Vernon Watkins was born on June 27, 1906, and his centenary was celebrated on Tuesday as the final event in the Year in Literature Festival at Magdalene College, Cambridge (England). He died in October 1967 after playing a two hour doubles tennis match at the University of Washington, Seattle, where he was visiting Professor of Poetry. A New Selected edition of his poetry has very recently been published by Carcanet.
Professor M.Wynn Thomas, an authority on Anglo-Welsh literature, pointed to weaknesses in much of Watkins' symbolist poetry which may account for the sharp posthumous decline in his reputation. (He is now remembered mainly for his friendship with Dylan Thomas but at the time of his death was under consideration for the British Laureateship). Thomas insisted however that the poet's dozen or so fine poems (plus some fine passages) should be celebrated, and that he deserves better than oblivion.
I have read too little of Watkins' work to offer an opinion on his overall achievement , but here is one of the poems I admire:
The Collier
When I was born on Amman hill
A dark bird crossed the sun.
Sharp on the floor the shadow fell;
I was the youngest son.
And when I went to the County School
I worked in a shaft of light.
In the wood of the desk I cut my name:
Dai for Dynamite.
The tall black hills my brothers stood;
Their lessons all were done.
From the door of the school when I ran out
They frowned to watch me run.
The slow grey bells they rung a chime
Surly with grief or age.
Clever or clumsy, lad or lout,
All would look for a wage.
I learnt the valley flowers' names
And the rough bark knew my knees.
I brought home trout from the river
And spotted eggs from the trees.
A coloured coat I was give to wear
Where the lights of the rough land shone.
Still jealous of my favour
The tall black hills looked on.
They dipped my coat in the blood of a kid
And they cast me down a pit,
And although I crossed with strangers
There was no way up from it.
Soon as I went from the County School
I worked in a shaft. Said Jim.
'You will get your chain of gold, my lad,
But not for a likely time.'
And one said, 'Jack was not raised up
When the wind blew out the light
Though he interpreted their dreams
And guessed their fears by night.'
And Tom, he shivered his leper's lamp
For the stain that round him grew;
And I heard mouths pray in the after-damp
When the picks would not break through.
They changed words there in darkness
And still through my head they run,
And white on my limbs is the linen sheet
And gold on my neck the sun.
[This message has been edited by Margaret Moore (edited June 30, 2006).]
|
Threaded Mode
