Читать книгу Stressed, Unstressed: Classic Poems to Ease the Mind - Jonathan Bate - Страница 7

1.

stopping

Remember the old road safety advice? Stop, look, listen. Here are some poems that may help us to de-stress by doing just that. Stopping by woods on a walk; a train stopped in a station; stopping to taste a plum, to look at a wheelbarrow, to marvel at a tree or even to observe a spider.

Our bodies operate, for the most part, below the radar – under the control of the so-called autonomic nervous system. The conscious part of the brain and nervous system lets us know when (and exactly how) to move our hand in order, say, to turn the pages of this book. But the unconscious workings of the nervous system are far more covert. We use two different groups of nerve fibres to manage our unconscious processes: ‘parasympathetic’ nerves deal with our everyday bodily functions – things like urination and digestion. By contrast, the ‘sympathetic’ nerves, activated by a chemical called adrenalin, fire up when we are under pressure and stress. This is the so-called ‘fight or flight’ response. Sometimes our ‘sympathetic’ nerve fibres go into overdrive, and we produce too much adrenalin for our own good. We end up on feeling on high alert – on our way to a big meeting or to a job interview, or, in some cases, just at the thought of leaving the house in the morning. We’re left with a racing heart, sweaty palms and shaking limbs (symptoms that are useful only when, for example, you’re being chased by a lion). It’s a vicious cycle. The body makes us feel anxious, and the anxiety makes the physical symptoms worse. Doctors sometimes prescribe drugs, called beta-blockers, that stop the adrenalin from producing these symptoms.

Engaging with the initial feel of a poem on the page – its tempo, rhythm and cadences (its musicality) – then with the images it creates in the mind, and finally with its sense and possible meanings can help restore the balance of the parasympathetic and sympathetic fibres. The ‘fight or flight’ adrenalin rush of the sympathetic nervous system starts to melt away, and gradually, as our breathing slows and as our racing pulse subsides, the less stressed and anxious we feel. A sense of calm can follow. Repetition (in a poem, and with repeated readings of a poem) brings with it a sense of familiarity, and is a step towards learning it off by heart. With a little time and effort, a poem can exist in its entirety in the brain of the reader, to be recalled at whatever moment it’s most needed. A beta-blocker for the soul.

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

Adlestrop

Yes. I remember Adlestrop –

The name, because one afternoon

Of heat the express-train drew up there

Unwontedly. It was late June.

The steam hissed. Someone cleared his throat.

No one left and no one came

On the bare platform. What I saw

Was Adlestrop – only the name

And willows, willow-herb, and grass,

And meadowsweet, and haycocks dry,

No whit less still and lonely fair

Than the high cloudlets in the sky.

And for that minute a blackbird sang

Close by, and round him, mistier,

Farther and farther, all the birds

Of Oxfordshire and Gloucestershire.

Edward Thomas

Five Senses

Now my five senses

gather into a meaning

all acts, all presences;

and as a lily gathers

the elements together,

in me this dark and shining,

that stillness and that moving,

these shapes that spring from nothing,

become a rhythm that dances,

a pure design.

While I’m in my five senses

they send me spinning

all sounds and silences,

all shape and colour

as thread for that weaver,

whose web within me growing

follows beyond my knowing

some pattern sprung from nothing –

a rhythm that dances

and is not mine.

Judith Wright

The Small Window

In Wales there are jewels

To gather, but with the eye

Only. A hill lights up

Suddenly; a field trembles

With colour and goes out

In its turn; in one day

You can witness the extent

Of the spectrum and grow rich

With looking. Have a care;

This wealth is for the few

And chosen. Those who crowd

A small window dirty it

With their breathing, though sublime

And inexhaustible the view.

R. S. Thomas

Red Wheelbarrow

so much depends

upon

a red wheel

barrow

glazed with rain

water

beside the white

chickens.

William Carlos Williams

From Auguries of Innocence

To see a world in a grain of sand

And a heaven in a wild flower,

Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,

And eternity in an hour.

William Blake

Green

The dawn was apple-green,

The sky was green wine held up in the sun,

The moon was a golden petal between.

She opened her eyes, and green

They shone, clear like flowers undone

For the first time, now for the first time seen.

D. H. Lawrence

Trees

Elm trees

and the leaf the boy in me hated

long ago –

rough and sandy.

Poplars

and their leaves,

tender, smooth to the fingers,

and a secret in their smell

I have forgotten.

Oaks

and forest glades,

heart aching with wonder, fear:

their bitter mast.

Willows

and the scented beetle

we put in our handkerchiefs;

and the roots of one

that spread into a river:

nakedness, water and joy.

Hawthorn,

white and odorous with blossom,

framing the quiet fields,

and swaying flowers and grasses,

and the hum of bees.

Oh, these are the things that are with me now,

in the town;

and I am grateful

for this minute of my manhood.

F. S. Flint

A Noiseless Patient Spider

A noiseless patient spider,

I marked where on a promontory it stood isolated,

Marked how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,

It launched forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,

Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,

Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,

Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,

Till the bridge you will need be formed, till the ductile anchor hold,

Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.

Walt Whitman

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold

William Carlos Williams

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare? –

No time to stand beneath the boughs,

And stare as long as sheep and cows:

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass:

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night:

No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance:

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began?

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

W. H. Davies