Works of Thomas Hardy discussion

The twigs of the birch imprint the December sky
Like branching veins upon a thin old hand;
I think of summer-time, yes, of last July,
When she was beneath them, greeting a gathered band
Of the urban and bland.

Iced airs wheeze through the skeletoned hedge from the north,
With steady snores, and a numbing that threatens snow,
And skaters pass; and merry boys go forth
To look for slides. But well, well do I know
Whither I would go!

This one is from Human Shows, Far Phantasies, Songs and Trifles. It seemed like a good December poem — we are quite cold here in Carolina.

I love the first line of the second stanza; it literally feels like a brush of north wind.

Oh John this is so beautiful! After a few hours stuck at the computer sorting out GR things, this was a few moments of stillness and calm, as if the world had stopped. It makes me want to go outside right now, in the dark and cold, and experience the calm of the timeless trees, just as Thomas Hardy would have done 😊 Thank you! And oh yes, those iced airs "wheezing"!

I do like the late poems in Human Shows, Far Phantasies, Songs and Trifles and have a first edition of it.

Linking now.

The only question I have with this poem is the title. I have not figured out how it fits with what he is imparting to the reader.

John wrote: "The only question I have with this poem is the title. I have not figured out how it fits with what he is imparting to the reader."

Ah, I think this might be a case of an English usage unknown in the USA. The third definition in the Cambridge English dictionary is:

"Prospect :a good view of a large land area or of a city:
From the restaurant there was a marvellous prospect of/over the valley and the mountains beyond."

Another example is the famous poem "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College", an 18th-century poem by Thomas Gray. You might know another one better ... here are both: An Elegy In A Country Churchyard: And Ode On A Distant Prospect Of Eton College.

As soon as I started reading, I imagined Thomas Hardy standing at his window, looking out. He's describing the scene in front of him, and musing about venturing outside. Alternatively of course he could be standing on the top of a hill, looking round and down. There are a few candidates for this ...

In a few days time there will be carol-singing in St. Catherine's chapel, on top of a little hill overlooking Abbotsbury (Thomas Hardy's "Abbotsea"). It takes place once every year at midnight, with those brave enough lighting their way with candles.

But in the daytime there is a marvellous propect (i.e. view) from the top of the hill. Maybe he was clambering up there and describing what he saw: https://www.english-heritage.org.uk/v...

Personally though, I think he's standing at a window in the warm, especially if it was written in later life 😊

Bionic Jean wrote: "John wrote: "The only question I have with this poem is the title. I have not figured out how it fits with what he is imparting to the reader."

Ah, I think this might be a case of an English usage..."

Thanks Jean. That explains it for me.

Oh how extraordinary ... one of the sites I am linked to on Facebook is "Hardy's Birthplace and Thorncombe Wood". And today they have posted a photograph of the wood which perfectly illustrates this poem! I'll try to link to it, and for anyone who uses FB here is the site https://www.facebook.com/HardysBirthp...

Wonderful picture.

Funny, but the issue of word usage made me think of a friend of mine who grew up in Wales. I was describing how Joe Joe always grabbed my reading chair when I’d get up for a while. She said he was being cheeky.

On some days now, I call him Cheeky Joe Joe.

This is a beautiful poem where the narrator is appreciating the winter scene, but also reflecting back on summer.

I read many of his poems referring to Emma when I was trying to choose a poem to discuss last spring, and the woman hosting the garden party is Emma shortly before her death. He's noticing the skaters and vibrant young boys, but seems to have his own advancing age on his mind in the last two lines.

The branches and the air are also described in a way that show old age:

"Like branching veins on a thin old hand"
"Skeletoned hedges"
"Airs wheeze"
"Steady snores"
"Numbing"

So the poem can be read as a nature poem, or a poem about getting older and mortality.

Lovely poem John. Thank you for choosing this one. Perfect for December.

Hardy paints with words in this poem. I had the exact image in my mind of the picture Jean posted from the moment I read it.

Connie’s post on aging makes so much sense. I easily related to the aging of my own hands with this line

“ Like branching viens on a thin old hand. “

As of late, I feel like I am mostly finding poems that are shorter to post here. Two stanzas, it seems. For some reason, I seem to be able to better focus on short poems. Perhaps, as an undercurrent to what was contained in a lot of his work, I am just getting old.

What a beautiful poem and it describes the landscape so perfectly at the moment. There are loads of "skeletoned hedge" near me. Thank you, John!

What a lovely poem. Thank you for finding and posting this, John!

It's lovely to read about winter, as I am in a place where it is not very wintry yet. My hedges are still decidedly green! About a week and a half ago was the day when I listed to the cedar elm leaves clatter on the metal roof of our back porch. Those trees lose their trees all in a bunch, so I watch for that day to come each year.

We have had some chilly weather in coastal North Carolina that I thought for a moment I was transported back to New Jersey.

I must say that Hardy writes a nice December poem.

Hardy would also be an excellent choice to have a “selected short poems” volume published if a publishing house and good editor were so motivated.

There's a project for you, John 😊 And you could publish it yourself, (either in book or ebook format), as they are well out of copyright!

That would be a fun project, Jean. I will give it some thought.

I would buy it!

Thanks, Bridget.

As an aside to short poems in general, a book of poems from the poet A.R. Ammons is really good: The Really Short Poems. They are, indeed, really short poems — wry, observant, and incredibly polished for such shortness. Ammons was a poet who was born in North Carolina and taught at Cornell almost all of his life. He received many awards.

And me ...