Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

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London SE1 9GF

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Copyright © The Estate of the late Patrick O’Brian CBE 2019

Foreword copyright © Nikolai Tolstoy 2019

Cover © Magdalena Russocka / Trevillion 2019

Cover layout design © HarperCollinsPublishers 2019

Patrick O’Brian asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008261344

Ebook Edition © March 2019 ISBN: 9780008261351

Version: 2019-02-28

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Foreword by Nikolai Tolstoy

Part I: Poems

Blitz poetry

‘The sea and the sky are silent’

Mrs Koren

‘The harsh dry polished rattle’

‘You will come to it’

The Olive Harvest

The Inine

tibi donum offero

A present

French verses

Mal du pays

Le bois des oiseaux

Espagnols exilés

‘A dog bit his master’

Goat

Looking towards the south

Foxes surprised

Epitaph

February

The Deep Gold of a Pomegranate-Tree

The Cypress Tree

Meads no more

The Lagoon

A Lycéen

In Upper Leeson Street

How to lay a mine

The far side of the pass

August, Sun-impaled

Words from the bottom of a river

Croagh Patrick

A T’ang Landscape Remembered

Song

Farewell, my sin I have enjoyed you

A man under his impulsion

David danced before the ark

The falling of the leaves

Dear Mona Fitzpatrick ’32 (or ’3)

The theft

The electric light failing

Youth gone

Giving up smoking

Diego

Spaniards Exiled

The Captain and the Stock

To the hermitage and down, refreshed

Waiting for money in a far country

In Madame Ponsalié’s garden

Walk by the sea to see wonders

The raven

The young listless man

From the Welsh

Snowdon for the sunrise

The wine-dark sea

The bad day

Sterne

The Pleiades on Christmas Eve

The apology

Dead hours of louring justification, a desert of time

Myself a young man read a poem

The uncertain land

Silver-haired charm and urbanity

Winter in Foreign Parts

Obsèques

The dark figures

‘Is true the rat’

The duty of pleasure

Poulp: or, the Medusa a Toy

Grey and white

No smoking: the second day

Pray, Luv, forgive me my sourness

The Mandrake

For Louise’s visitors’ book

‘Clouds over clouds’

‘Walking on the high mountain’

‘Help my understanding, Lady’

‘Down through the vines’

Collioure

‘Long, straight, the steel lines’

‘If I could go back into my dream’

‘Loose-bellied, grey’

Old Men

‘When your lance fails’

Part II: Drafts

The Sardana for the First Time

‘Yesterday an old husband’

‘Whereas in Jewry came a star’

‘Not that a hard-roed herring should presume’

‘The pattering of rain’

‘The cry of buzzards in the sky’

‘Vicious intromission’

Forbear O Venus pray forbear

A halt on the Trans-Siberian

‘When my Muse and Chian Veins vie’

The sorrow & woe

Boars

Night walking

‘On the mountain I have quite a good sense of direction’

The True-born Englishman

‘Sun sloping through the cypresses’

Labuntur anni (The advancing years)

‘Peace; a great lawn that small, fat feet’

The hard winter

‘An old thin tall man’

What the hell do you know about poverty?

‘The north wind low over the house’

‘High on the cold mountain road’

‘I went out in a night of tearing wind’

‘A wheeling buzzard lifting to the sun’

‘Thoughts that range from anger and revenge’

‘Of France and of the knowledge of that land’

Captivity

‘When a dry heart sets a bleeding’

Loud-mouthed neighbours through the floor

‘For Jojo’s livre d’or 85’

Footnotes

Acknowledgements

Index of first lines

The Works of Patrick O’Brian

About the Publisher

Foreword

I do not know when Patrick first began composing poetry. However, I strongly suspect that it was during his frequently lonely adolescence, when he was cooped up largely alone in his father’s successive homes. He was from an early age a voracious reader. He was also a passionate devotee of the natural world, and during the three years he lived as an adolescent boy at Lewes in Sussex he spent long happy hours wandering along the banks of the nearby river Ouse, and along the sands of the beach below the towering white cliffs at Seaford. Much of his poetry is concerned with limpid depictions of animals, especially birds, and delicate descriptions of the landscape with which he was familiar.

