodger' as one rounds the corner in the footsteps of Christina Rossetti on the trail of her vampire uncle.

Lizzie Siddall by DGR

This is good stuff, folks!  A scary and macabre tale, yet at the same time a breathtakingly imaginative and creative story grounded in the real lives of a group of intellectually amazing poets and painters at the height of the Victorian Era in the 19th century.  Finally, there are two aspects of Powers' Hide Me Among the Graves that simply cannot be overstated or oversold.  First, Powers has managed to effectively and accurately portray the complexity of the relationships between Christina Rossetti and her other family members; the tortured relationship between Dante Gabriel Rossetti and his wife, Lizzie Siddall; and even the somewhat bizarre character of the poet, Algernon Swinburne.  Additionally, and most importantly from my perspective, Powers has managed to open a window and illuminate the magnificent poetry of a relatively obscure--but certainly not minor--female poet of the Victorian Era, Christina Georgina Rossetti.  I personally cannot thank Tim Powers enough for setting out and accomplishing both of these tasks in grand fashion in this truly excellent novel!

While cerebral, Tim Powers' Hide Me Among the Graves is entirely accessible to any and all readers and provides a wonderful exclamation point to his spectacularly successful earlier novel, The Stress of Her Regard.  I highly recommend both of these amazing novels!

Note--

I am rereading the novel right now, and revisiting some of Christina's poetry that was utilized as epigraphs and/or referred to throughout the book, and I am quite likely to come back and revisit the content of this review in the near future, but this will suffice for the time being.

***

Afterword--

If, after reading Hide Me Among the Graves, you find yourself becoming interested in learning more about the Victorian poet, Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894), I strongly recommend the following:

Christina Rossetti: The Complete Poems, Penguin Classics, 2005.

Christina Rossetti: A Literary Biography, by Jan C. Marsh, 1994 (My review here)

A Poem for the Day: "Retty's Phases" by Thomas Hardy

The poem I want to share with you tonight is one that haunts me in many respects.  I come back to it, time, and time again.  It is a sad, poignant, and beautiful lament associated with young love.  This poem has the distinction of being thought to be the oldest surviving manuscript of any of Thomas Hardy's poetry, and was written in 1868.  The original manuscript of the poem is preserved in the Dorset Museum.

Retty's Phases

 I

 Retty used to shake her head,
Look with wicked eye;
Say, 'I'd tease you, simple Ned,
If I cared to try!'
Then she'd hot-up scarlet red,
Stilly step away,
Much afraid of what she'd said
Sounded bold to say.

II

Retty used to think she loved
(Just a little) me.
Not untruly, as it proved
Afterwards to be.
For, when weakness forced her rest
If we walked a mile,
She would whisper she was blest
By my clasp awhile.

III

Retty used at last to say
When she neared the Vale,
'Mind that you, Dear, on that day
Ring my wedding peal!'
And we all, with pulsing pride,
Vigorous sounding gave
Those six bells, the while outside
John filled in her grave.

IV

Retty used to draw me down
To the turfy heaps,
Where, with yeoman, squire, and clown
Noticeless she sleeps.
Now her silent slumber-place
Seldom do I know,
For when last I saw  her face
Was so long ago!

***

Thomas Hardy appended the following note to the manuscript--

"NOTE.--In many villages it was customary after the funeral of an unmarried woman to ring a peal as for her wedding while the grave was being filled in, as if Death were not to be allowed to balk her of bridal honours.  Young unmarried men were always her bearers."

Now, isn't that a tale?  Beautiful, lyrical, and oh so sad.  It never fails but to bring the tears to my eyes as I read it.  And it did again tonight...

I have mated this poem with a beautiful painting by the English painter, Edwin Harris (1855-1906).  The painting is entitled, "Apple Blossom at Newlyn," and it just seems to fit the image of young Retty that I carry in my head.  [Be sure to 'click' on the image for a larger view of the painting.]

A Poem for the Day: "The Water Spirit's Song" by Christina Rossetti

Today I want to share a poem by another one of my favorite Victorian poets--Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894).  For those who don't know, she was the youngest sister of the Pre-Raphaelite artist, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (actually one of the co-founders of the Pre-Raphaelite movement).  If you look through the archives of my blog, you'll find that I have numerous previous postings dealing with her life and poetry.  She was a brilliant poet, and an incredibly fascinating woman.

The poem I am sharing with you is entitled The Water Spirit's Song, and was written by Christina in 1844 when she was only 13 years old!  Jan Marsh, in her superb biography of Christina Rossetti (Christina Rossetti: A Literary Biography, 1994, Jonathan Cape, pp. 634), says this about the poem--

"On March 4, 1844 she completed her first long fantasy poem, The Water Spirit's Song, running to 68 lines in three rolling periods, with a wave-like rhythm and conspicuous feminine endings.  The story is that of a naiad who departs each evening from her daytime station under a waterfall to join her sister, Queen of the Ocean, in the vast depths...Truth to tell, up to this point Christina's verse displayed little real promise.  Had it not been so self-consciously copied into the notebook, it would hardly be taken to presage an exceptional talent.  And in many ways this piece too is naive and derivative, inspired by Tennyson's mermaids and mermen, who frolic 'merrily' all night, and by water-nymph stories such as Undine.  But the skill that enabled Christina, at age thirteen, to imitate such works is less striking than the expression of feeling, through intense mesmeric rhythms and cool, watery imagery.  The atmosphere is cold but compelling, and vividly conveys the desire to float amid swaying waves.  Moreover, the twin motifs of this fantasy--the wish to escape and be reunited with a sister--surely point to recent events, notably Maria's departure" [her older sister, away as a governess].

