For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Lord Byron

In 1788 London, a child was born to Captain John Byron and Catherine Gordon, the captain’s second wife.  This child would grow up to be not just a poet, but a key writer in the Romantic Movement which was around 1800-1850.

Plaque depicting where Byron was born - now John Lewis
department store Bond Street London.

The 6^th Baron Byron was born in London but spent his childhood in Aberdeen. At the age of ten he inherited his great-uncle’s title and the family home Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire. His mother being very proud; took her son to the newly acquired home, but it was in such disarray that they leased it out.

Throughout his life he had numerous lovers including a somewhat incestuous relationship with his half-sister Augusta Leigh.  Byron pursued the married Lady Caroline Lamb and engaged in a public affair. He married her cousin Anne, but the marriage ended in ruins as he wasn’t quite the marrying kind, which is hardly so surprising if you consider his ancestry. His father married for money twice and added the additional surname Gordon to claim his wife’s estate. After this the poet was known as George Byron Gordon. When he inherited his title he dropped the extra surname and was known as Lord Byron. After the death of his mother in law, her will required that he take on the name Noel to receive any inheritance, so he then became Lord Noel Byron and his wife was sometimes known as Lady Noel Byron. She however succeeded to the Barony of Wentworth and became Lady Wentworth. Confused? Nobody could make this stuff up; you’d fry your brain trying.

Byron was also friends with the Shelleys.  You remember Percy and Mary from blogs of the past? Well he caught up with them in Geneva after fleeing the country to get away from rumours of incest and sodomy.  He also caught up with Mary’s sister Claire Clairmont but they had been more than familiar with each other in London. He travelled through Italy and then to Greece where his life ended one tragic day at the age of 36.

I can imagine Lord Byron as a finger pointing winker.  The kind of man that would pluck a carnation cheekily from a flower stall for his jacket lapel and smile at the flower girl as payment. Or perhaps even kiss her hand and leave her swooning and giggling in delight.

The type of poetry that Byron wrote is narrative and in some cases lengthy. The poem Don Juan has more than 1600 lines and is unfortunately unfinished.  When the first two cantos were published, it was criticized and labelled immoral, but very popular none the less. The poem of his that I like best though is ‘She Walks in Beauty’ because it borders on truth. It’s said to be based on a moment in his life, just a single solitary moment that creates an image of a beautiful woman and brings together shades of dark and light. It’s slightly sombre, but extremely well put together. When you read the poem, you realise why this man remains one of the greatest British poets.

So I ventured out to take a picture of the Byron statue at Hyde Park corner. I was slightly confused as to where to find it but luckily I was able to engage the help of Kevin – a TFL Inspector, and his smartphone. He escorted me to the statue because he was curious to see it himself.  I’m not quite sure whose idea it was to put in on a traffic island in busy Park Lane, but I managed to get across the road unscathed.  After snapping the pic it took me another five minutes to get off the island.  I was beginning to feel like Gilligan.

Byron's statue, Hyde Park corner - thanks Kevin

To sum up Byron’s life and his contribution to literature isn’t something you can do lightly. I’m still trying to understand the whole name thing. But, even when you’re a Lord, money talks and if you want to maintain your womanising ways, the more you have the better the alibi you can buy. I could say a lot more about Byron and his wicked ancestry, but for now I must tell you that Once upon  a time in a few different countries, there was a poet lived a life that dare I say, was stranger than fiction.

A Poison Tree

William Blake

I’m not quite sure where I first stumbled upon the poem A Poison Tree. I think it was in a book called Jam Jar Full which was owned by my sister Pauline.  The book was a compilation of stories and poems and I’m sure it was hers. So I coveted the book and claimed it as my own after it served its purpose for Pauline.  Jam Jar Full wasn’t just a book I pinched from my sister, it was a treasure trove of stories and poems for me to read.

William Blake is the poet who penned the rhyme and I managed to track him down in London.  Born on the 28^th of November 1757 in Soho, he was the third of seven children. Blake only attended school long enough to learn to read and write, after which he was home schooled by his mother.

