Geoffrey Grigson, Samuel Palmer, John Clare and me*

A long time ago in the days when I earned money as a writer and editor and did my research not on the internet but in libraries (among other places), I came across a fascinating book. It was called The Englishman’s Flora (rather unfortunately, but those were sexist days – even more so than now) and it listed all the country names for wildflowers as well as some of the folklore associated with them. It was a big beautiful hardback, available for reference only.

This summer, when I was inspired to write about my passion for wildflowers – because it was a beautiful summer, because walking in the countryside was mostly what I did and because Kate of the blog I live, I love, I craft, I am me took an interest in my blog and gave me confidence, I looked out for the book again and discovered that it now lived in the library’s ‘stack’ – that mysterious dusty cellar where old books went to die – and that it could actually be ordered and borrowed. So I borrowed it.

Original version

It was, I found, first published in 1955 and is not even listed on Amazon. A second-hand 1987 reprint on the other hand is listed as ‘from £430’. And I had the original in my hands. What’s more, because of the on/off Lockdown, I could keep it for as long as I liked (unless someone else wanted it which didn’t seem very likely). Libraries are wonderful places.

1987 version

I looked into the author too, which was the poet Geoffrey Grigson, husband of the cookery writer Jane Grigson and father of Sophie Grigson, cookery writer and occasional television cook. He’d also written a book called Samuel Palmer: the Visionary Years. I borrowed that too because I knew that Samuel Palmer, a painter, had lived for a time in the village where I was brought up – Shoreham in Kent. It turned out that those visionary years were his time in my village. I wasn’t surprised, but at the same time none of his pictures conveyed the place to me. The colours were wrong for a start.

A painting of Shoreham by Samuel Palmer

Then, a week ago, I borrowed a book of Geoffrey Grigson’s called Poems of John Clare’s Madness, both because I’m fascinated (and terrified) by madness and because of my interest in John Clare. As I said in my recent post ‘May every cage be open’, John Clare is known for his nature poetry and for the madness caused by separation from the countryside of his childhood. I could relate to that, seeing as mine is now the M25, but I didn’t know how I knew that about him and felt that I ought to find out for myself. (And both GG and I are using the word ‘madness’ in its English sense of ‘insanity’, not the American one of ‘anger’. Incidentally, this applies to the title of my blog as well.)

John Clare aged 27 

John Clare in a mental asylum, aged 51

Then, although I don’t normally read poetry, I thought I might read some of John Clare’s, and I started with the one whose title leapt out at me. I loved it and reproduce it here for you. (As far as I know, it’s not in copyright but if you disagree do please let me know.) Amazingly, it was written while he was in the mental asylum where he spent 28 years.

Clare hated punctuation apparently and fought with his editors. I hated the punctuation in the printed poem and so have taken the ENORMOUS liberty of removing or changing nearly all of it. I've also taken out some of the capital letters, especially those at the beginning of lines, because to me they were unnecessary and misleading. (One day I ought to try and look at Clare's original manuscripts, if they exist.)  

I Am

I am, yet what I am none cares or knows

My friends forsake me like a memory lost
I am the self-consumer of my woes.
They rise and vanish in oblivious host
like shadows in love’s frenzied, stifled throes
and yet I am, and live like vapours tost.
 
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise
into the living sea of waking dreams
where there is neither sense of life or joys
but the vast shipwreck of my life’s esteems,
even the dearest that I love the best
are strange – nay, rather stranger than the rest.
 
I long for scenes where man hath never trod
a place where woman never smiled or wept
there to abide with my creator, God
and sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept
untroubling and untroubled where I lie - 
the grass below, above the vaulted sky.

                        John Clare (1793-1864)

*The ‘and me’ bit in this title is partly an ironic nod to the current fashion for adding it to the title of every television programme. I'd hate you to think I was conceited.