The illustration that I have chosen to accompany the poem is Lamia, and was painted by the Pre-Raphaelite artist, John William Waterhouse (1848-1917) in 1909.  Somehow, to me, this beautiful painting seems to perfectly represent the water-nymph of Christina's poem.  Please feel free to 'click' on the image for a larger view of Waterhouse's painting.

And without any further ado, the poem--

The Water Spirit's Song

In the silent hour of even,
When the stars are in the heaven,
When in the azure cloudless sky
The moon beams forth all lustrously,
When over hill and over vale
Is wafted the sweet-scented gale,
When murmurs thro' the forest trees
The cool, refreshing, evening breeze,
When the nightingale's wild melody
Is waking herb and flower and tree,
From their perfumed and soft repose,
To list the the praises of the rose;
When the ocean sleeps deceitfully,
When the waves are resting quietly,
I spread my bright wings, and fly far away
To my beautiful sister's mansion gay:
I leave behind me rock and mountain,
I leave behind me rill and fountain,
And I dive far down in the murmuring sea,
Where my fair sister welcomes me joyously;
For she's Queen of Ocean for ever and ever,
And I of each fountain and still lake and river.

She dwells in a palace of coral
Of diamond and pearl;
And in each jewelled chamber the fishes
Their scaly length unfurl;
And the sun can dart no light
On the depths beneath the sea;
But the ruby there shines bright
And sparkles brilliantly;
No mortal e'er trod on the surface
Of the adamantine floor;
No human being e'er passed the bound
Of the pearl-encrusted door.
But the mermaidens sing plaintively
Beneath the deep blue ocean,
And to their song the green fishes dance
With undulating motion.
And the cold bright moon looks down on us
With her fixed unchanging smile;
'Neath her chilly glance the mermaids dance
Upon each coral isle;
And her beams she laves in the briny waves
With loving constancy;
And she never ceases with light caresses
To soothe the swelling sea;
All night on us she softly shines
With a fond and tender gaze
Till the sun blushes red from his ocean bed
And sends forth his warming rays.
And then she flies to other skies
Till the sun has run his race,
And again the day to the night's soft sway
To the moon and stars gives place.

And when the bright sun doth arise,
To tinge with gold the vaulted skies,
When the nightingale no longer sings,
And the blush rose forth its odour flings,
When the breath of morn is rustling through
The trees, and kissing away the dew,
When the sea casts up its foam and spray,
And greets the fresh gale that speeds away,
I fly back to my home in the rushing cascade--
By the silvery streamlet my dark hair I braid,
And then when the sun once more sinks in the ocean,
I glide with a floating and passionless motion,
To my sister 'neath the boundless sea
And with her till morn dwell joyously.

***

And to think that this was written by a thirteen year old girl!

If you like Christina Rossetti's poetry, and would like to read more, I highly recommend the Penguin Classics edition of Christina Rossetti: The Complete Poems (edited by R.W. Crump, 2001, 1,221 pp.).

Meme: Teaser Tuesdays

TEASER TUESDAYS asks you to:
- Grab your current read
- Open to a random page
- Share two (2) “teaser” sentences from somewhere on that page
- BE CAREFUL NOT TO INCLUDE SPOILERS! (make sure that what you share doesn’t give too much away! You don’t want to ruin the book for others!)
- Share the title and author, too, so that other TT participants can add the book to their TBR Lists if they like your teasers!

My teaser is a little different, as I am using the first stanza from a poem from "Thomas Hardy: The Complete Poems":

"I have a Love I love too well
Where Dunkery frowns on Exon Moor;
I have a Love I love too well,
To whom, ere she was mine,
'Such is my love for you,' I said,
'That you shall have to hood your head
A silken kerchief crimson-red,
Wove of the finest of the fine.'"

My teaser was taken from Poem No. 331, entitled The Sacrilege, A Ballad Tragedy, (Circa 182-), included in Thomas Hardy: The Complete Poems, edited by James Gibson, Palgrave, 2001.  This particular 'teaser' selection is from one of his poems in his collection entitled Satires of Circumstance, and was published (in 1914) shortly after the death of his wife, Emma.
 
For those interested, the entire poem can be found here.

I was simply gobsmacked when I finished reading this poem through the first time, and I'll bet you are too!  Whew!  What a tale!  Vintage Hardy; that's all I can say.  I also very much recommend this variorum collection of Hardy's poetry.  It is some of the best poetry of the Victorian period, and rivals that of Christina Rossetti, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, and Alfred Lord Tennyson.  He writes ballads, elegies, folk lore, and much is quite modern. Hardy tells stories with his poetry--Good stories!  If you like poetry, this complete collection belongs in your library.  Enjoy!

