As poet and man I am uncommonly divorced from the child I was, and I always envy those poets who are close to their childhoods and who, like Causley, can create a wonder that is child-like in their verse, particularly in their old age. To me, it is the most singular and appealing attraction of Causley's poetry.

I have just had an email from my Cornish poet-friend.
He said that although he didn't ever meet Causley that he lived in a village very near the village in which my friend and his family had lived--my friend's family for all recorded generations. That must help one to feel close to one's childhood.
Janet

8 long winters passed by
 

Thank you for posting this, Peter. It is a fine poem. It was through Eratosphere that I learned about Causley. I think it was Clive W. who introduced me.

Nice to see you again. Happy holidays.

I love Charles Causley's work, and one of my favourites of his is the wonderful 'Colonel Fazackerley':

Colonel Fazackerley Butterworth -Toast
Bought an old castle complete with a ghost,
But someone or other forgot to declare
To Colonel Fazack that the spectre was there.

On the very first evening, while waiting to dine,
The Colonel was taking a fine sherry wine,
When the ghost, with a furious flash and a flare,
Shot out of the chimney and shivered, 'Beware!'

Colonel Fazackerley put down his glass
And said, 'My dear fellow, that's really first class!
I just can't conceive how you do it at all.
I imagine you're going to a Fancy Dress Ball ?'

At this the dread ghost gave a withering cry.
Said the Colonel (his monocle firm in his eye),
'Now just how you do it I wish I could think.
Do sit down and tell me and please have a drink.'

The ghost in his phospherous cloak gave a roar
And floated about between ceiling and floor.
He walked through a wall and returned through a pane
And backed up the chimney and came down again.

Said the Colonel, 'With laughter I'm feeling quite weak!'
(As trickles of merriment ran down his cheek).
'My house - warming party I hope you won't spurn.
You must say you'll come and you'll give us a turn!'

At this, the poor spectre-quite out of his wits-
Proceeded to shake himself almost to bits.
He rattled his chains and he clattered his bones
And he filled the whole castle with mumbles and moans.

But Colonel Fazackerley, just as before,
Was simply delighted and called out, 'Encore!'
At which the ghost vanished, his efforts in vain,
And never was seen at the castle again.

'Oh dear, what a pity!' said Colonel Fazack.
'I don't know his name, so I can't call him back.'
And then with a smile that was hard to define,
Colonel Fazackerley went in to dine.

Charles Causley

When I was at school in the early 1960s my English teacher, Hector MacIver, a remarkable man and a poet, chalked this poem up on the board. I can see now it is a 1940s poem, very Dylan Thomas, but I still like it very much and it had a lot of influence on me. That was how I wanted to write. I didn't, but that was how I wanted to. Incidentally, Scotland's finest poet then, Norman McCaig, was also a primary school teacher. And so, for some years, was Wendy Cope. And one of my favourite novelists, J.L. Carr.


Trapped in their tower, the prisoners of love
Loose their last message on the failing air.
The troops of Tyre assault with fire the grove
Where Venus veils with light her lovely hair.

Trembles the tide beneath the tall Martello
That decks the harbour with its wreck of thunder,
Fretting with flowers white and flowers yellow
The fosse of flame into its last surrender.

Night, on my truckle bed your ease of slumber
Sleep in salt arms the steering night away.
Abandoned in the fireship moon, one ember
Glows with the rose that is the distant day.

The prisoners rise and rinse their skies of stone.
But in their jailers’ eyes they meet their own

I have contributed an essay to a book on Causley, called something like Critical Essays on Charles Causley. It is to be published in January, I believe. David Mason is in it too, with a very fine essay that has been in Able Muse. Causley is one of the finest poets of the last century, and perhaps the greatest poet of the Second World War. He was a poet of heart, social conscience and wicked wit. Unfortunately most of his readership is dying off and not being replaced.

I Saw A Jolly Hunter
I saw a jolly hunter
With a jolly gun
Walking in the country
In the jolly sun.

In the jolly meadow
Sat a jolly hare.
Saw the jolly hunter.
Took jolly care.

Hunter jolly eager-
Sight of jolly prey.
Forgot gun pointing
Wrong jolly way.

Jolly hunter jolly head
Over heels gone.
Jolly old safety catch
Not jolly on.

Bang went the jolly gun.
Hunter jolly dead.
Jolly hare got clean away.
Jolly good, I said.

Charles Causley

Less of that, Rory. I've never felt better.

I reviewed Causley's last book, as it turned. I was astonished at his clarity and exactitude. I hope he read the review.

Sam,

Any chance I could read that? I've read the fine review you linked to earlier in this thread, but that's all.

John, I love how the hunter in 'I Saw a Jolly Hunter' is pretty much a cross between Elmer Fudd and a very English twit. I also love how the word jolly turns on him unexpectedly, a bit like the gun. Tee hee.