At Monk’s House …

Virginia, that is, not Thelonious. I’ve showed these photos on the blog before, but seeing Patti Smith’s black and white photographs of Monk’s House at Dulwich Picture Gallery yesterday, along with others – Sylvia Plath’s grave in Heptonstall, for instance – which she took in the course of a literary tour, or tours, of the country, I was prompted to post them again.

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling
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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

 

 

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

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Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House & Gardens

Continuing a line from my previous blog about James Schuyler’s poetry and his love – obsession, almost – with flowers and gardens, English ones in particular, here are some photographs from a recent visit to the gardens at Monk’s House, the country home of Virginia and Leonard Woolf from 1919 until Virginia’s death in 1941.

Monk's House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk's House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk's House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk's House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk's House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk's House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

Monk’s House © Molly Ernestine Boiling

 

James Schuyler: Last Poems

I’m following a link here: one that takes me from my previous post – A Question of the Light – to a visit made this Sunday just past to Monk’s House in Sussex, once the home of Virgina and Leonard Woolf, and from there to James Schuyler, perhaps the least celebrated of the New York Poets, an Anglophile who never set foot in England, but who was fascinated by the English countryside and English gardens and read about them continuously, amongst his favourite sources being Virginia Woolf’s diaries.

One of the books I am most proud to have published under the Slow Dancer imprint, is Schuyler’s Last Poems, which brought into print in the UK for the first time thirty poems written towards the end of his life, along with a perceptive and affectionate afterword by Lee Harwood.

Here’s one of the poems …

The Light Within

and the light without: the shade
of a rainy April morning:
subtle shadows
cast backward by lamplight
upon daylight,
soft unforceful daylight
the essence
of cloud cover
descending mistily into the street:
and the unwhitely
white surround of a curling photograph
models itself
as north light
modeled the face in the photograph:

and against a window
a tree shows
each lightly tinted leaf
another shadowy shade, some
transparently, some
not: and, in the corner
the dark bisected
by the light that falls
from without (created
by its absence)
lies luminous within itself:
the luminous dark within

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