John Clare

I just discovered this peasant poet from Northamptonshire in a book on the county that was awarded to my father as a schoolboy. This poem so reflects how I feel at the moment but my feelings aside, I wonder do any other litnetters know of him at all and what do they think about the poet.

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 shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost

Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.

I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd 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.

Hi Delta, I know a little about him, but I don't know his poems well. I believe he had rather a sad life, and if he's the one I'm thinking of suffered some sort of mental breakdown. I may be confusing him with someone else however. I remember Peter Ackroyd doing a programme about the Romantics, where I think he included him. He was as you mention, not an "educated" poet, but uniquely amongst that generation, a genuine son of the soil. I should read his poetry, as I believe he is highly regarded by many, but as usual, too many choices, not enough time.

He wrote The Flood, which we looked at for school.

I've read a little about and by John Clare. He is certainly worth exploring. As stated by others he had a rather tough life including a struggle with mental illness which involved several periods of institutionalization. While he was certainly not afforded a great formal education, he should not be seen as some stereotypical "peasant poet". (William Blake, it might be remembered, was also "self taught"). Clare was a published poet; his first volume of poetry was afforded positive critical response. He socialized with the circle of London Magazine writers including Charles Lamb, William Hazlitt, Thomas De Quincy, etc... All four of these writers are certainly worthy of further recognition. The poem, "I Am" was written during one of his extended periods of hospitalization. It conveys more than the usual feelings of depression and isolation when one considers the condition of the author. The poem is actually part of the title of a recent collection of Clare's poetry: "I Am" The Selected Poetry of John Clare.

Try this one, my favorite by him:

Badger

When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
Go out and track the badger to his den,
And put a sack within the hole, and lie
Till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears - they let the strongest loose.
The old fox gears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
And the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forked stick to bear him down
And clap the dogs and take him to the town,
And bait him all the day with many dogs,
And laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
They shout and hollo down the noisy streets.

He turns about to face the loud uproar
And drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where'er they go;
When badgers fight, then everyone's a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray'
The badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
He fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
Lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
The badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
And bites them through - the drunkard swears and reels

The frighted women take the boys away,
The blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
But sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
And beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
And then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
Then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
Till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
And leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.


His letters are worth noting too - he has a way of writing without any commas and very few periods, yet still maintaining a full sense of structure, which is very, very interesting, and seemingly as idiosyncratic as someone like Emily Dickinson's letters.

Thank you, I feel like I was led to him through my father's book and he certainly resonates with me.