...Being the story of how what I thought was a bland piece of romantic poetry that had been turned into a Victorian parlour song is actually a completely amazing product of the Tennyson brain.
Thanks for bringing Maud back into the garden I feel a bit guilty as I have associated ' come into the garden maud with in general that rather maudlin song beloved of programmes such as the Good old days or derided by the likes of Master Nigel Molesworth esq of St Custards school, along with another Tennyson schoolboy favourite 'Tears idle tears'.
I have thus reread and appreciated its content which is rather sad sorrowful and I get the slightly obsessional bit.
This is quite something to me; my mother had Maud as a middle name and the family sang the first lines always. It made us laugh so much without knowing why. I'm amazed at all this information after only knowing a line or two that made a working class family tease our mother of nine.
I muchly enjoy latterday takes on the perfectly normal for whatever period behaviour. In a way, this reflects on my rather more serious posit regarding religion - how in hades could 20th let alone 21st century people believe that stuff? But the further back in time we look, the deeper the sentimental governance of everyday lives; even among the severest characters, like those who do wrong, harbouring dreadful things that make them vengeful, intolerant. What, they want forgiveness and tolerance? Live by the swizz, die by the swindle. Then there was tradition, courtly behaviour, honour (phooey) and other social mores like positon and society.
One might agree that Tenny babes is quite off his rocker, Keats, Homer, all that tribe too. And the Brontes and Jayne Eyre or was it Jane Austen... Who in their right loaf could even fancy Heathcote, sorry that was a kid's puppet show, Heathcliffe I meant. About as glamourous as Flintwynch or Mr Quilp. They weren't far fetched; not Master Copperfield's goodness. Sadly, actually. Though some 2nd hand shop owners grunted rather than spoke... But I mean, if all you have to say is "Barkiss is willin'", why do all that garden gate business?
I sometimes think authors and poets expect us to swallow any old cock and bull (neither of which I reccommend). Conan Doyle - if his mate Sherliebabes was so smart, why is London such a criminalised hovel? But to be serious for a moment, look at Victorian times. Ladies swooned, which some put down to corsetry, however the male attitude (the ones that didn't rape or enslave) was that sewing and poetry were OK but cleaning and ironing and stuff was for skivies. One has to care for the pale complexion.
I can still smell those cards depicting roses. Mum's piano stool contained sheet music of a similar ilk - Monastry Garden, tunes for Violin and Piano (dad played violin but preferred his Irish folk) and the kind os songs demanding Billy Connolly's worth of vibrato. It went a bit that way at jnr school. "Tender Flower, Slender Flower" sang the head teacher's favourite - I wonder what happened to her? Then Mr Callaghan got us singing about "Nymphs and shepherds come away, come away" and goddy stuff like "We long to see thee so, to see thee newly bor-horn" which were more giddy and fun. But sentiment was the core essence. It ran right into the early sixties with love, love, love - or break up thereof.
At least we dropped the dead dead dust of our hearts and just got whacked on motorbikes. But it remains today. Swifties, Abbacites, even the chuffin Scorpions have gone wet round the neck. Thank goodness of honest ghoulishness in say, TV series like The Traitors (it's a game of chance, you chuffs), Cra, Shetland and stuff. But even then, even Casualty and 999 stuff - it's all making us root for someone. Davey Attenborough does his best to instill sensible over sentimental in the wild - and the dingbat bbc overdub it with frantic drumming or soppy piarnoh music. This is why I like Plath and Peake and Heaney and MacCaig. Except for the war poems Peake does. Again, is this lest we forget or are we sanctifying blue bloody murder? Oh, I give up. Pour me another decaf tea.
Good article Mike, as ever. You could write about football entertainingly....ah....
It's a lyric poem contained in his work, The Princess ' 1847, 'Tears idle Tears, I know not what they mean.
Thanks for bringing Maud back into the garden I feel a bit guilty as I have associated ' come into the garden maud with in general that rather maudlin song beloved of programmes such as the Good old days or derided by the likes of Master Nigel Molesworth esq of St Custards school, along with another Tennyson schoolboy favourite 'Tears idle tears'.
I have thus reread and appreciated its content which is rather sad sorrowful and I get the slightly obsessional bit.
I thought exactly the same about Maud until a week or so ago. You have me intrigued by “Tears, Idle Tears” which I have never heard of.
This is quite something to me; my mother had Maud as a middle name and the family sang the first lines always. It made us laugh so much without knowing why. I'm amazed at all this information after only knowing a line or two that made a working class family tease our mother of nine.
Love you Maud, forever. X
Fascinating article…and fascinating comment in response …lots to consider😊
I muchly enjoy latterday takes on the perfectly normal for whatever period behaviour. In a way, this reflects on my rather more serious posit regarding religion - how in hades could 20th let alone 21st century people believe that stuff? But the further back in time we look, the deeper the sentimental governance of everyday lives; even among the severest characters, like those who do wrong, harbouring dreadful things that make them vengeful, intolerant. What, they want forgiveness and tolerance? Live by the swizz, die by the swindle. Then there was tradition, courtly behaviour, honour (phooey) and other social mores like positon and society.
One might agree that Tenny babes is quite off his rocker, Keats, Homer, all that tribe too. And the Brontes and Jayne Eyre or was it Jane Austen... Who in their right loaf could even fancy Heathcote, sorry that was a kid's puppet show, Heathcliffe I meant. About as glamourous as Flintwynch or Mr Quilp. They weren't far fetched; not Master Copperfield's goodness. Sadly, actually. Though some 2nd hand shop owners grunted rather than spoke... But I mean, if all you have to say is "Barkiss is willin'", why do all that garden gate business?
I sometimes think authors and poets expect us to swallow any old cock and bull (neither of which I reccommend). Conan Doyle - if his mate Sherliebabes was so smart, why is London such a criminalised hovel? But to be serious for a moment, look at Victorian times. Ladies swooned, which some put down to corsetry, however the male attitude (the ones that didn't rape or enslave) was that sewing and poetry were OK but cleaning and ironing and stuff was for skivies. One has to care for the pale complexion.
I can still smell those cards depicting roses. Mum's piano stool contained sheet music of a similar ilk - Monastry Garden, tunes for Violin and Piano (dad played violin but preferred his Irish folk) and the kind os songs demanding Billy Connolly's worth of vibrato. It went a bit that way at jnr school. "Tender Flower, Slender Flower" sang the head teacher's favourite - I wonder what happened to her? Then Mr Callaghan got us singing about "Nymphs and shepherds come away, come away" and goddy stuff like "We long to see thee so, to see thee newly bor-horn" which were more giddy and fun. But sentiment was the core essence. It ran right into the early sixties with love, love, love - or break up thereof.
At least we dropped the dead dead dust of our hearts and just got whacked on motorbikes. But it remains today. Swifties, Abbacites, even the chuffin Scorpions have gone wet round the neck. Thank goodness of honest ghoulishness in say, TV series like The Traitors (it's a game of chance, you chuffs), Cra, Shetland and stuff. But even then, even Casualty and 999 stuff - it's all making us root for someone. Davey Attenborough does his best to instill sensible over sentimental in the wild - and the dingbat bbc overdub it with frantic drumming or soppy piarnoh music. This is why I like Plath and Peake and Heaney and MacCaig. Except for the war poems Peake does. Again, is this lest we forget or are we sanctifying blue bloody murder? Oh, I give up. Pour me another decaf tea.
Good article Mike, as ever. You could write about football entertainingly....ah....
It’s great to see you back on form Alex… I shall read this a few times before it all sinks in.