The earliest specimens of his poetry to have survived are, in contrast, robustly humorous (even mildly erotic) – which will come as no surprise to readers of the Aubrey-Maturin epic. During the Blitz in 1940–41 he and my mother drove ambulances in Chelsea, which was heavily bombed by Luftwaffe aeroplanes offloading their remaining bombs before returning homeward above the moonlit Thames. Patrick entertained his fellow workers in the ambulance station at 18 Danvers Street by acting as unofficial bard of the unit. There he composed a lively anthem for the denizens of number 22 Station of the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service. He also concocted a poetic narrative recounting the nocturnal adventures of my mother’s faithful dachshund, Miss Patz, who sneaks out of her lodgings to join the regulars at the Black Lion pub around the corner from the ambulance station, and moves on to one of the many shady little drinking clubs which characterised the perilous Chelsea of those days. I suspect that Miss Patz’s exploits reflected in some degree those of her adventurous owner. My mother, in addition, assisted with the fluent German and French sections of the poem, being fluent in both languages.

For four years after the War my parents lived in a tiny cottage in the mountains of Snowdonia, where their fare depended in large part on Patrick’s skill with rod and gun. They were also avid followers of the local foxhounds, a hunt conducted on foot amid wildly dramatic mountain scenery. There, as Patrick’s novel Three Bear Witnessfn1 attests, he paid minute attention to landscape and wildlife. I find it hard to believe that he did not also commemorate them in poetry at the same time, although all of his muse that survives is his cheerful ode to a generous American lady who sent them tins of marmalade in 1946.

In 1949 he and my mother migrated to Collioure in the south of France. During the more rewarding decades which ensued, Patrick regularly jotted down poems in little notebooks and on odd sheets of paper. Among the earliest verse surviving from that period are allusions to the wild and rugged landscape they had left behind them, which was not dissimilar to that of the Pyrenees towering above the little town.

Many of Patrick’s salient characteristics are revealed in this collection: his recurring fear of death, love of local scenery, and careful perception of the patient labours of the local inhabitants. Although he was broadly apolitical, in his poem Espagnols exilés he manifests poignant sympathy for Spanish Republicans who had fled across the frontier in 1939, a residue of whom lingered on in Collioure after my parents’ arrival.

However, it should not be thought that his themes are all melancholy. He cherished a copy of Edward Lear’s poems, given to me by a fond great-aunt for my fourth birthday, which my mother abstracted shortly afterwards when she departed our family home to live with Patrick. ‘A dog bit his master’, composed not long after their arrival at Collioure, provides a fine specimen of Patrick’s love of the absurd.

In the following year he composed his poem ‘In Upper Leeson Street’, which nostalgically evokes his memorable stay in Dublin in 1937, where he completed his precocious novel Hussein. Although even in private he talked little about his former life (save, I assume, to my mother), it is clear that in his mind he dwelt much on their early days of adventurous privation, as well as images of people and places lovingly stored in his memory. The earliest allusions are to be found in the reverie ‘If I could go back into my dream’, which if I am not mistaken draws upon childish fancies of wild beasts frequenting the streets, areas, and corners of the London with which he was familiar when living there as a small boy of five.

Although Patrick devoted much care to poetic composition, much of it does not appear even to have been submitted for publication. Unlike his prose, which he generally looked upon with justified approval, he quite frequently expressed hesitant reservations about the value of his poetry. As he noted in his diary in October 1978, ‘More work on poems, but doubt keeps creeping in & as I wrote on one of them, simplicity can come v close to silliness’. But he was rigorously self-critical, and I for one find his poetry delightful.

He was strongly drawn to the genre, and possessed a particular penchant for the writings of Chaucer, which he possessed in Tyrwhitt’s handsome two-volume edition (1798). Time and again, when relaxing with a drink after the day’s labours were done, he would return to the ebullient Father of English Poetry with zestful pleasure. When I stayed with my parents in the days of my youth, we would follow supper by taking it in turns to read aloud our favourite poems accompanied by the shrilling of cicadas in the darkened vineyard. For some reason, this congenial practice was later abandoned, but it was doubtless continued when Patrick was alone with my mother.fn2

In September 1978 Patrick noted in his diary:

My poems discourage me: too personal, often too trifling. There are some I like that would do for general consumption but probably not enough to make a book.

However, he had earlier noted:

These last 2 days I’ve been looking through my poems, with the idea of picking out enough of those that do not make me blush for a volume: many I had quite forgotten & some surprised me agreeably.

Although he sent a batch shortly afterwards to his sympathetic literary agent Richard Scott Simon, only a handful saw the light of publication during Patrick’s lifetime. Now, however, this handsome collection has been brought together, containing both polished versions and drafts that for one reason or another were left in an unfinished state, which I do not doubt will give Patrick’s legion of admirers around the world the pleasure they afford me.

NIKOLAI TOLSTOY, 2018

Part I: Poems

Blitz poetry

Lines of unpredictable merit written on the back of Miss Patz, a rough-haired Dachshundin in the year of Grace a thousand nine hundred and forty-one, on Wednesday, the eighth day of January, at about half after one in the afternoon, it being a cold day, dismal with half molten snow.

