Think About It: SPECIAL NYE EDITION

Poet of the Month 033: ANTHONY BURGESS

ANTHONY BURGESS
c 1974

 

 

 

 

FIVE REVOLUTIONARY SONNETS

 

I

 

Sick of the sycophantic singing, sick
Of every afternoon's compulsory games,
Sick of the little cliques of county names,
He let the inner timebomb start to tick,
Beating out number.  As arithmetic
The plot took shape –– not from divided aims
But short division only.  Then, in flames,
He read: 'That flower is not for you to pick.'

 

Therefore he picked it.  All things thawed to action,
Sound, colour.  A shrill electric bell
Summoned the guard.  He gathered up his faction,
Poised on the brink, thought, and created hell.
Light shimmered in miraculous refraction
As, like a bloody thunderbolt, he fell.

 

II

 

 

Bells broke in the long Sunday, a dressing-gown day.
The childless couple basked in the central heat.
The papers came on time, the enormous meat
Flowered in the oven.  On deep carpets lay
Thin panther-kittens, locked in clawless play.
Bodies were firm, their hair clean and their feet
Uncalloused.  All their wine was new and sweet.
Recorders, unaccompanied, crooned away.

 

Coiled on the rooftree, bored, inspired, their snake
Crowed in Black Monday.  A collar kissed the throat,
Clothes braced the body, a benignant ache
Lit up a tooth.  The papers had a note:
'That act may mean an empire is at stake.'
Sunday and this were equally remote.

 

 

III

 

 

A dream, yes, but for everyone the same.
    The mind that wove it never dropped a stitch:
    The absolute was anybody's pitch,
For, when a note was struck, we knew its name.
That dark aborted any urge to tame
    Waters that day might prove to be a ditch
    But then was endless growling ocean, rich
In fish and heroes till the dredgers came.

'Wachet auf!' A fretful dunghill cock
    Flinted the noisy beacon through the shires.
A martin's nest clogged the cathedral clock,
    But it was morning: birds could not be liars.
A key cleft rusty age in lock and lock,
    Men shivered by a hundred kitchen fires.

 

IV

 

They lit the sun, and then their day began.
What prodigies that eye of light revealed!
What dusty parchment statutes they repealed,
Pulling up blinds and lifting every ban.
The galaxies revolving to their plan,
They made the conch, the coin, the cortex yield
Their keys, and in a garden, once a field,
They hoisted up a statue of a man.

 

Of man, rather:  to most it seemed a mirror;
They strained their necks with gazing in the air,
Proud of those stony eyes unfilmed by terror.
Though marble is not glass, why should they care?
Later the time for vomiting the error:
Someone was bound to find his portrait there.

V

 

Augustus on a guinea sate in state,
    The sun no proper study but each shaft
    Of filtered light a column:  classic craft
Abhorred the arc or arch.  To circulate
(Language or blood) meant pipes, and pipes were straight.
    As loaves were gifts of Ceres when she laughed,
Thyrsis was Jack.  Crousseau on a raft
Sought Johnjack's rational island, loath to wait

 

Till sun, neglected, took revenge, so that
    The pillars nodded, melted, and were seen
As Gothic shadows where a goddess sat.
    For, after all, that rational machine,
Granted to all men by the technocrat,
    Chopped logic and became his guillotine.

 

 

 

 

First published in

  

Transatlantic Review #21 

Summer 1966

 

 

The following biographical statement appears on the website of The International Anthony Burgess Foundation.  [It is re-posted here for recommendation purposes only and, like the material quoted above, remains its author's exclusive copyright-protected intellectual property.]

 

John Burgess Wilson (Anthony was his Catholic confirmation name) was born in Harpurhey, Manchester, on Sunday 25 February 1917. His mother, Elizabeth Burgess, was a singer and dancer on the music-hall stage in Glasgow and Manchester. His father, Joseph Wilson, played the piano in music halls and silent cinemas before taking a job as a cashier at Swift’s beef market in Manchester.

 

Burgess’s mother and his only sister, Muriel, died in the influenza epidemic of 1918. The loss of his mother had a profound effect on his life and literary work. In 1922 Joseph Wilson married a publican, Margaret Dwyer (née Byrne), and the family lived above a pub, the Golden Eagle, on Lodge Street in the Miles Platting area of Manchester.  By 1928, when Burgess enrolled at his secondary school, they had moved to Moss Side, where he was to write his earliest published poems and short stories. He claimed to have composed his first symphony at the age of 18.

 

Burgess was educated at Xaverian College and the University of Manchester, graduating with a degree in English Literature in 1940. He served in the Royal Army Medical Corps and the Army Educational Corps from 1940 until 1946. In 1942 he married his first wife, Llewela (Lynne) Jones, in Bournemouth, while he was the musical director of an army dance band. From 1943 he was stationed in Gibraltar, where, as a member of the Army Educational Corps, he taught a course entitled ‘The British Way and Purpose’ to the troops. In 1945 he composed a Sonata for Cello and Piano in G minor, which is his earliest surviving musical work.

