I was listening to the radio while cleaning up the house this morning and heard an interview with poets Galway Kinnell and Josephine Dickinson. Hearing them speak brought back memories of the important place poetry once took in my life. When I was in academia, I read and taught a great deal of poetry, and I wrote quite a bit as well. When I left academia, I continued to read and write poetry, but for a number of years now it’s been a much smaller part of my life. The choice was a conscious one, and I don’t want to sound morose or whining about it. Simply put, I chose to focus on other things.
However, hearing Josephine Dickinson, a British poet, talk and read made me think I’ve let poetry recede too far into the background of my life. She caught my attention when she mentioned that she had lived for some time near Alston, England. Alston is a place I became familiar with through the work of the poet W.H. Auden, who loved and wrote about the area around that remote village in the northern Pennines. I also visited the town and surrounding countryside for several days about 10 years ago and greatly enjoyed its natural beauty and its connections to Auden and his work.
Dickinson, who became deaf at the age of six, spoke of her new book of poems, Silence Fell. The word “fell” here has a double meaning; besides its meaning as a verb, in Britain it also means, according to my dictionary, “a high barren hill or moor.” (I wouldn’t say “barren,” however; “treeless” would be better. The word fell comes from the Old Norse word for mountain; the Norwegian word for mountain is fjell.) Thus the title is also a place-name.
I hope to read the book and walk the fells again in my mind. Until then, I’ll dip into Auden. “Alston Moor” is a piece of romantic juvenilia by the teenaged Auden, but its opening lines are worth quoting, particularly given the time of year:
April, fair maid, is come with laughter in her eyes
And everywhere she weaves her lovely spells
On plain and hill; I know that now the South Wind cries
Her name upon the long slow curvings of the fells.
(Juvenilia: Poems, 1922-1928, p. 32)