Saturday, 10 September 2011
Enoch Powell wasn't just a soldier, a scholar and a statesman. He was a poet. His poetry is mostly forgotten now, although it had genuine merit. Like his politics, his poetry was, unfashionably and unpardonably, politically incorrect - in that it made sense and rhymed. Powell's published books of poetry are quite rare now, available only through specialist antiquarian bookshops at significant expense. I've managed to acquire a copy of his Collected Poems, though, and I'll occasionally publish something from it. As far as I can see, this material is not available anywhere else on the internet.

Here's a fine poem that seems to embody the spirit of patriotism that pervaded the life of Enoch Powell, deriving from a sense of history and a sense of place.
From Guilsborough to Northampton, all the way
Under a full red August moon,
I wandered down. The fields lay bright as day
And white as if with snow new strewn;
The moist warm air was hushed, there came no sound
Of aircraft throbbing overhead
Nor rumbling gunfire from the cities round,
But all was still: no other tread
Echoed along the highway. Yet the air
Seemed thronged and teeming, as if hosts
Of living presences were everywhere;
And I imagined they were ghosts
Of the old English, who by tower and spire,
Wherever priest and sexton's spade
In church or graveyard round about the shire
Their unremembered bones had laid,
Now in the warm still night arising, filled
The broad air with their company,
And hovering in the fields that once they tilled,
Brooded on England's destiny.

1 comments:

F***W*T TW****R said...

Great Stuff CZ

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