We are the Moors

[Hawkman]

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
our ancient, oaken forests hewn away by men
in ancient times, when these were warmer climes.
Their remnants, now few, cower in our valleys,
twisted and deformed by weight of age,
while all around, between the crumbling dry-stone walls,
sheep-mown, emerald grass, on peaty soil.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
where once men lived and farmed beneath the sun,
in ancient times, when these were warmer climes.
They left their mark upon our plains and slopes,
their long stone rows and fallen huts, like scars
upon a virgin’s face, the record of her sins,
to mark man’s vain ambition, long before the quest for tin.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
where lately men have delved between our peaks.
Not long ago, in more industrial times,
they sank their mines to strip our mineral wealth,
gouged pits into our flesh to tear out what was there.
This brief invasion did not last and like the farmers
they have passed away, the ponies though, remain.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
where now and then, men fight and train for war,
when politics decide that these are troubled times.
Round acid bogs that feed our tannic veins,
they fire their guns, who’s cackling chatter,
echoed by the jagged, wind-scoured tors,
is lost at last in titans’ lashing breath.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths
and now our heather-covered hills admired by men,
who walk the fields of bracken in spare time.
All our moods we show them and our tears drench their skin,
while with our glares we bake them and our
mournful sighs, like beggars, pluck their clothes,
but still they come here, even when it snows.

[hillwalker]

I like this Hawk, Dartmoor (?) through the ages.

The choice of vocabulary and a solemn kind of beat reflects the landscape's ancient heritage, almost like a touch of Hardy.

Just a couple of thoughts if I may -

verse 1/last line - the excellent rhythm falters with 'emerald grass carpets peaty soil'

and in the final verse (I'll ignore being compared to a louse! - since I am indeed a hillwalker!) -
the last 3 lines after 'Every mood we show them.....' seem to lose momentum and rhythm as well as a bit of coherency.

But I know you have a habit of tweaking your work after posting so.....

H

[Hawkman]

Hi Hill, I've given it a tweak and hope the rhythm is now more consistant.

Rest assured, I had no intention of comparing you to a louse!

I had in mind those townies who walk the hills in shorts and flip-flops with no idea of the proper respect due to their environment.

I agree the metre faltered in the closing lines and I think I've sorted that, but the analogies and metaphores refer to the changing weather conditions. In truth I was half thinking of adding another verse which might have allowed me to keep the final one a bit tighter, but I thought it was long enough. Any further thoughts welcomed.

Best, H

[hillwalker]

Hi, Hawk. Only kidding about the lice.....

I still think the metre stumbles slightly -

you might consider something like replacing :

while all around, between the crumbling dry-stone walls,
[sheep-mown, emerald grass, on peaty soil.]

with :

while all around, between the crumbling dry-stone walls,
lies sheep-mown grass; emerald patches sewn on peaty soil.

and similarly, the longer 3 lines of the last stanza very much disrupt the rhythm.

something along the lines of :

Each mood we show: from tears to drench their skin,
to glare that bakes them dry, and mournful sighs that plck like beggars
at their clothes, yet still they come: come frost, come snow.

I'm not at all fond of attempting to change someone else's work in such a drastic fashion as I feel I have no right to do so..... but I hope you get the general idea, and my suggestions are well-intentioned. The beat of the lines is important in this piece so it needs sustaining as much as possible.

Best wishes, H

[Hawkman]

Thanks hill, I think I'm going to leave it alone now. H

[PrinceMyshkin]

I was (and am) astonished by this from beginning to end. Once I realized that the opening line was to recur at the beginning of each stanza, I looked forward to it as a kid might to a favourite uncle who has diverse tales to tell, and though each one begins with the same formula, one holds one's breath wondering what fresh delights - or terrors - lie in store for one.

Not that I ever found anything to complain about in your previous poems but surely you might look on this one as a measure of how far you've come since "The Aspiring Writer," how sure you are...

[dizzydoll]

This is a wonderful poem Hawk, most expressive. You describe nature and the land beautifully.