The people of this [Chelsea ambulance] station are disconsolate and rude,

All English to the tonsils, and filled with British phlegm.

They blow their noses horribly, and between the blast is spewed

A flux of ghastly small-talk. Why, O God, did you make them?

¿Was other clay not handy?

Was there nothing else to please?

O Lord that gave us brandy

And lamb and fresh green peas

¿Why did You turn your hand to these?

The last line is (I think) an Alexandrine,

which is very clever indeed, probably.

That is affected, I must admit. ¿But am

I inferior to a Spaniard? ¡No!

In dispraise of the Personnel of 22 St[ation].

L.A.A.S.fn1

The people of this station are disconsolate and rude

they are English to the tonsils, and with British phlegm embued

In proof of this opinion to their handkerchiefs I point

And not only to their kerchiefs, but oyster eyes and rheumy joint.

But also to their tempers, habitually vile

The fruit of grave distempers and coagulated bile.

All wart-hogs in comparison are quite high-souled and mild

Which leads to the conclusion that the better beasts are wild.

This may be sung (though the notion is grim)

To the tune of a well-known American hymn.

viz., or vide licet, if you should prefer the word

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord …

[Miss Patz]

Patz went out in the dead of the night,

in the dead of the night went she.

But first she carefully put out the light,

And closed the door with a key.

[Miss Patz’s invitation to the pub]

Sie sagte sich «Im ein Augenblick»

Ich werde haben ein grosse Trink.

Und so in kleiner

Moment werdet in meiner

Turn, zwei-drei steiner

Sein, oder bier als wein.

Gut. Geh’ich nach Klub.

Nein; erst hab ich lust für ein Pub.

She went quite straight to the Lion called Blackfn2

Tossed down a quick pint, and never looked back

For a wicked old Owl, who took his dram raw

Determined to try the truth of the saw …

mark the Saw.

In wommin vinident [‘full of wine’] is no defence,

ðus knoweth lechours by experience.

Dan C[haucer].

So he plied her with whiskey, with gin and with rum

And said that he wished she would instantly come

To a very fine party to be held at a club

So complaisant and willing she then left the pub.

At the club she encountered a motley crew

Hard-drinking and raffish and lecherous too

They drank bottles of whiskey and magnums of gin

Till Patz felt uncertain what state she was in.

The Owl broke off in the midst of a tale

(It was singularly dirty – exclusively male)

And said ‘Liebe Fraülein, what makes you so pale?

Come, drink up a glass of red pepper and ale.’

She said ‘it’s my head, the air, heat and the smoke,’

And giggled like one who has just made a joke.

The Owl thought, ‘Aha, now may I eat grass,

But this is the time when I make the first pass.’

And through his foul mind there passed devious shapes

Of libidinous bitches and lecherous apes.

[Jetzt kommt er bei Patz,fn3

Und flüßtert ganz leise

‘Heraus liegt ein Auto,

Kommst Du für ein Reise?’

‘Ach nein! Du alt Teufel!

Wie kannst du mir’s fragen?

Ich weiß schon gehörts

L.C.C. dieser Wagon!’

Alors les autres

Se mettaient à rire

En se moquant de l’hibou

Qui ne savait quoi dire.

Il saisit d’un coup

Une bouteille de vin,

La vidait toute suite

Et la jettait du main.

‘Je paris’, dit-il,

‘Je ne quitterai pas

Avant que la chienne

Se sert dans mes bras’.]

‘The sea and the sky are silent’

The sea and the sky are silent:

they wait.

The sea and the sky are silent:

the girl is late.

The sea and the sky are silent:

the girl is late.

The sea and the sky are waiting:

let her come to her fate.

Mrs Koren

Couplets in favour of Mrs W. Koren, who sent (per JBC)fn1 jam to the O’Brians [at Collioure] in time of dearth

All Attic virtues, beauty, wisdom, wit,

Take which you will, she doth excel in it

All these and yet one more th’Atlantic dame

Hath to illumine her noble spouse’s name,

Mark there the Greek with Chian wine and oil

Comes bearing gifts, and see how vain his toil.

Yet here Transpontine Ceres freely sends

Imprison’d comfits, Polemarchus’ blends, …

And dreams not fear nor anger (see above)

But grateful intercessions and our love

The pallid bread glows purple, and the dew

Of anxious gleed bespreads each wizen’d brow

Encrimson’d mouths gape sated at the last

Such admirable tins of jam as these

Are apt to promote international pese

May Heaven reward Mrs Koren

Who is undoubtedly a pearl among women.

