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Heavenly Kingdoms - Chapter 3
Letter 5 – Margaret Playford to Anne Charlston, 1st of June, 1856
Dear Annie,
Of course I am your dearest friend and encircle you like the Moon around the Earth whenever you need my so-called bright heart to shine upon your troubled night. I will admit that, not having spent much time in the presence of your father of late, I was taken aback by the violence of his outburst, having not considered that he had become so greatly detached from reality. It is a sad business indeed dear Annie; I pray for you always and ardently admire the courage of your vigil.
Also, I hope you do not mind, but I will admit to being intrigued by the words your father used in his lashing of the parson, being, as they were, seemingly full of some kind meaning, and thinking them perhaps metaphorically charged, but not a whit inclined to this type of thinking myself, I showed the words to my betrothed (I hope you do not mind, but I share all with him) as, as you may recall, he spins poetry from time to time which means little to me but all men must have their little diversions even if we think them the most pointless of exercises (Well, I share almost everything). Here, for example, is a sonnet he wrote during our courting which I think is tolerably cute though surely the most ordinary affair for a budding wordsmith:
O dearest fate-intended, be discreet
Lest all the world should claim you as did I,
For beauty such as yours should not compete
With all the ill-cut parodies that try;
For effortless is that which blinds the stars
And shames the antic sun to restless sleep,
Despite your claim to wearing wind-scrawled scars,
For modesty preserves what time shan't keep.
Alas, I make a claim no angel dares
For nothing may contain what soars divine,
And if among the heavens love despairs
Remember that true heart most humbly thine.
Thus I, among all other visions, swear:
That to these eyes none ever shone so fair.
Anyway, I showed him your father’s words and do you know what he said? The infuriating man! He said, “either it is analogous to something i.e. poetry: in which case meaning can only be determined by the reader and should not be interpreted by others for others to hear, or it is analogous to nothing i.e. nonsense: in which case there is nothing to be gained from analysis.” What good is a poet for a fiancé I tell you! If you find a man Annie, make sure he is a practical sort, concerned entirely with managing the estate not to any whims of artistic endeavour. Your brother, for example, always seemed a sensible fellow to me, despite him being as cold as the Atlantic.
But you know me my sweet, and know that I would not be deterred by such obtuseness when clarity is so easily squeezed with the right leverage. This man of mine, this gullible man, has such an ego - you should behold its girth – and although revelling in the wit and neatness of his absurd epigram I had little trouble infiltrating through the brittle logic of his defence against using his imaginative cognition for something of actual benefit to us not burdened by such a cloud bound mind as his. I simply suggested that if he were to consider your father’s words as a poem what would be the “errors” that would require correcting. Unable to resist pointing out the negative when the positive was taboo he delves right in and the entire argument he originally suggested crumbles predicably like a - well you know I don’t do metaphors – and he progresses to do just as I originally asked, as in the process of looking for the negative he instead sees the positive! Oh he’s such an adorable fool! Thus, he has written a few pages for your benefit which I have included following this one. Just look how he suddenly thinks poetry is the answer to all your problems! The delusions of the heady headed! Without further ado then, here is his analysis:
---
Interlarded pages from George Grayson to Anne Charlston, 1st of June, 1856
Anne,
At the behest of my dear Maggie, I have looked over the words your father spoke and think there is much to gleaned from them to help determine your father’s mental state and possible ways of extricating him from his declining malady. I have written out the sections of your well punctuated account of your father’s outburst again for reference. There appear to be three sections to his speech that bear the course of his intention (such as it may be called so):
One - “The heavens were ablaze until you cut the flaming fat and festooned iniquity on its carcass, stealing its bones and sucking dry the consecrated blood – An ocean boiled it was, pregnant with life, stoked by primordial winds”
He speaks of heaven both ablaze and as an ocean, but an ocean boiling. This contradiction can only mean he refers to a cauldron above a flame. This is in fact the hearth, where the pottage boils: the familial sustenance. The other references to all manner of fleshy matter only work to support this metaphor.
Two - “habitable by men, none which survive; not men, half men, but fallen crust from cantankerous moons; barely moon ready, yet Earth-struck with seedless offspring, each with chest travelling aheave in searching of kin, comrades, who sailed times whence to world’s end with hearts beaming, unrighteous, unjust, yet worthy of life. Where art thou my friends! They had died. Are dead. Their engines quenched with that of the scarred red firmament.”
This appeared quite gnomic to me at first; perhaps a crew of Tom O Bedlams off to the tourney at world’s end, or Odysseus and his crew; never one for scruples yet true adventurers and men of bold stock. It seems a cry for lost courage or adventurousness.
