A Broken Appointment

I just sat through an hour long talk by Andrew Motion, the ex-poet Laureate. I had dinner with him beforehand, due to my being one of the keenest English students at my school (it isn't hard, although sadly I only realised this when I walked into my kitchen afterwards and my housemates were complaining that they'd almost been lulled to sleep by his dulcet tones.)

Anyway, we had dinner, and by some bizarre chance I ended up sat next to him, which I can honestly say was an absolute privilege. Quite aside from being perhaps one of the most intelligent, well spoken, polite, and interesting men I have ever met, he was also incredibly charming with a wonderful voice. Anyway, we talked for a bit, I told him about my Uni disaster, and he very kindly told me the same thing had happened to his son, which was, I must say, most comforting.

So yes, I have developed a rather schoolgirl crush on perhaps in literary terms one of the most important men in Britain- or at least, I like to think so.

The dreams, however, of a whirlwind affair and my future as his muse were somewhat shattered when he announced (just before reading some of the most beautiful love poetry I've ever heard) that he had four or five years ago met a Korean woman, who he was planning on spending the rest of his life with. Sigh.

Such is life, eh? I'm sure there'll be other poets that come along for me to fall in love with. For now, here's a poem that I rather like, and for some reason seems to resonate at the moment.

You did not come,
And marching time drew on and wore me numb.
Yet less for loss of your dear presence there
Than that I thus found lacking in your make
That high compassion which can overbear
Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake
Greived I, when, as the hope-hour struck its sum,
You did not come.

You love not me,
And love alone can lend you loyalty;
- I know and knew it. But, unto the store
Of human deeds divine in all but name,
Was it not worth a little hour or more
To add yet this: once you, a woman, came
To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be
You love not me.

(A Broken Appointment, Thomas Hardy)

I could go into the beauty of the language and the insane subtlety of the rhythms, but what would be the point? It would only detract from the glorious subjectivity which makes reading poetry so immensely satisfying. Like intelligent narcissism.

Ciao x