Vernon Watkins - Poetry

Poetry

His ambitions were for his poetry; in critical terms they were not to be fulfilled. On the other hand, he became a major figure for the Anglo-Welsh poetry tradition, and his poems were included in major anthologies. During the war he was for a time associated with the New Apocalyptics group. With his first book Ballad of the Mari Llwyd (1941) accepted by Faber and Faber, he had a publisher with a policy of sticking by their authors. In his case this may be considered to have had an adverse long-term effect on his reputation, in that it is generally thought that he over-published.

He wrote poetry for several hours every night and by way of contrast, Caitlin, Dylan Thomas's wife, could not recall her husband staying in even for one night during their whole married life! Vernon knew William Butler Yeats, T. S. Eliot and Philip Larkin. He was awarded a degree of Doctor of Literature from Swansea University in 1966 after retiring from the Bank. He was being considered for poet laureate at the time of his death.

That July morning when the poet's widow
Stayed here, at breakfast looking through the window
We saw young rabbits leap, and in a pother
Frisk, dance and scurry, dodging one another,
Returning always to the selfsame corner
Between low beech-trees and the grassy border.
They scattered when my children running out
Found a young Redpoll injured on the ground.
This sacrifice had made the rabbits dance.
It had fallen from the fuchsia bush or branch
Of beech that shook down dewdrops on my head.
I for a moment thought the brilliant red
Of breast and crest had come from a hawk's wound,
But found no blood. The heart beat faintly. Soon
We had laid it in a box, propped upon silk.
I touched the twig-like leg. White bread and milk
We gave it, but the beak at once refused,
After one drop, to drink, and the eyes closed.
It woke when my warm hand, encircling, took it,
Straining to perch; but whether claw was crooked
Or the wing hurt, it could not fly or stand.
We left it where life's ember might be fanned
By sunlight through a window. It revived
A little. But the warmth on which it lived
Diminished then, in the late afternoon.
It was so small, so quiet in my room,
That when I turned to lift it from the sill
And feel its weight upon my fingers, still
I counted to awaken it, nor saw
What breath had chilled the feathers, gripped the claw;
Nor did the dainty bird with that red stain
Seem dead at all, until I looked again.
Watkins, The Redpoll, a later poem, never fully revised.

A poem by Vernon Watkins from the Anglo-Welsh Review. The widow mentioned may be Caitlin Thomas.

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