Three – “There is but frost and fire and frost is fire’s crowning victor. O there should be a shattering! And upon your life set what’s left ablaze! Cross not your breast sir, he laughs at your protection, as do I, and so does the moonlit field that spurns the sun. He wants you to face the roaring unprotected; his test for the damned, as all are not merry who merrily stay in shadowed ice. Go then and sanction the black char, soul cradler.”
Here the elements come into the piece, no doubt drawn from the words of the parson. As to why he favours the flame so strongly I cannot ascertain but it seems clear within his particular mythology that frost would never be the preferred of nature’s whims.
Regardless, this section serves to round off the three grand occasions of his misery. The first was hearth, the second, adventure, and the third, nature, but nature in the form of unrelenting renewal. The old or traditional, the new and the eternally unconquerable. Few think poetically without wishing for kind of change in themselves or the world. Perhaps your father wishes for both. Beyond what I have revealed I know not what his ultimate intentions are, if there are any.
As I tell Maggie, analysis of poetic thinking is fraught with the possibility of destroying that which makes it what it is, but your situation demands a certain leniency to these rules. However, know that for all the analysis we undergo it may still be better to view his words just as they are, without thought, but only feel them with your heart and see where they take you.
I would suggest Anne, that you begin the practice of poetry to better equip yourself to the manner of your father’s mind. I am biased of course but I believe such a skill can only be of benefit to a young lady trying to find your way in the world. Maggie herself claims no affinity for it, yet her words are replete with metaphor that she wilfully ignores, a denial I find ineffably charming and adore her for (don’t I, love).
Wishing you the best of luck,
George
---
Continuation of letter from Margaret Playford to Anne Charlston, 1st of June, 1856.
Don’t listen to him darling. You’re far too sensible for poetry and too susceptible to romantic air-headedness to absorb yourself in that word weary nonsense. Besides I would have only one so-called poet in my life and can’t bear to suffer another.
If I would be welcome, I would love to visit sometime and stay for as long as is of not too much burden for the poor cranky Cruikshank - you know how she adores my thorns - in a week or two perhaps, when I’m not held in place by my George’s dear dreary mother staying on until lord knows when.
Until then be at peace and know that you have a friend who will always listen when you need to release the burdens placed upon you by cruel circumstance.
I know that your brother did not accept your decision to assist your father, and I understand his thinking, but I think you are regardless a brave soul to go against what sense may dictate as folly. Stay strong my dear Annie and when times get difficult spare a moment and think of the cowering parson put in his place by a Charlston proving that if such an immovable and obnoxious force can be sundered then anything is possible for a being of your tremendous and wilful stock.
Your dearest friend,
Margaret
Dear Annie,
Of course I am your dearest friend and encircle you like the Moon around the Earth whenever you need my so-called bright heart to shine upon your troubled night. I will admit that, not having spent much time in the presence of your father of late, I was taken aback by the violence of his outburst, having not considered that he had become so greatly detached from reality. It is a sad business indeed dear Annie; I pray for you always and ardently admire the courage of your vigil.
Also, I hope you do not mind, but I will admit to being intrigued by the words your father used in his lashing of the parson, being, as they were, seemingly full of some kind meaning, and thinking them perhaps metaphorically charged, but not a whit inclined to this type of thinking myself, I showed the words to my betrothed (I hope you do not mind, but I share all with him) as, as you may recall, he spins poetry from time to time which means little to me but all men must have their little diversions even if we think them the most pointless of exercises (Well, I share almost everything). Here, for example, is a sonnet he wrote during our courting which I think is tolerably cute though surely the most ordinary affair for a budding wordsmith:
O dearest fate-intended, be discreet
Lest all the world should claim you as did I,
For beauty such as yours should not compete
With all the ill-cut parodies that try;
For effortless is that which blinds the stars
And shames the antic sun to restless sleep,
Despite your claim to wearing wind-scrawled scars,
For modesty preserves what time shan't keep.
Alas, I make a claim no angel dares
For nothing may contain what soars divine,
And if among the heavens love despairs
Remember that true heart most humbly thine.
Thus I, among all other visions, swear:
That to these eyes none ever shone so fair.
Anyway, I showed him your father’s words and do you know what he said? The infuriating man! He said, “either it is analogous to something i.e. poetry: in which case meaning can only be determined by the reader and should not be interpreted by others for others to hear, or it is analogous to nothing i.e. nonsense: in which case there is nothing to be gained from analysis.” What good is a poet for a fiancé I tell you! If you find a man Annie, make sure he is a practical sort, concerned entirely with managing the estate not to any whims of artistic endeavour. Your brother, for example, always seemed a sensible fellow to me, despite him being as cold as the Atlantic.
