[Clive Watkins]

Edward Thomas’s “Old Man” is one of my favourite poems. (Thomas is one of my favourite poets.) I shall not expand on this beyond noting how, despite the disavowal in the first two lines, the contrasting names of this common British wild plant open an imaginative space for what follows, how the patterning of the sentences and the loose, expressive handling of the metre create the musing effect and how everything – imagery, names, the rhythms of syntax and metre – are drawn together in the bleak and beautiful ending.


EDWARD THOMAS: OLD MAN

Old Man, or Lads’-love, – in the name there’s nothing
To one that knows not Lads’-love, or Old Man,
The hoar green feathery herb, almost a tree,
Growing with rosemary and lavender.
Even to one that knows it well, the names
Half decorate, half perplex, the thing it is:
At least, what that is clings not to the names
In spite of time. And yet I like the names.

The herb itself I like not, but for certain
I love it, as someday the child will love it
Who plucks a feather from the door-side bush
Whenever she goes in or out of the house.
Often she waits there, snipping the tips and shrivelling
The shreds at last on to the path, perhaps
Thinking, perhaps of nothing, till she sniffs
Her fingers and runs off. The bush is still
But half as tall as she, though it is as old;
So well she clips it. Not a word she says;
And I can only wonder how much hereafter
She will remember, with that bitter scent,
Of garden rows, and ancient damson trees
Topping a hedge, a bent path to a door,
A low thick bush beside the door, and me
Forbidding her to pick.

Forbidding her to pick.As for myself,
Where first I met the bitter scent is lost.
I, too, often shrivel the grey shreds,
Sniff them and think and sniff again and try
Once more to think what it is I am remembering,
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,
With no meaning, than this bitter one.

I have mislaid the key. I sniff the spray
And think of nothing; I see and I hear nothing;
Yet seem, too, to be listening, lying in wait
For what I should, yet never can, remember;
No garden appears, no path, no hoar-green bush
Of Lads’-love, or Old Man, no child beside,
Neither father nor mother, nor any playmate;
Only an avenue, dark, nameless, without end.

Edward Thomas (1878-1917)




[This message has been edited by Clive Watkins (edited July 21, 2007).]

[Janet Kenny]

Clive,
I think straight away of its cousin Artemisia Vulgaris or wormwood, then Chernobyl which is what that word means. Vermouth, Absinthe etc.
But this is a gentler plant that still carries the bitterness.

In the lines:
The herb itself I like not, but for certain
I love it Thomas has caught a rather Shakespearean whimsical note.
also here:
Always in vain. I cannot like the scent,
Yet I would rather give up others more sweet,

The last line is the heart of the poem I think.
Janet

PS: Is this the species referred to in the poem? The soft feathery form seems to be reproduced in the phrasing of the poem.

[This message has been edited by Janet Kenny (edited July 20, 2007).]

[Alder Ellis]

Hi Clive,

thanks for posting this -- an amazing poem which I don't remember encountering before (& I wonder why not...).

One thing that puzzled me is evidently a typo; in The Oxford Book of English Verse line 17 reads: "But half as tall as she, though it is as old"

You're quite right about the "imaginative space" established by the contrasting names of the herb. Of course both names point back to the "bitterness" of its scent. The girl-child is a figure of innocence who has not yet arrived at the bitterness of lads' love, while the speaker is a figure of experience who knows the bitterness of old age (hence the title). One of the great subtleties of the poem is "me / Forbidding her to pick." A no doubt futile & apparently hypocritical gesture (he himself picks), but true to life, and poignantly symbolic of his desire to prolong her innocence. The bitter scent to her is a foretaste of a hidden future, whereas to him it is an aftertaste of a hidden past. But the poem implies, perhaps, that these seemingly contrary experiences are really the same experience.

I agree also about "loose, expressive handling of the metre." How would you scan the last line? I think it's beyond the conventional "rules" of IP in that 2 syllables (dark, name) in effect take the same stress -- it's like an iterated 3rd stress in the line.

[Maryann Corbett]

Janet, a bit of googling seems to tell me that the plant described is Artemisia abrotanum, also called Southernwood. By a strange coincidence, I have some of this in my front garden. It's a more woody-stemmed plant than fennel, and lower growing. Its scent is certainly distinctive and does cling to the hands. I haven't found a really good image to link to, but maybe others are more patient than I.

Maryann

[Janet Kenny]

Originally posted by Maryann Corbett:
Janet, a bit of googling seems to tell me that the plant described is Artemisia abrotanum, also called Southernwood. By a strange coincidence, I have some of this in my front garden. It's a more woody-stemmed plant than fennel, and lower growing. Its scent is certainly distinctive and does cling to the hands. I haven't found a really good image to link to, but maybe others are more patient than I.

Maryann,
Of course my link is fennel--which I know well--both the herb and the bulbl. I was amazed by the resemblance. Misled by Google again. HERE is the correct plant which is a cousinn of Chernobyl.
I can't remember it from England. All sorts of plants grew along the railway lines but I couldn't get out to examine them. I don't think it grows in Australia.
Janet

[Clive Watkins]

Typo corrected! Thanks, AE...

Clive

[Catherine Chandler]

Clive,

Just reading this for the first time today. I had never before read anything by this poet, and will try to find more. I love poems where the senses, especially taste, touch and smell, play a major role. The conversational, nostalgic tone makes one almost forget it is a poem. Not only does the poem remind me of sentiments expressed in other wonderful poems, but also brings to mind my own memories of childhood.

Thanks for posting it.

Catherine

[Gail White]

I love Edward Thomas too and think he is much neglected.
He wrote a wonderful poem about the Great War which I cannot quote from memory except for the lines:

Now on the road to France
Heavy is the tread
Of the living, but the dead
Returning lightly dance

This passage has haunted my mind for years.

[Clive Watkins]

I'm pleased this struck a chord. Edward Thomas is a very English poet, a poet of southern England, that is, and a wonderful observer. From a technical standpoint, he is fascinating, too. I'm planning to post some more of his work in the next day or so. Watch this space!

Clive

[Andrew Frisardi]

This is a positively stunning poem--and one that I had not known. Thanks for posting it, Clive. I have read it a few times now but plan to do so more over the weekend. The subtle use of associations between language, memory, the senses, and emotional/psychological depth reminds me of Proust.
Andrew