Poetry post

[nineveh_uk]

One for the Sayers fans.

The Bells of Heaven

‘Twould ring the bells of Heaven
The wildest peal for years,
If Parson lost his senses
And people came to theirs,
And he and they together
Knelt down with angry prayers
For tamed and shabby tigers,
And dancing dogs and bears,
And wretched, blind pit ponies,
And little hunted hares.

Ralph Hodgson

From an Anthology of Modern Verse, Methuen’s English Classics, 1921.

Shabby Tiger is also the name of a novel by Howard Spring, published in 1934. In this case the title is definitely not a reference to the poem, with the eponymous tiger being the artist protagonist, who decides to strike on his own rather than depend on his millionaire industrialist father, and beats even Philip Boyes for insufferable selfishness as being independent naturally involves exploiting everyone he can. This would be forgiveable in a novel (as it is in the character of Rachel Rosing, who gets her own sequel which I must read) were he an interesting man, but alas he is not. It was televised in 1973.

Comments

[azdak.livejournal.com]

A robin redbreast in a cage
Puts all heaven in a rage.
A dove-house filled with doves and pigeons
Shudders hell through all its regions.
A dog starved at his master's gate
Predicts the ruin of the state.
A horse misused upon the road
Calls to heaven for human blood.


The RSPCA must be glad to know it has Poets on its side.

[rosathome.livejournal.com]

I have always wondered about the shabby tigers and never been able to track it down, so thank you!

[dolorous-ett.livejournal.com]

How nice to know where the shabby tiger comes from - and what a wonderful source! (if we discount the Annoying Boyes Type...)

[bookwormsarah.livejournal.com]

Nice to read the source (and the most appropriate use of this icon).

[mobile-alh.livejournal.com]

Oh thank you! I've always been too lazy to look up the reference, but the phrase in the context of the story haunted me.

[el-staplador.livejournal.com]

I've never read Shabby Tiger, though I can picture it on my father's bookshelf, almost to the exact number of volumes out from the wall.

That's rather a sweet poem.