Plaque on Building in South Molton Street London

Blake liked to draw and his parents enrolled him in drawing classes. He took on a position of apprentice engraver where he spent time developing his art. He was sent to copy images from Gothic churches, but we’re not here to talk just about his art, I’m a lover of his poetry.

A Poison Tree is from his collection, Songs of Experience. I think it’s one of my favourite poems to date.  I always wondered what it would feel like if the poem were actually true and you could turn your anger into something solid and sinister.  I think my apple tree would be a golden delicious tree because they are my favourite apples. I’d probably end up eating the poison fruit myself and that would be the end of me. My wrath would turn on me and I’d be outstretched beneath the tree.

William Blake was an interesting person.  He claimed to have visions from a young age.  He was said to have seen God, angels and he saw his dead brother’s ghost float out of his body and up through the ceiling clapping. He also said that his brother’s spirit visited him many times and taught him the printing method he used in Songs of Innocence.

Stained glass window in St Mary's Church, Battersea
where Blake was married

Blake married an illiterate woman Catherine Boucher, who actually signed their marriage certificate with an X. He taught her to read and write and she helped him print the illuminated poetry that he is remembered for. Sadly they didn’t have any children to pass their gifts onto.  I always think it’s a shame when the talent ends with death and isn’t passed on to another generation because the legacy from this extraordinary writer is astounding. So all we can do is try to learn the skills that came from natural talent and mimic a natural ability.

In 1926 Blake was commissioned to produce a series of engravings for Dante’s Divine Comedy. Only a handful of watercolours were produced, but these are among Blake’s finest achievements and although the project was never competed the watercolours acted as a kind of commentary on Dante’s work, although, Blake’s intent is a little unclear.

The memorial stone in Bunhill Fields

On the 12^th of August in 1827, William Blake passed away and is now buried in Bunhill Fields not far from John Bunyan and Daniel Defoe – former blog heroes. His exact resting place isn’t marked but there is a memorial stone in his honour.  It’s kind of nice to stand near that stone and reflect on a life of a great talent that blessed us Once upon a time in London.

 

Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Geoffrey Chaucer

Imagine, if your tiny minds will let you, being a pioneer or a major player in the manifest of anything.  Now imagine that your idea goes viral and hangs around for hundreds of years after you kick off.  People take it up and add to it in their own way and the concept evolves to suit society over and over.  Lots of people have done it; everything we use every day came from somebodies imagination and was forced out into the world to fend for itself.

In the middle ages from 1343 – 1400 in England, there lived a man by the name of Geoffrey Chaucer. Throughout his life he achieved fame as an alchemist, astronomer and he is also known as the father of literature. At a time when the dominant literary languages where Latin and French, Chaucer chose Middle English for his work.

Plaque at The Savoy on The Strand.   

Chaucer was well travelled and settled in Kent where he wrote his famous Canterbury Tales but there was never indication that he actually visited Canterbury.  Like so many writers, the imagination makes up for the actual. The Tales are part of a story-telling contest by pilgrims travelling together from Southwark to the shrine of Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral, and these too are written in the vernacular.

The Canterbury Tales tours in Canterbury

Apart from his writing, Chaucer had many prestigious positions including a sort of foreman of the King’s works. There was nothing major constructed during this stint, but he did oversee repairs to Westminster Palace. So you can imagine work of this capacity fetched a decent wage.

Picture and memorabilia of Chaucer 

It’s unsure how Chaucer died. Some say he was murdered but there’s no clear evidence to support this. Chaucer was the first poet to be buried in Poet’s Corner in Westminster Abbey where photographs are not allowed – hopefully one day that will change.

If you look back at the era that Geoffrey Chaucer lived in, the realisation of what he did for literature becomes apparent.  Writing in the native language instead of French or Latin was somewhat left of the middle and taking a chance like that wouldn’t have been an easy decision to make.  What if nobody like it and The Canterbury Tales had sat on the bargain table or ended up as landfill somewhere? Lucky for me this didn’t happen because I can’t read Latin or French so my life would have had no meaning. I’m not quite sure what I would be doing if not stalking dead writers, but what I do know for sure is that Once upon a time in London a man tried something out of the norm and it turned out for the best and started a trend that will last forever.  Nothing ventured, hey Geoffrey?