[The rules for Teaser Tuesdays comes from MizB at Should Be Reading]

A Song for Saturday-- "The Dream Follower" by Thomas Hardy

I am currently plowing through the variorum edition of Thomas Hardy's poetry.  Out of 900+ poems, I am up to No. 220.  If you've read his novels or short stories, you simply must read his poetry, it is the bomb!  Reading this short one tonight, I simply felt compelled to share it.  It is a poem I think we can all actually relate to--

The Dream Follower

A Dream of mine flew over the mead
To the halls where my old Love reigns;
And it drew me on to follow its lead;
And I stood at her window-panes;

And I saw but a thing of flesh and bone
Speeding on to its cleft in the clay;
And my dream was scared, and expired on a moan,
And I whitely hastened away.

***

Now that'll make you think, eh?  It ain't pleasant, but we've all had dreams like this, haven't we?  Hardy just wrote 'em, we read 'em.  This is poem No. 108, in Thomas Hardy: The Complete Poems, edited by James Gibson, 2001, published by Palgrave, 1003 pages.


Read some Hardy, it'll do you good!

Thursday with the Poetry of Thomas Hardy

As many of you are aware, I am a serious student of poetry.  I have always loved reading poetry, even reading it out loud to myself.  I love hearing and feeling the meter and rhyming.  While I think it is clever, and I'm sure quite meaningful, I am just not much of a fan of modern poetry (i.e., the non-rhyming free verse style).  For me it just generally lacks that emotional feeling that I look for in what I consider to be well-written poetry.  Personally, I am most comfortable with poetry that spans the period from John Milton through T.S. Eliot (i.e., approximately 1650-1925).  Probably my most favorite period is the poetry of 19th century which includes many of the Romantic and most of the Victorian poets.  You can find poems and discussions of poetry from this period scattered about in around 25% of my postings on this blog.

For the next few weeks, I plan to start a quasi-regular weekly posting featuring a selected poem by Thomas Hardy.  You need to know that Hardy is quite the unique Victorian.  Not only was he an accomplished author of a goodly number of truly amazing novels, but he was also an incredibly accomplished poet (he wrote over 900 poems!).  In fact, some will say he was an even better poet than prose writer (this was Hardy's opinion, as well).  In my view, it is a toss up; I think he's damn good at both!

For my first Hardy selection, I have chosen a poem entitled Tess's Lament.  Obviously, this poem speaks directly to his novel Tess of the d'Urbervilles which I recently reviewed here.  In fact, you might like to print a copy of the poem and tuck it inside your copy of the novel.  I also encourage you to read the poem aloud and feel the meter and hear the rhyming; it truly becomes a lamentation.

Tess's Lament

I

I would that folk forgot me quite,
Forgot me quite!
I would that I could shrink from sight,
And no more see the sun.
Would it were time to say farewell,
To claim my nook, to need my knell,
Time for them all to to stand and tell
Of my day's work as done.

II

Ah! dairy where I lived so long,
I lived so long;
Where I would rise up staunch and strong,
And lie down hopefully.
'Twas there within the chimney-seat
He watched me to the clock's slow beat--
Loved, and learnt to call me Sweet,
And whispered words to me.

III

And now he's gone; and now he's gone;...
And now he's gone!
The flowers we potted perhaps are thrown
To rot upon the farm.
And where we had our supper-fire
May now grow nettle, dock, and briar,
And all the place be mould and mire
So cozy once and warm.

IV

And it was I who did it all,
Who did it all;
'Twas I who made the blow to fall
On him who thought no guile.
Well, it is finished--past, and he
Has left me to my misery,
And I must take my Cross on me
For wronging him awhile.

V

How gay we looked that day we wed,
That day we wed!
'May joy be with ye!' they all said
A-standing by the durn.
I wonder what they say o'us now,
And if they know my lot; and how
She feels who milks my favourite cow,
And takes my place at churn!

VI

It wears me out to think of it,
To think of it;
I cannot bear my fate as writ,
I'd have my life unbe;
Would turn my memory to a blot,
Make every relic of me rot,
My doings be as they were not,
And gone all trace of me!

***

This poem was first published in 1901, in a volume of Hardy's poetry entitled, Poems of the Past and the Present.  It is No. 141 in The Complete Poems of Thomas Hardy, edited by James Gibson, and published by Palgrave in 2001.  This comprehensive collection of Hardy's poetry is a must-have for any serious student of the fiction and/or poetry of Thomas Hardy.

"There's Blood Between Us" - Christina & Dante Rossetti

I want to wind up my recent focus on the poetry of both, Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830-1894), and her older brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882), with an interesting side-by-side comparison and analysis of her poem, The Convent Threshold; and his poem, The Blessed Damozel. Both of these poems are relatively lengthy, and I'll not reproduce them here. I have included a link to each poem that you can open and print, if you like, to help in following the discussion below.

Christina Rossetti's The Convent Threshold; and
Dante Gabriel Rossetti's The Blessed Damozel.