[Hawkman]

My Prince, you are too generous. I’m glad that you found the recurrent theme pleasing. It was an attempt to introduce a little rhetoric into the piece, so if it works I’m more than happy. I confess that somewhere in the back of my mind, Gilbert Frankau’s, “Voice of the Guns,” was rattling around, although I made no conscious effort to imitate him, just the idea of the repetition for emphasis.

I would certainly agree that I’ve learned much in the last three months and continue to do so. But as for being sure, well, I lost count of the number of tweaks I have given this. If you are interested, I could PM you an earlier version for you to compare.

diz, thanks for that. I feel I’m going to have to revisit the subject to try and convey more of the atmosphere of Dartmoor and its moods. I’ll just give the reader the raw landscape with less historical comment!

Thank you both,

Live and be well, H

[Bar22do]

Have just read it once. In the meantime the night fell upon me, I'm dozing... and will comment tomorrow - but - the pleasure I feel after this first glance presages only good news --- it seems to me that your every new step is more graceful. Laila tov!

Sleepy Bar

[PrinceMyshkin]

I would certainly agree that I’ve learned much in the last three months and continue to do so. But as for being sure, well, I lost count of the number of tweaks I have given this. If you are interested, I could PM you an earlier version for you to compare.

I'm going to pass, with thanks, on your offer. It reminds me of the time when one either composed things in longhand or on a typewriter, and I was always eager to destroy the crossings-out, rewordings &c of my previous drafts because I didn't want anyone to see how hard I'd worked to get at the - hopefully - pristine final draft.

[Hawkman]

I know how you feel, PM, but I can't help wondering if the previous draft wasn't better! Oh how the soul of the would-be artist tortures itslef with doubt... :D

[lallison]

looks like you put some love into this one, H. I really enjoyed reading it. The repeated first verse gains momentum with each recitation, gaining strength like a boulder in a rock slide, until by the end it has a tumultuous force. The language is beautiful. It reminds me of Carl Sandburg's "Grass" which is so often anthologized, but I think your poem is better. Well done! you get an A.

[PrinceMyshkin]

I know how you feel, PM, but I can't help wondering if the previous draft wasn't better! Oh how the soul of the would-be artist tortures itslef with doubt... :D

OK, please do send it to me...

[Bar22do]

You've identified yourself with the suffering lands so much, oh Hawkman. It's as if you really felt what the moors feel, and just lent them your voice... You're their unfailing friend and your poem is heart breaking.
But as much as I enjoyed its vertiginous majesty, the riches of the language, often its pace, I tend to add my voice to hillwalker's. Tightening your poem here and there would, in my (really humble!) opinion, give it all the deserved power. I understand you have already spent a sea of ink on this one, but now use just a tiny bit of a rubber to put the finishing touches*... and please don't glare at me like the heaths do at men walking around them.. it's only my, probably inexpert, leaving to desire, feedback... Especially because - on the whole - I always enjoy momenta you depict so artfully and heartily!

With my thanks and best regards - Bar

* would you like me to pm you how I thought it could be slightly neatened?

[Hawkman]

lall, Thanks very much. I looked up Carl Sandburg's "Grass" and gave it a good read, he was certainly more econonimical with words than I've been :)

Bar, as always you are generous in your praise which takes the sting out of the inevitable,"But" :D

I'm glad you liked what you liked and if you wish to pm me further comment please do, as I'm always happy to hear what you have to say. As ever, thanks for stopping by,

Live and be well, H

[blank|verse]

Good work, Hawkman. It reads very well for the most part, the iambic beat of the lines lending the voice of the moors a suitable gravitas.

The weaker bits are where it loses the beat and gets a bit prosey, like this line:

Not long ago, in more industrial times,
I know you're not wanting to change things now, but I thought this bit:

while all around, between the crumbling dry-stone walls,
sheep-mown, emerald grass, on peaty soil.
would read better if you put 'emerald grass' at the start of its line; it sounds like what the natural cadence of the speaking voice demands.

I also sense you've read some war poetry: there's an echo of John McCrae's 'In Flanders Fields' ('We are the dead') in the refrain; and in your description of the guns' 'cackling chatter', there are echoes of Wilfred Owen's 'rifles' rapid rattle' from 'Anthem for Doomed Youth'.

