"Dutch School", 'The Day", and 'Translation' by Roy Fuller

Roy - father of John Fuller - was something of a hero to me in the way that he went about his poetry. Probably when he died in 1991, I found out that he had written most of his work (rising at 5am) before he went off to work as a solicitor at the Woolwich Building Society. He had various jobs including a radar mechanic and an officer in the Royal Navy. 
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At the last,he became Professor of Poetry at Oxford: I wonder what hours he worked there? Do they have perhaps a clocking in machine? How do they check that when he is sat there with a pencil in his hand, scratching himself, that it is a verse on his mind and not a shopping list?

I have a collection of Roy's poems copied out by hand in my commonplace book. These two are particular favourites.



DUTCH SCHOOL

The hidden symbolism of the real!
It seems that Dutchmen painted them long ago
Ostensibly commonplace interiors
But in the shadows hands touched guilty things
And even some lighted gesture sent unease,
Adjacent to burning coals or leper's clappers,
Or partly blocked by red and tuberous fruit.

Procuress, roué, whore - how easily
Such masquerade as mother, father, daughter!
Freudians umpteen years before the letter,
These artists saw the even kitchen scales
Or piano lessons, in the right tint, position,
Will indicate our most profound desires - 
For justice, say or passion that teaches passion




THE DAY

At the time it seemed unimportant: he was lying
In bed, off work, with a sudden pain,
And she was haloed by the morning sun,
Enquiring if he would like the daily paper

So, idle Byzantium scarcely felt at first
The presence in her remoter provinces
Of the destructive followers of the Crescent.

But in retrospect, that day of moderate health
Stood fired in solid and delightful hues,
The last of joy, the first of something else -
An inconceivable time when sex could be 
Grasped for the asking with gigantic limbs,
When interest was still in the disasters 
Of others - accidents, uprising, drouth
And the sharp mind perceived the poignancy
Of the ridiculous thought of dissolution.

A day remembered by a shrivelled empire
Nursed by hermaphrodites and sustained
By tepid fluids poured in its crying mouth.


TRANSLATION

Now that the barbarians have got as far as Picra,
And all the music is written in the twelve tone scale,
And I am anyway approaching my fortieth birthday,
      I will dissemble no longer.

I will stop expressing my belief in the rosy
Future of man, and accept the evidence
Of a couple of wretched wars and innumerable
      Abortive revolutions.

I will come to blame the stupidity of the slaves
Upon their masters and nurture, and will say,
Plainly that they are enemies to culture,
      Advancement and cleanliness.

From progressive organisations, from quarterlies
Devoted to daring verse, from membership of
Committees, from letters of various protest
     I shall withdraw forthwith.

When they call me reactionary I shall smile,
Secure in another dimension. When they say
'Cinna has ceased to matter' I shall know
     How well I reflect the times.

The ruling class will think I am on their side
And make friendly overtures, but I shall retire
To the side further from Picra and write some poems
      About the doom of the whole boiling

Anyone happy in this age and place
Is daft or corrupt. Better to abdicate
From a material and spiritual terrain
     Fit only for barbarians.

A Maid at a Window Watering Plants - by 'Dutch School' (sic)

Roy Fuller