I am going to start with Dante Rossetti's The Blessed Damozel that was largely written in 1847, when he was just 18 years old. Apparently, he worked on the poem, off and on, until he was satisfied and finally completed it in 1871. The completion of the poem, in my opinion, was ultimately affected by his relationship with, and marriage to, Elizabeth "Lizzie" Siddal (See my August 25th posting: The Muse of Dante Gabriel Rossetti). Additionally, this poem became one part of a "doubled-work" by Rossetti combined with his eponymous Pre-Raphaelite painting (painted between 1875-1878). In fact, the first four stanzas of the poem are inscribed on the bottom portion of the frame surrounding the finished painting which is exhibited in the Fogg Museum of Art on the campus of Harvard University in Cambridge, Massachusetts.

This diptych, or two-piece, painting is vintage Pre-Raphaelite in style; it is opulent, and loaded with details. The larger top portion of the painting is of the 'Damozel' looking down from Heaven with three cherubs, or angels. She holds the three lilies in her hand, and has stars in her hair; both of these elements are referenced in lines 5-6 of the poem's first stanza, and again in the fifth line of the eighth stanza. Additionally, there are a myriad of small vignettes of other couples embracing and kissing that wreathe her head in the background (referred to in the seventh stanza). The predella, or the small panel below the larger main painting, is separated by the "gold bar" referenced in the second line of the first stanza in the poem; and shows the poem's male subject reclined on the grass under an oak tree looking up, skyward, toward Heaven and his Lover. Also, the model used for the Damozel was Alexa Wilding who bears an uncanny resemblance to Dante Rossetti's late-wife, Lizzie Siddal, who died in 1862.

Dante Rossetti's poem, The Blessed Damozel, contains three voices. The first voice is that of the Damozel in Heaven. The second voice is that of her Lover, from whom she is separated as he is still Earth-bound, and generally represents his memories or the fantasies of their Love. The third voice is also that of the Earth-bound Lover, and represents his current state of consciousness, and is indicated in the poem in the parenthetical sections.

The poem's plot revolves around the separation of the lovers; she in Heaven, he on Earth. She yearns to be rejoined with him, and she sees other couples joined together in their love around her. She prays that he be allowed to join her, and hopes that he too is praying for their reunion; and that they now be allowed to live in Heaven as they lived together on Earth before she 'left' [died]. Eventually though, she comes to realize that she must move on with her journey 'through' Heaven; and that they will only be rejoined when the time is right, i.e., when Death finally comes for him. From his perspective, on Earth, looking up to Heaven, the vision of his beloved and her angels begin to dim and recede, and he is left alone. Ultimately, it seems that Rossetti's poem is a kind of Gothic imagining of passage through Heaven's various levels. As you will see, it is my contention that Dante's vision of this journey is a 'softer,' more gentle vision than the one put forward by his sister in her poem.

Some thirty years after Dante Rossetti began working on the poem, he stated that it was his sequel to Edgar Allen Poe's The Raven (1845). While Poe's poem deals with the grief of the Earth-bound lover at his loss, Rossetti's poem deals more with the desires of the loved one in Heaven. Also, it is thought that Dante Rossetti borrowed the stanzaic form of his poem from Elizabeth Barrett Browning's long poem, The Poet's Vow.

Now, lets turn our attention to the beautiful lyrical poem by Dante's younger sister, Christina Rossetti. Her poem, The Convent Threshold was first published in 1862 in her book of poetry entitled, Goblin Market and Other Poems. Most scholars believe, and I agree, that this poem was Christina's response to Dante's theme presented in The Blessed Damozel, i.e., the concept of separation and reunion; but she took it a step farther. Christina's poem delves into the Christian concept of redemption and some measure of suffering and sacrifice associated with the atonement before salvation can be finally achieved.

Christina's poem, The Convent Threshold takes a distinctly different approach than Dante's. Her poem has a much more overt theological basis; and revolves around the expiation of guilt. Christina's poem's voice, like Dante's, is female and is in a 'higher' plane [the Convent] and looks upward toward Heaven. The Speaker's Lover, like Dante's, is Earth-bound and still largely focused on the pleasures of life.

Interestingly, the poem starts off with a reference to the "blood between" the two lovers. The first three lines of the poem are:

"There's blood between us, love, my love,
There's father's blood, there's brother's blood,
And blood's a bar I cannot pass."

This is some incredible imagery, and can likely be interpreted several ways. Is it the allusion to the illicit sexual union of the two lovers? Or, is it a reference to the relationship between Dante Rossetti and his wife, Lizzie (who died the same year this poem was published), and bad feelings between the families? Or, is it a reference to the obsession that Dante had with his namesake, Dante Alighieri, and his guide in the Divine Comedy, Beatrice Portinari. There may be other interpretations as well; but the upshot is that the poem's Speaker renounces the "pleasant sin" that they shared. She acknowledges that her "lily feet are soiled with mud, with scarlet mud which tells a tale," and she is determined to seek absolution through rejecting the earthly pleasures and embracing the path of righteousness to Heaven.

Christina's speaker has moments of regret it seems (Sixth stanza, Lines 2-8), but she resolutely turns back to her path toward salvation. She continues to beg her earth-bound Lover to join her in repentance and seek redemption as well. In Dante's poem, the Damozel takes the matter into her own hands and prays for her Lover's redemption, and hopes that he is praying too. Christina makes it clear that seeking and achieving redemption is solely an individual act. In other words, in Christina's poem, the earth-bound Lover is completely in control of his own destiny; the final outcome (their reunion) is up to him.