But you know me my sweet, and know that I would not be deterred by such obtuseness when clarity is so easily squeezed with the right leverage. This man of mine, this gullible man, has such an ego - you should behold its girth – and although revelling in the wit and neatness of his absurd epigram I had little trouble infiltrating through the brittle logic of his defence against using his imaginative cognition for something of actual benefit to us not burdened by such a cloud bound mind as his. I simply suggested that if he were to consider your father’s words as a poem what would be the “errors” that would require correcting. Unable to resist pointing out the negative when the positive was taboo he delves right in and the entire argument he originally suggested crumbles predicably like a - well you know I don’t do metaphors – and he progresses to do just as I originally asked, as in the process of looking for the negative he instead sees the positive! Oh he’s such an adorable fool! Thus, he has written a few pages for your benefit which I have included following this one. Just look how he suddenly thinks poetry is the answer to all your problems! The delusions of the heady headed! Without further ado then, here is his analysis:
---
Interlarded pages from George Grayson to Anne Charlston, 1st of June, 1856
Anne,
At the behest of my dear Maggie, I have looked over the words your father spoke and think there is much to gleaned from them to help determine your father’s mental state and possible ways of extricating him from his declining malady. I have written out the sections of your well punctuated account of your father’s outburst again for reference. There appear to be three sections to his speech that bear the course of his intention (such as it may be called so):
One - “The heavens were ablaze until you cut the flaming fat and festooned iniquity on its carcass, stealing its bones and sucking dry the consecrated blood – An ocean boiled it was, pregnant with life, stoked by primordial winds”
He speaks of heaven both ablaze and as an ocean, but an ocean boiling. This contradiction can only mean he refers to a cauldron above a flame. This is in fact the hearth, where the pottage boils: the familial sustenance. The other references to all manner of fleshy matter only work to support this metaphor.
Two - “habitable by men, none which survive; not men, half men, but fallen crust from cantankerous moons; barely moon ready, yet Earth-struck with seedless offspring, each with chest travelling aheave in searching of kin, comrades, who sailed times whence to world’s end with hearts beaming, unrighteous, unjust, yet worthy of life. Where art thou my friends! They had died. Are dead. Their engines quenched with that of the scarred red firmament.”
This appeared quite gnomic to me at first; perhaps a crew of Tom O Bedlams off to the tourney at world’s end, or Odysseus and his crew; never one for scruples yet true adventurers and men of bold stock. It seems a cry for lost courage or adventurousness.
Three – “There is but frost and fire and frost is fire’s crowning victor. O there should be a shattering! And upon your life set what’s left ablaze! Cross not your breast sir, he laughs at your protection, as do I, and so does the moonlit field that spurns the sun. He wants you to face the roaring unprotected; his test for the damned, as all are not merry who merrily stay in shadowed ice. Go then and sanction the black char, soul cradler.”
Here the elements come into the piece, no doubt drawn from the words of the parson. As to why he favours the flame so strongly I cannot ascertain but it seems clear within his particular mythology that frost would never be the preferred of nature’s whims.
Regardless, this section serves to round off the three grand occasions of his misery. The first was hearth, the second, adventure, and the third, nature, but nature in the form of unrelenting renewal. The old or traditional, the new and the eternally unconquerable. Few think poetically without wishing for kind of change in themselves or the world. Perhaps your father wishes for both. Beyond what I have revealed I know not what his ultimate intentions are, if there are any.
As I tell Maggie, analysis of poetic thinking is fraught with the possibility of destroying that which makes it what it is, but your situation demands a certain leniency to these rules. However, know that for all the analysis we undergo it may still be better to view his words just as they are, without thought, but only feel them with your heart and see where they take you.
I would suggest Anne, that you begin the practice of poetry to better equip yourself to the manner of your father’s mind. I am biased of course but I believe such a skill can only be of benefit to a young lady trying to find your way in the world. Maggie herself claims no affinity for it, yet her words are replete with metaphor that she wilfully ignores, a denial I find ineffably charming and adore her for (don’t I, love).
Wishing you the best of luck,
George
---
Continuation of letter from Margaret Playford to Anne Charlston, 1st of June, 1856.
Don’t listen to him darling. You’re far too sensible for poetry and too susceptible to romantic air-headedness to absorb yourself in that word weary nonsense. Besides I would have only one so-called poet in my life and can’t bear to suffer another.
If I would be welcome, I would love to visit sometime and stay for as long as is of not too much burden for the poor cranky Cruikshank - you know how she adores my thorns - in a week or two perhaps, when I’m not held in place by my George’s dear dreary mother staying on until lord knows when.
Until then be at peace and know that you have a friend who will always listen when you need to release the burdens placed upon you by cruel circumstance.
I know that your brother did not accept your decision to assist your father, and I understand his thinking, but I think you are regardless a brave soul to go against what sense may dictate as folly. Stay strong my dear Annie and when times get difficult spare a moment and think of the cowering parson put in his place by a Charlston proving that if such an immovable and obnoxious force can be sundered then anything is possible for a being of your tremendous and wilful stock.
Your dearest friend,
Margaret
