Tag Archives: William Wordsworth

Distant Sails

The August issue of the Wagon Magazine is now available online, featuring a great selection of new fiction, non-fiction and poetry from the sub-continent and beyond.

My own column is on the saddest of subjects – poems about the death of a child. The title comes from Hugo’s poem of the same name, therein printed in full, and I also look at poems by Ben Jonson, William Wordsworth and William Stafford. For some reason I neglected to include John Milton’s poem to his daughter, so perhaps I will do a Sweettenorbull article on that one day.

Please read it here… and then cheer yourself up with the second of John Looker’s antipodean adventures here

Meanwhile, over at Andy Fleck’s Blog, I am beginning a look at some of the highly enjoyable short biographies in the Penguin Monarchs series, starting with William the Bastard – or Conqueror, if you insist.



Filed under Literature, Poetry

The Wanderer

The Wagon Magazine is a literary journal, published out of Chennai in India, dedicated to seeking out new and lesser known literary talent from the subcontinent and around the world.

Since last month, the magazine has been publishing a monthly column by yours truly, titled The Wanderer. Each column, I look at five or six extracts from poems on a particular theme, or featuring a particular motif or idea. I wanted to do something different from the articles here on Sweettenorbull, where generally I will focus on a single poem, and, in keeping with the magazine’s remit, I will be featuring some lesser known poets alongside bigger names. My first column is on the theme of wanderers, and looks at some poems and songs from Ivor Gurney, some 10th century Anglo-Saxons, Wordsworth, a nameless cowboy, and the Korean poet Park Mog Wol.

The Wagon Magazine is a print publication, available by mail order. It’s always an intriguing read – please give it your consideration.

It archives old articles online. You can read my first effort here.

The editorial is here.

My fellow blogger and poet John Looker’s article is here.

And here is an example of some of the gems the magazine is capable of uncovering, a lovely selection of translated poems by the Kannada language poet, S. Manjunath, translated and with an introduction by Kamalakar Bhat.




Filed under Literature, Poetry


It’s daffodil season out there, in case you hadn’t noticed. Parks, gardens and banks on the sides of motorways sport these yellow flowers rocking and nodding in the breeze (or ‘fluttering and dancing’, if you like). And those of us of a poetical bent can’t help but think of Wordsworth and his most famous poem.

I have to admit though that I’ve never much liked daffodils. I’m not talking about the poem, but the flowers themselves. They are a little gaudy, for one thing, or even a bit plasticky, and somehow look like they don’t belong to the English countryside, as if they’ve been brought in from warmer climes. This is an impression I’ve had as long as I can remember, and one I’ve carried into adulthood. Perhaps it has something to do with that scene in the Disney cartoon of Alice in Wonderland where they turn nasty. But I’ve read elsewhere that daffodils areunique in their anatomy, so maybe my feeling that they are somehow alien is perfectly natural. Anyway, I don’t like them. Give me forget-me-nots or anemones any day.

A lot of people don’t much care for this poem, and it’s worth pondering why. In some ways, it’s a bit of a victim of its own fame: a certain generation of British school children had to learn it by heart, and perhaps didn’t much enjoy doing so. Certainly the experience that Wordsworth describes in the poem isn’t one that your average twelve year old can relate too. If children do like the countryside, it’s to frolic and gambol in, not to walk around appreciating nature’s aesthetic beauty and spiritually regenerative powers. It’s associated in a lot of people’s minds with the idea of poetry as something essentially pastoral, comforting and safe, and poets as people with their heads in the clouds. The first time I read a line of the poem, it was coming from the lips of Walter the Softy, the simpering, swotty enemy of Dennis the Menace in the Beano. I don’t think it’s Wordsworth’s best poem, by a long way, and it does have its shortcomings; nevertheless, it comes unbidden to my mind at this time of year, and it does, I think, have its merits…




I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.


Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.


The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed–and gazed–but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:


For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.


William Wordsworth


Shall we get the shortcomings out of the way first? The simile sounds a little hackneyed these days. Maybe it sounded fresher two hundred years ago, but it hasn’t aged well. The blogger John Stevens   commented here recently that the ending seems inauthentic, and I agree with him there to an extent. For me, Wordsworth is a little too eager to portray nature as something elevating, and himself as a sensitive receptor to nature’s bounty. The syntax sounds rather forced to modern ears, and the tone is rather grand for what we might think of as a modest subject.

But I like the idea at the centre of this poem – the idea that a place, especially somewhere natural can stay with you, and that the memory of it nourishes you in some way. Put that way, it sounds cheesy, and yet Wordworth captures something essential of his experience, and from my own experience I believe this is a genuine phenomenon. There are a dozen places or so, perhaps more, the memory of which endure in my mind; when I think of these places I draw something more than solace or comfort, but a kind of strength: the moon making a path of light on the calm Yellow Sea at night; the tall reeds at Caerlaverock nature reserve, and the view of the Solway and the Lake District beyond – and a skylark lifting into the air as I stood up on a mound of grass to see this; or Holy Island on a changeable spring day and the sight of a colony of seals on the island opposite, their backs catching the light of the sun, their cries crossing the water…

So, though I’m not keen on daffodils, I have some regard for Daffodils.

Wordsworth's School

Wordsworth’s School, where he almost certainly didn’t have the idea for ‘Daffodils’


Filed under Poetry