The next part of Christina's poem describes her Speaker's journey through sin, hope, sacrifice, and redemption. Unlike Milton in Paradise Lost, Christina Rossetti fully embraces the idea of sacrificial atonement. The Speaker has to truly suffer before she can achieve Paradise (Stanzas 7-9), i.e., like a trip through Purgatory. These three stanzas are the darkest of the poem, and reminds me of the Apocalyptic visions of John while on the island of Patmos.

In the end though, Christina Rossetti brings her Speaker successfully to the end of her journey; she has atoned for her sins, has paid with her sacrifices:

"But through the dark my silence spoke
Like thunder. When this morning broke,
My face was pinched, my hair was grey,
And frozen blood was on the sill
Where stifling in my struggle I lay.
If now you saw me you would say:
Where is the face I used to love?
And I would answer: Gone before;
It tarries veiled in paradise.
When once the morning star shall rise,
When earth with shadow flees away
And we stand safe within the door,
Then you shall lift the veil thereof.
Look up, rise up: for far above
Our palms are grown, our place is set;
There we shall meet as once we met,
And love with old familiar love."

(Stanza Nine)

***

"We stand safe within the door." They have crossed the 'threshold,' and are together again with their Love.

***

This has been a most fascinating little research project for me; and one that I have truly enjoyed. I would love to hear from any of you who have read this regarding your assessments of my analysis. I do know that I have gained a tremendous appreciation for the poetry of this incredibly gifted brother and sister (and in Dante's case, as a painter too). In conclusion, I am of the opinion that, of the two, Christina Rossetti is the more mature, talented, and meaningful poet. It has been said that Christina Rossetti, with Alfred, Lord Tennyson, were the two greatest poets of the Victorian Era. I quite agree.

The Muse of Dante Gabriel Rossetti

On August 19th, I posted an entry about Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) and included her beautiful poem, An Echo From Willowwood. Today, I want to expand upon this earlier post, and provide some additional background information and some more poetry.

As I mentioned in the earlier post, Christina Rossetti, and her older brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828-1882), were inspired to write poetry based upon some sketches drawn by Dante's wife, Elizabeth "Lizzie" Siddal (1829-1862). Lizzie had sketched pictures of a man and woman (Dante and herself) leaning over a pool of water looking at their reflections; and the images then becoming blurred and merging together with a puff of wind across the water's surface. It was this vivid imagery that served to inspire the poetry of both Rossetti siblings.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti probably met Lizzie Siddal in 1852 or 1853, and began to use her as a model to the exclusion of all others. With her classical beauty and copper-red hair she was one of the early Pre-Raphaelite period's stunningly beautiful models, or "stunners" as they were called. After seven or eight years together, Dante and Lizzie were married on May 23, 1860 in Hastings, England. Several months after giving birth to a still-born daughter in 1861, Lizzie Siddal died of an overdose of laudanum on February 11, 1862. While the coroner ruled that the death was accidental, there was speculation that it was a suicide. So great was Dante's grief over the death of his wife, that he placed his hand-written journal, containing the only versions of much of his poetry, in his wife's coffin, nestled in the tresses of her red hair.

With even a casual read of Dante's poetry, and review of his paintings, it is abundantly clear that Lizzie Siddal served as the artistic muse to Dante Gabriel, influencing his painting and his poetry. For example, in 1855, he painted Dante's Vision of Rachel and Leah; but one of his most famous works, Beata Beatrix was painted over a period of time following Lizzie's death in 1862 . I have attached an image of Dante Gabriel Rossetti's painting of Lizzie Siddal the beautiful Beata Beatrix to this post.

Much of the poetry included in Dante's book of poetry, The House of Life (1869) was also influenced by his intimate relationship with Lizzie Siddal. While macabre, in order to prepare the poetry manuscript, Dante had to have his wife's body exhumed in order to retrieve the journal of poems from her casket.

I want to highlight two poems today. The first, by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, is from his 1869 book of poems, The House of Life, and is entitled Willowwood. This collection of four sonnets is the companion poem to Christina Rossetti's An Echo From Willowwood that I posted on August 19th.

***

Willowwood

I

I sat with Love upon a woodside well,
Leaning across the water, I and he;
Nor ever did he speak nor looked at me,
But touched his lute wherein was audible
The certain secret thing he had to tell:
Only our mirrored eyes met silently
In the low wave; and that sound came to be
The passionate voice I knew; and my tears fell.

And at their fall, his eyes beneath grew hers;
And with his foot and with his wing-feathers
He swept the spring that watered my heart’s drouth.
Then the dark ripples spread to waving hair,
And as I stooped, her own lips rising there
Bubbled with brimming kisses at my mouth.

II

And now Love sang: but his was such a song,
So meshed with half-remembrance hard to free,
As souls disused in death’s sterility
May sing when the new birthday tarries long.
And I was made aware of a dumb throng
That stood aloof, one form by every tree,
All mournful forms, for each was I or she,
The shades of those our days that had no tongue.