And it reminds me, I must get around to watching 'Quadrophenia' again... :wink5:

[Hawkman]

Hi B/V,

You are of course correct in that I have quite a collection of WW1 poetry in a couple of anthologies, but its amazing how many of my favourites aren't included. I have to download them from the net. but at least they are available. Have you walked those battlefields? I have. When you see the terrain, realise what was expected of those men... My great uncle fell on The Somme. He has no known grave. My grandfather went through the entire war without a scratch, although a brick fell on him in Arras.

That's enough digression, Thanks for your comments, and I agree, it still needs a tiny tweak here and there. Then again, this may be one of those poems that never actually gets finished, only abandoned!

Best,

H

[hack]

This is very good Hawkman.
If it can be improved, I am not
the one to do it. I like your
work. Your pieces seem to flow
so effortlessly...peace...

[kittypaws]

You all are awesome....do you think one day I may write as well?

Hawk, I thought it was very well written and tells the truth of mans raping of mother nature.

[Hawkman]

hack, thanks very much. I can assure you that I harbour reciprocal sentiments towards your work.

kittypaws, you are too generous, but thanks anyway :)

Rest assured that I fully expect you to be better than me! Most poeple are.

Live and be well, H

[blank|verse]

Hi Hawkman - I'm not particularly into war so I've not been to the battlefields in Northern France... I'm more into peace, man!

(Oh, and I forgot to point out the typo before 'cackling chatter' - it should be 'whose' not 'who's'.)

[Hawkman]

Thanks B/V, I'm not particularly into war either, I was just paying my repects, a family pilgrimage. I picked up the typo while revising this morning so it's right on my computer at least :) I now have two finished versions of this poem, one with 6 line stanzas and one with 7 line stanzas. All I need to do now is choose!

H

[Hawkman]

OK folks, here is the difinitive version of this poem.

Thanks are due especially to PM, Bar, B/V & hill for respective individual assistance. Thanks to everyone who commented.

Live and be well - Hawkman.

We Are the Moors

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
our prehistoric, oaken forests hewn away by men.
Their remnants cower in our valleys,
twisted and deformed by weight of age,
while all around, between the crumbling dry-stone walls,
sheep-mown, emerald grass, on peaty soil.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
where once men lived and farmed beneath the sun.
They left their mark upon our plains and slopes,
their long stone rows and fallen huts, like scars
upon a virgin’s face, the record of her sins.
They marked man’s vain ambition, long before the quest for tin.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
where lately men have delved between our peaks.
They sank their mines to strip our mineral wealth,
gouged pits into our flesh and tore out all beneath.
This brief invasion did not last and like the farmers
they have passed away. The ponies though, remain.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths,
where now and then, men fight and train for war.
Round acid bogs that feed our tannic veins,
they fire their guns, whose cackling chatter,
echoed by the jagged, wind-scoured tors,
is lost at last in titans’ roaring breath.

We are the moors, high blasted heaths
and now our heather-covered hills admired by men.
All our moods we show them: our tears drench their skin,
and while our glares bake them, our mournful sighs,
like wicked, hungry beggars, pluck their clothes,
but still they come, although we flay them with our snows.

[dizzydoll]

You've done a number of changes to the original I see, either way I loved them both. However I can see youve but a lot of effort into your final draft. Good job. :thumbsup:

[Bar22do]

Yes, it's a momentum indeed... so impressive. And you worked on it so hard, gosh.
By losing your third line in each stanza you made your poem flow more freely... So it's a good choice you've made!
I have a hesitation about "beneath the sun" and about your poem's last line, but I'll leave the technical suggestions for our team's professionals :)!
You did a remarkable job in this revision, so, all my praises! Having read and reread your poem I'll soon recite it by heart...
I also learned quite a lot about your hills and region!

Thanks so much for all, Hawkman.

Best regards - Bar

[hillwalker]

Good effort Hawk, got there in the end..... unless.....

[Hawkman]

diz, thank you and I'm glad you liked it in any of its many guises!

Bar, Thank you too. Glad it meets with your approval, (mostly) ;)

hil, a last acknowlegment for making my final choices so much easier, and no, This is definitely it! :)

Best, H