The recipient of jam were [sic] undoubtedly a moron

‘The harsh dry polished rattle’

The harsh dry polished rattle of the palm fronds

stirring in the breeze. I had supposed

But not our London sparrow, magpie, crow

Still less the stars by night, our Plough, old Bear

the same Orion, Rigal, Altair there

and through the trees the shining Procyon.

‘You will come to it’

You will come to it

Do not suppose their motions pantomime

because the thing they dig is dark, unseen

the mattock and the shovel swing in time

a near approach will show you what they mean.

The Olive Harvest

Cold from the silent leaden sky, unmoving, full of snow.

Cold, and the sounds far on the smoky air –

the rackle, hoe in stones, the stoney vineyard high

and the working man much farther than the sound

All through the terraced valley, sounds.

The vines are bare, the spare leaves redden:

they prune: and everywhere they grub with shining tools

And in the silence sounds – on silence beads, the sounds.

Now there are women.

gabbling

Where are the women? There

gabbling

above the road, the vines, the olives

the prim the graceful olive trees

the women picking there the olives

a tilted plane, the trees, the women

and then the sky, one-coloured, leaden.

Neat, clear, unworldly, Pieter Brueghel.

I do not like to see the women.

Black. Not shining. Black entirely.

head to foot, and cheesey faces.

Eager, hard and clacking voices: and the hands

are deadly white for ever groping,

They stand as high, and monstrously

they stand as high, as does the tree.

Their hands

are deadly white, for ever groping.

Emasculating

in the trees.

The Inine

The winter hillside

brown

sharp, clear, distinct

and figures running

tiny, shortened, struggling with space.

A plouff of smoke

is drifting on the field

larger: larger, vague: and now the bang

the echoes clapping in the hills, hard hills,

and now the rain

reversed: the rattle

cruel ripping tearing hail

of stones that fell

in time disturbed, before.

tibi donum offero

I am poor about loving, so

tibi donum offero

It is a present as you see

extractum ex operi

quod ex libro domini

extractum est, alas by me

theft it was, but theft or no

tibi donum offero.

A present

A present is chiefly a fragment, a token

of affection and love.

And then there is the strong pleasure of giving

a visible proof of unbroken

kindness and more

But, the interchanging pleasure apart

and discounted

A ring is a token of marriage; a book

of the spirit that made it.

and a present of love.

But the marriage is more than the ring

and the mind than the book.

French verses
Mal du pays

Les vignes, les chênes-lièges, oliviers et thym

les Catalans

le sein

vierge du Canigou

le vent vif des montagnes

et tous

ces pics fiers, hautains

d’Espagne.

J’avais prévu.

Mais pas le moineau anglais, ni la pie

le corbeau parlant gallois, même ici.

Et renard, je t’ai déjà vu

t’ai chassé, là, dans mon pays.

Et à travers les feuilles semées

(étranges feuilles des palmiers)

vieilles étoilles, là notr’ Charrue

Rigel, Altair: à perte de vue

nos douces Pleïades, les mêmes que celles

qui hantent les gens de Camberwell.

Le bois des oiseaux

vent qui chant dans le bois des oiseaux

et vert le soleil dans les feuilles, jeunes feuilles.

Courbé, courbé sur les pierres

les pierres vertes de Coed Tŷ

yeux fixes, aveugles sur la terre

la terre moussue de Coed Tŷ

je tenais dans mes mains la peine

la peine, la peine, cher Dieu la peine

la peine atroce là, dans mon coeur.

Espagnols exilés fn1

Une femme qui chante

et dans la rue étroite soleil qui fait

des ombres durs, rigides et rectilignes

rien ne bouge

mais dans la rue

le Chant qui tombe, se meurt, gitane

à fendre le coeur, mi corazón.

Oh querido, mi corazón.

Ils chantent ici, les Espagnols

dans le pays d’autres, pays étranger,

dans un autre pays qui n’est pas le leur.

‘A dog bit his master’

A dog bit his master

who in order to leave to posterity an account of this disaster

took an unusually large piece of pink-and-yellow mottled alabaster

which, having been found at the mouth of a Pyrenean river

did not, by that unforeseen circumstance, cost him anything at all: not so much as a stiver.

Goat

A man long used to affection (a roof, as it were;

a condition of being)

Withers strangely when it is removed.

His days grow incommensurably long

He abbreviates his nights with pills Guaranteed

Nepenthe four new pence

Shrivels, old and surly, says Do not say

I stabbed myself with my own lance.

Do not say ‘You in the person of an aging goat

put the fire to your own thatch’

I do not feel the want of shelter any less

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