They looked on us, and knew us and were known;
While fast together, alive from the abyss,
Clung the soul-wrung implacable close kiss;
And pity of self through all made broken moan
Which said, ‘For once, for once, for once alone!’
And still Love sang, and what he sang was this:—

III

‘O ye, all ye that walk in Willow-wood,
That walk with hollow faces burning white;
What fathom-depth of soul-struck widowhood,
What long, what longer hours, one lifelong night,
Ere ye again, who so in vain have wooed
Your last hope lost, who so in vain invite
Your lips to that their unforgotten food,
Ere ye, ere ye again shall see the light!

Alas! the bitter banks in Willowwood,
With tear-spurge wan, with blood-wort burning red:
Alas! if ever such a pillow could
Steep deep the soul in sleep till she were dead,—
Better all life forget her than this thing,
That Willowwood should hold her wandering!’

IV

So sang he: and as meeting rose and rose
Together cling through the wind’s wellaway
Nor change at once, yet near the end of day
The leaves drop loosened where the heart-stain glows,—
So when the song died did the kiss unclose;
And her face fell back drowned, and was as grey
As its grey eyes; and if it ever may
Meet mine again I know not if Love knows.

Only I know that I leaned low and drank
A long draught from the water where she sank,
Her breath and all her tears and all her soul:
And as I leaned, I know I felt Love’s face
Pressed on my neck with moan of pity and grace,
Till both our heads were in his aureole.

Dante Gabriel Rossetti, 1869

***

The second poem is by Christina Rossetti and is entitled In An Artist's Studio, and was posthumously published in 1896, following her death in 1894. It is clear to me that Christina's simple, but powerful, poem is about her brother and his wife (Lizzie Siddal). I think that on one level Christina's poem has touched upon his almost-obssessive love for Lizzie; and on another level, maybe the poem addresses how men tend to view women, i.e., fantasy versus reality; especially given the lines, "A queen in opal or in ruby dress," and "A saint, an angel — every canvas means." Finally, the poignancy of the poem's last two lines perfectly illustrates, to me, the tortured lives and relationship shared by Lizzie Siddal and Dante Gabriel Rossetti.

***

In An Artist's Studio

One face looks out from all his canvases,
One selfsame figure sits or walks or leans:
We found her hidden just behind those screens,
That mirror gave back all her loveliness.
A queen in opal or in ruby dress,
A nameless girl in freshest summer-greens,
A saint, an angel — every canvas means
The same one meaning, neither more or less.
He feeds upon her face by day and night,
And she with true kind eyes looks back on him,
Fair as the moon and joyful as the light:
Not wan with waiting, not with sorrow dim;
Not as she is, but was when hope shone bright;
Not as she is, but as she fills his dream.

Christina Rossetti

***

The Poetry of Emily Jane Bronte

Everyone is generally aware that the Bronte sisters wrote some truly incredible novels. Charlotte Bronte (1816-1855) was the author of Jane Eyre (1847), Shirley (1849), Villette (1853), and her first novel, The Professor, was published posthumously in 1857. Emily Bronte (1818-1848) wrote Wuthering Heights in 1847. Anne Bronte (1820-1849), the youngest sister, wrote Agnes Grey (1847) followed by The Tenant of Wildfell Hall in 1848.

What is not as widely known though, is that the Brontes first published work was a small book of poetry in 1846. It was submitted for publication under the pseudonyms of 'Currer' (Charlotte), 'Ellis' (Emily), and 'Acton' (Anne) Bell. The women thought it best if their first foray into the world of publishing were done under a masculine guise. They were required to come up with the full costs associated with publication and advertising. In the first year after publication, the publisher only sold two copies. After the death of the three sisters, a second edition of their poems was released and did much better.

Charlotte Bronte writes, in 1845, of her sister Emily's poetry, after she accidentally found Emily's handwritten collection of her poems:

"I looked it over, and something more than surprise seized me - a deep conviction that these were not common effusions, nor at all like the poetry women generally write. I thought them condensed and terse, vigorous and genuine. To my ear they had also a peculiar music, wild, melancholy, and elevating." (From, The Bronte Story: A Reconsideration of Mrs. Gaskell's Life of Charlotte Bronte, by Margaret Lane, published by Duell, Sloan & Pearce, and Little, Brown and Co., 1953)

Professor Harold Bloom, in his anthology, The Best Poems of the English Language (Harper Collins, 2004) is of the opinion that Emily Bronte's poetry was "...the thing itself, strong poetry, of a wholly original kind." I tend to agree completely. It is a blend of the Byronism of the Romantic Era with Gothic passionate intensity. In her poems, it is easy to see the author of Wuthering Heights and her creation of the tortured love between Heathcliff and Catherine.

To give you a meaningful taste of Emily Bronte's poetry I want to highlight two of her poems: Lines (1836); followed by the poem Stanzas (1846), that Professor Bloom also included in his anthology, referenced above.