 

After the war, Burgess taught at colleges in Wolverhampton and Bamber Bridge. In 1950 he moved with Lynne to Adderbury in Oxfordshire, and taught at the nearby Banbury Grammar School. His first full-length stage play was completed in 1951. Around this time he wrote his first two novels, A Vision of Battlements, which drew upon his experiences in Gibraltar, and The Worm and the Ring, although neither were published until several years later.

 

In 1954 Burgess and Lynne moved to Kuala Kangsar in the Perak province of Malaya, where he taught at the Malay College. In 1956, his first published novel, Time for a Tiger, appeared under the pseudonym ‘Anthony Burgess’. He continued to balance his teaching and writing careers, completing his Malayan Trilogy with the novels The Enemy in the Blanket (1958) and Beds in the East (1959). Writing as John Burgess Wilson, he published a history of English literature in 1958. Lynne and Burgess moved from Malaya to Brunei, but late in 1959 he collapsed in the classroom. He was discharged from the British Colonial Service and flown back to England with a mysterious illness, which was misdiagnosed as a fatal brain tumour.

 

His prolific literary output as a novelist began at this time, as he sought to provide for his prospective widow. By the end of 1962 he had published seven novels, including The Doctor is Sick, The Worm and the Ring, A Clockwork Orange and The Wanting Seed. Working collaboratively with Lynne, he translated three novels from the French originals. He also adopted another pen-name, publishing two novels, One Hand Clapping (1961) and Inside Mr Enderby (1963), as Joseph Kell. In addition, his work as a frequent contributor to television and radio programmes began in 1961. It was clear that Burgess was no longer dying.

 

The following decade was prolific, with Burgess publishing another five novels before 1970, as well as a variety of critical works, including his shortened edition of James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake; it may have been around this time that he also wrote a shortened edition of Ulysses, now lost. In 1968, Lynne died of liver failure.

 

Later that year, Burgess married Liliana (Liana) Macellari Johnson, an Italian linguist and translator. Together with Liana’s son, Paolo Andrea (later known as Andrew), they soon left England for Malta, beginning a peripatetic existence that was to last the remainder of Burgess’s life. They acquired various houses throughout Europe, including residences in Rome, Bracciano, Siena, Lugano and Callian in the south of France, before settling in Monaco in the mid-1970s. Throughout this period Burgess continued his prodigious output as a novelist, poet, screen-writer, broadcaster and composer. His television credits include Moses the Lawgiver, starring Burt Lancaster, Jesus of Nazareth, directed by Franco Zeffirelli and featuring Robert Powell as Jesus, and the epic mini-series AD: Anno Domini. In total, he wrote thirty-three novels and more than twenty-five works of non-fiction, including two volumes of autobiography, Little Wilson and Big God (1987) and You’ve Had Your Time (1990). There are three published volumes of his essays: Urgent Copy (1968), Homage to Qwert Yuiop (1986) and One Man’s Chorus (1998).

 

Burgess’s most substantial novel, Earthly Powers, was published to international acclaim in 1980. George Steiner wrote in the New Yorker: ‘The whole landscape is the brighter for Earthly Powers, a feat of imaginative breadth and intelligence which lifts fiction high.’  Earthly Powers was awarded the Charles Baudelaire Prize and the Prix du Meilleur Livre Etranger in France in 1981.

 

Burgess also composed approximately 200 musical works, stimulated in this activity by the 1975 performance of his Symphony (No. 3) in C by the University of Iowa. He wrote the lyrics for the award-winning Broadway musical Cyrano, with music composed by Michael Lewis and featuring Christopher Plummer in the title role. His ballet suite about the life of William Shakespeare, Mr WS, was broadcast on BBC radio. He wrote a song cycle based on his own poems, The Brides of Enderby, along with musical settings of texts by TS Eliot, James Joyce, DH Lawrence and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Blooms of Dublin, his musical adaptation of James Joyce’s Ulysses, was broadcast on BBC radio in 1982. He also provided new libretti for Scottish Opera’s Glasgow production of Oberon in 1985 (revived in Venice in 1987), and for the English National Opera’s 1986 production of Carmen.

 

Even when he knew that he was dying from lung cancer, Burgess continued to write and compose music. His novel about the murder of Christopher Marlowe, A Dead Man in Deptford, was published in 1993. His stage play, Chatsky, starring Colin Firth and Jemma Redgrave, was produced at the Almeida Theatre in London in March 1993. He completed his St John’s Sonata on 12 November 1993.

 

Anthony Burgess died at the age of 76 in London on 22 November 1993. His last novel, Byrne, was published posthumously in 1995. A selection of his poems, Revolutionary Sonnets, edited by Kevin Jackson, was published by Carcanet in 2002.

 

Andrew Burgess Wilson died in London from natural causes in 2002. Liana Burgess died in Italy on 3 December 2007.