***

"Lines"

I die but when the grave shall press
The heart so long endeared to thee
When earthly cares no more distress
And earthly joys are nought to me

Weep not, but think that I have past
Before thee o'er a sea of gloom
Have anchored safe and rest at last
Where tears and mourning cannot come

'Tis I should weep to leave thee here
On the dark Ocean sailing drear
With storms around and fears before
And no kind light to point the shore

But long or short though life may be
'Tis nothing to eternity
We part below to meet on high

***

"Stanzas"

Often rebuked, yet always back returning
To those first feelings that were born with me,
And leaving busy chase of wealth and learning
For idle dreams of things which cannot be:

To-day, I will seek not the shadowy region;
Its unsustaining vastness waxes drear;
And visions rising, legion after legion,
Bring the unreal world too strangely near.

I'll walk, but not in old heroic traces,
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.

I'll walk where my own nature would be leading:
It vexes me to choose another guide:
Where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding;
Where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.

What have those lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief than I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of Heaven and Hell.

***

Finally, I want to share some short verses written by Emily at about 16 years of age at the school at Roehead; and by Anne, when she was about 21 or 22, and away as a governess. Both of the little poems are about missing their Haworth parsonage home on the moors. Even though these verses are separated in years, and by author, I was immediately struck by the similarity of voice, tone, and emotion.

***

Emily's verses:

"There is a spot, 'mid barren hills,
Where winter howls, and driving rain;
But, if the dreary tempest chills,
There is a light that warms again.

The house is old, the trees are bare,
Moonless above bends twilight's dome,
But what on earth is half so dear--
So longed for--as the hearth of home?

The mute bird sitting on the stone,
The dank moss dripping from the wall,
The thorn trees gaunt, the walks o'ergrown,
I love them--how I love them all!

***

Anne's poem, entitled "Home":

"For yonder garden, fair and wide,
With groves of evergreen,
Long winding walks and borders trim,
And velvet lawns between--

Restore to me that little spot,
With gray walls compassed round,
Where knotted grass neglected lies,
And weeds usurp the ground.

Though all around this mansion high
Invites the foot to roam,
And though its halls are fair within--
Oh, give me back my Home!"

***

While I highly recommend reading their novels, I equally recommend that you look into their poetry as well; especially some of Emily's poems. In fact, it might be argued that Emily's real genius was in crafting verse versus prose. Such short lives too; and one can only wonder what might have been had these three amazing women lived longer.

Thanks to Wikipedia for some of the background biographical information on the Bronte sisters and their publication history.

A Poem for the Day - "The Ghost's Petition" By Christina Rossetti

The Ghost's Petition

“There’s a footstep coming: look out and see.”—
“The leaves are falling, the wind is calling;
No one cometh across the lea.”—

“There’s a footstep coming: O sister, look.”—
“The ripple flashes, the white foam dashes;
No one cometh across the brook.”—

“But he promised that he would come:
To-night, to-morrow, in joy or sorrow,
He must keep his word, and must come home.

”For he promised that he would come:
His word was given; from earth or heaven,
He must keep his word, and must come home.

“Go to sleep, my sweet sister Jane;
You can slumber, who need not number
Hour after hour, in doubt and pain.

“I shall sit here awhile, and watch;
Listening, hoping, for one hand groping
In deep shadow to find the latch.”

After the dark, and before the light,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,
Who had watched and wept the weary night.

After the night, and before the day,
One lay sleeping; and one sat weeping,—
Watching, weeping for one away.

There came a footstep climbing the stair;
Some one standing out on the landing
Shook the door like a puff of air,—

Shook the door, and in he passed.
Did he enter? In the room centre
Stood her husband: the door shut fast.

“O Robin, but you are cold,—
Chilled with the night-dew: so lily-white you
Look like a stray lamb from our fold.

“O Robin, but you are late:
Come and sit near me,–sit here and cheer me.”—
(Blue the flame burnt in the grate.)

“Lay not down your head on my breast:
I cannot hold you, kind wife, nor fold you
In the shelter that you love best.

“Feel not after my clasping hand:
I am but a shadow, come from the meadow
Where many lie, but no tree can stand.

“We are trees which have shed their leaves:
Our heads lie low there, but no tears flow there;
Only I grieve for my wife who grieves.

“I could rest if you would not moan
Hour after hour; I have no power
To shut my ears where I lie alone.

“I could rest if you would not cry;
But there’s no sleeping while you sit weeping,—
Watching, weeping so bitterly.”—

“Woe’s me! woe’s me! for this I have heard.
O, night of sorrow!–O, black to-morrow!
Is it thus that you keep your word?

“O you who used so to shelter me
Warm from the least wind,–why, now the east wind
Is warmer than you, whom I quake to see.

”O my husband of flesh and blood,
For whom my mother I left, and brother,
And all I had, accounting it good,

“What do you do there, underground,
In the dark hollow? I’m fain to follow.
What do you do there?–what have you found?”—

“What I do there I must not tell;
But I have plenty. Kind wife, content ye:
It is well with us,–it is well.

“Tender hand hath made our nest;
Our fear is ended, our hope is blended
With present pleasure, and we have rest.”—

“O, but Robin, I’m fain to come,
If your present days are so pleasant;
For my days are so wearisome.

“Yet I’ll dry my tears for your sake:
Why should I tease you, who cannot please you
Any more with the pains I take?”