 

 

 

Use the link below to visit THE INTERNATIONAL ANTHONY BURGESS FOUNDATION, an English-based organisation which 'encourages and supports public and scholarly interest in all aspects of the life and work of Anthony Burgess'  in addition to operating a museum/performance space in his birthplace of Manchester:

 

 

http://www.anthonyburgess.org/

 

 

 

 

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Writers are entirely egocentric.  To them, few things in their lives have meaning or importance unless they give promise of serving some creative purpose.  They waste nothing they hear or feel or see or are told; nothing is lost on them, as Henry James observed.
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Words for the Music 004: RICHARD THOMPSON

RICHARD THOMPSON

c 1974

 

THE POOR DITCHING BOY
RICHARD THOMPSON

From the 1972 Island/Universal LP  

Henry The Human Fly

THE POOR DITCHING BOY

Was there ever a winter so cold and so sad

The river too weary to flood

The storming wind cut through to my skin

But she cut through to my blood

I was looking for trouble to tangle my line

But trouble came looking for me

I knew I was standing on treacherous ground

I was sinking too fast to run free

With her scheming, idle ways

She left me poor enough

The storming wind cut through to my skin

But she cut through to my blood

I would not be asking, I would not be seen

A-beggin' on mountain or hill 

But I'm ready and blind with my hands tied behind

I've neither a mind nor a will

With her scheming, idle ways

She left me poor enough

The storming wind cut through to my skin

But she cut through to my blood

It's bitter the need of the poor ditching boy

He'll always believe what they say

They'll tell him it's hard to be honest and true

Does he mind if he doesn't get paid?

With her scheming, idle ways

She left me poor enough

The storming wind cut through to my skin

But she cut through to my blood

Words and Music 

© 1972 Richard Thompson

The Songwriter:  The following biographical statement is taken from Wikipedia.  [It is re-posted here for information purposes only and, like the material posted above, remains its author's exclusive copyright-protected intellectual property.]

Richard John Thompson OBE (born 3 April 1949) is a British songwriter, guitarist and recording and performing musician.

 

Thompson was awarded the Orville H. Gibson award for best acoustic guitar player in 1991. Similarly, his songwriting has earned him an Ivor Novello Award and, in 2006, a lifetime achievement award from BBC Radio.

 

Artists who have recorded Thompson's compositions include such diverse talents as Del McCoury, REM, Bonnie Raitt, Christy Moore, David Gilmour, Mary Black, Elvis Costello, Marshall Crenshaw, The Corrs, Sandy Denny, June Tabor, Joel Fafard, Maria McKee, Shawn Colvin, Norma Waterson, Martin Carthy, Nanci Griffith, Graham Parker, Jefferson Starship, The Pointer Sisters, Maura O'Connell, Los Lobos, John Doe, Greg Brown, Bob Mould, Barbara Manning, Loudon Wainwright III, The Futureheads, Jeff Lang, Dinosaur Jr, David Byrne, and The Blind Boys of Alabama.

 

Thompson made his début as a recording artist as a member of Fairport Convention in September 1967. He continues to write and record new material regularly and frequently performs live throughout the world. Thompson was appointed Officer of the Order of the British Empire (OBE) in the 2011 New Year Honours for services to music.  On 5 July 2011, he was awarded an honorary doctorate by the University of Aberdeen.  His latest LP Still was released in June 2015.

 

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As long as we’re young, we manage to find causes for the stoniest indifference, the most blatant caddishness, we put them down to emotional eccentricity or some sort of romantic inexperience.  But later on, when life shows us just how much cunning, and cruelty, and malice are required just to keep the body at ninety-eight-point-six [fahrenheit], we catch on, we know the score, we begin to understand just how much swinishness it takes to make up a past.  Just take a look at yourself and the degrees of rottenness you’ve come to.  There’s no mystery about it, no more room for fairy tales; if you’ve lived this long, it’s because you’ve squashed any poetry you had in you.  Life is keeping body and soul together.

 

Journey to The End of The Night (1932, translated by RALPH MANHEIM 1983)

 

 

See below for original French text

 

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Pendant la jeunesse, les plus arides indifférences, les plus cynique mufleries, on arrive à leur trouver des excuses de lubies passionnelles et puis je ne sais quels signes d'un inexpert romantisme.  Mais plus tard, quand la vie vous a bien montré tout ce qu'elle peut exiger de cautèle, de cruauté, de malice pour être seulement entretenue tant bien que mal à 37 degrés [centigrade], on se rend compte, on est fixé, bien placé, pour comprendre toutes les saloperies que contient un passé.  Il suffit en tout et pour tout de se contempler scrupuleusement soi-même et ce qu'on est devenu en fait d'immondice.  Plus de mystère, plus de niaiserie, on a bouffé toute sa poésie puisqu'on a vécu jusque-là.  Des haricots, la vie.

Voyage au bout de la nuit (1932)