Christina Rossetti, 1866

***

I love this slightly spooky, but beautiful, poem by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894). It is so rich in imagery and has such a distinctly Gothic feel to it. It is late fall or winter, and I can almost see the lonely house up in the cold and desolate moors; the two sisters inside the house awaiting the return of one of the sister's husband - from where, we don't really know, but can only surmise (Death?). This poem, it seems to me, could easily serve as the plot for a novel by one of the Bronte sisters, or even a Gothic movie.

I have been carefully reading and studying a beautiful little edition of Christina Rossetti's poems entitled, Rossetti: Poems. This small hard-back edition was published in 1993 in the Everyman's Library Pocket Poets series and published by Alfred A. Knopf; and includes something over one-hundred poems.

Finally, a brief bit about the painting that I have included with the poem. This beautiful painting is entitled The Ghost's Petition, and was painted by Emma Florence Harrison in 1910. This illustration was used in an edition of Rossetti's poems published circa 1910. It seems that Ms. Harrison was active as an artist from 1877 through about 1925. Apparently, very little is known of her life, including her dates of birth and death. She worked professionally as 'Florence Harrison,' working in London, and was an exhibitor at the Royal Academy from 1887 - 1891. Ms. Harrison is primarily remembered as a book illustrator for the publisher Blackie & Son, illustrating books of poems by Christina Rossetti, Alfred Lord Tennyson and William Morris. Ms. Harrison's work has that distinctive Pre-Raphaelite style, and is in high demand today by art collectors.

A Poem for the Day - "An Echo From Willowwood"

An Echo From Willowwood

"O ye, all ye that walk in Willowwood." D.G. Rosetti

Two gazed into a pool, he gazed and she,
Not hand in hand, yet heart in heart, I think,
Pale and reluctant on the water's brink
As on the brink of parting which must be.
Each eyed the other's aspect, she and he,
Each felt one hungering heart leap up and sink,
Each tasted bitterness which both must drink,
There on the brink of life's dividing sea.
Lilies upon the surface, deep below
Two wistful faces craving each for each,
Resolute and reluctant without speech: —
A sudden ripple made the faces flow
One moment joined, to vanish out of reach:
So those hearts joined, and ah! were parted so.

Christina Rossetti, mid- to late-1860s?

***

It is interesting to note that this poem plays off of the 'Willowwood' sonnets written by Christina's older brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, one of the founders of the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. Dante wrote his sonnets about his wife, Lizzie Siddal, who died in 1862 due to laudanum addiction. So the story goes, Lizzie had left sketches of herself and Dante looking into pools of water together; these sketches then inspired the poetry of both Rossetti siblings. Finally, Lizzie Siddal also served as the model for Sir John Everett Millais's famous Pre-Raphaelite painting "Ophelia."

Possession By A.S. Byatt & Some Musings on Poetry

By way of a bit of background, I should mention that I belong to two different on-line book groups. I guess they could both be best characterized as "Facebook," or social networking, for bibliophiles. I have an account with Shelfari.com and with Goodreads.com. They are both wonderful on-line book experiences; and allow members to join various discussion groups, based upon your literary interests. For example, on Goodreads I belong to a "Victorian Era" discussion group, and we are getting ready to do a group read and discussion of a "neo-Victorian" novel; and the book chosen by the group was A.S. Byatt's 1990 novel Possession: A Romance. I first read this novel shortly after it came out in 1990. The novel also won a prestigious Booker Award in 1990 (the British equivalent of the American Pulitzer Prize).

Possession is a beautiful novel, exquisitely plotted and written; and incorporates a substantial amount of Romantic and Victorian poetry. There's bits of Browning, Tennyson, Yeats, etc. scattered throughout. However, much of the poetry included in the novel is that written by Byatt herself, in the style of Alfred, Lord Tennyson or Robert Browning and Christina Rossetti. The poetry is critically important to the novel's dual plots too. All I can say is that it is all delightful to read!

Re-reading this novel has recently inspired me to pick up and begin reading selected poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Robert Browning, Christina Rossetti, William Butler Yeats, and Alfred, Lord Tennyson. I am pretty familiar with all of the Romantic Era poets, having taken a course in college, years ago. I was not, however, particularly familiar with the work of the prominent Victorian Era poets; and all I can say is, "Wow!"

For example, Christina Rossetti was the sister of the famous pre-Raphaelite painter, Dante Gabriel Rossetti; and she is simply a fabulous poet. A wonderful poem to start with is her longish famous narrative Goblin Market. Well worth some careful study, it is an epic poem that touches on feminism, sisterhood, and strong mythological and religious themes. Alfred, Lord Tennyson is probably familiar to most folks. He succeeded William Wordsworth as "Poet Laureate" for the United Kingdom, a post he held for 42 years until his death in 1892. Tennyson is probably best known for his book-length Arthurian epic poem, Idylls of the King. Also, I dearly love his beautiful poem, The Lady of Shalott; and who has not read The Charge of the Light Brigade?

In closing, if you've not read a truly beautiful romance novel lately; I strongly recommend A.S. Byatt's Possession. You might mix it up with a little bit of poetry too, just to make the experience even richer. Go find yourself a collection of Rossetti, Tennyson, or Yeats; make yourself a pot of tea, and settle back in your favorite chair and have some quiet time.