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Margiad Evans - The Nightingale Silenced: and other late unpublished writings

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Margiad Evans The Nightingale Silenced: and other late unpublished writings
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The Nightingale Silenced, transcribed by her nephew Jim Pratt from three previously unpublished manuscripts, offers a unique account of the last years of Margiad Evans life, which was irreversibly changed by the onset of epilepsy at the age of 41.

The first part, Journal in Ireland (1949) tells of a joyous and inspirational holiday, free from epilepsy. The second, Letters to Bryher (1949-1958) is a selection from letters to Evans friend and benefactor Winifred Ellerman (the English author Bryher). They contain a vivid account of her pregnancy, the birth of her daughter, her frustration at the impact of her illness on her writing, and finally resignation at the terminal nature of her condition. The third part, The Nightingale Silenced (1954), is an evocative and harrowing memoir describing her experiences as an inpatient after her condition became acute. The book closes with five of her poems, written during her final months in hospital, which she intended to publish with The Nightingale Silenced. She died at only 49 in 1958.

This new compilation from a courageous young novelist and poet of great promise, silenced too soon, is an enlightening example of writing on the experience of terminal illness.

Margiad Evans: author's other books


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Contents
Poems Written in Hospital
(1954)

After Reading Traherne Soul why not pause asking not alms of God but how - photo 1
After Reading Traherne
Soul, why not pause, asking not alms
of God: but how to go; and how without alarms
to proceed. Ask why not now so clean,
eager, unrepentant, keen
As once you were. Does the Bodys dust
obscure you as it rises, so that you must
turn back for memory of truthful nakedness
alive still, yet hardly seen for weariness?
Soul, ask from God how to unload
this cloak of misery and this hood:
You know that he will give
you answer; and by it you will live
Sharper, brighter, finer, cleaner, swifter
for all your old dilemma.
Soul, pause! and put the question
What is your will and your direction.
Ask not for anything more delicious:
yourself is most precious.
You may ask Him, what are the moon and sun:
for they, unlike yourself are only just begun,
But you have only to be still to be aware
what your age is; and by whose power
it is your own and no extraneous weight,
a beauty never less, but always growing great.
When first you set your eyes on earthen gold,
its jewelled trees, its rivers precious rolled
between the banks of acres all of yours
When the quiet islands where the dolphin doors,
When every field you owned and every wood,
stream and hedge, flashed light and all was good:
They speak falsely and without sense
who say once lost, forever lost is innocence?
For God is innocence; and as the radiance dims
of field and flower, returns that attribute which seems
the eyes of peace: with silent knowledge so
in their processional robes, the fields and mountains go.

To My Sister Sian Do you remember Sian How clearly do you remember - photo 2
To My Sister Sian
Do you remember, Sian? How clearly do you remember? ( Autobiography)
Nature and Time are against us now:
no more we leap up the river like salmon,
nor dive through its fishy holes
sliding along its summer corridor
with all the water from Wales, nor tear it to silver
shreds with our childish arms when it bolted our path for the day,
nor wade wearing our bindings
of string-weed, white-flowering from our nakedness;
nor lie in the hot yellow fields with the cows.
We go home separately Sian.
Strangest of all changes, that you have one door,
I another! Dreamily I write to our childhood,
sisters with a brotherly friendship, one loyal to both.
There hang the black woods still with candles of daffodils
lighting the draught of the wind, and our parted language
speaks to each of us of the keepers cot in the brackeny corner
and the stream bed where the water had faded to rock
Easily we keep our secrets now, for no-one cares
if we dare the red floods together, two little fools in the darkness
whose souls flew high above danger, whose bodies
death had a hundred times in its reach.
Forever we
did not end, but passed over our paths,
I following you, dabbling our hands in the birds nests,
darting through ghost walk and haunted graveyard
when the year was dead in the church tower.
We had one home together. That put us beyond all danger:
that set us forever, that and our unfathomable friendship with trees,
fields and horizons. Two children
solitary, pilgrimy, silent, inscrutably wishing
forever dallying with lostness, whether our choice
was through the jay woods, or over the mushroom mountains,
or the old cider orchards.
Our secrets
were eternal and will always be. Forever dallying
with lostness, at last we were lost and all paths
were the path of our unforgettable double childhood.
All our secrets were onesecrecy.
The memory of what we kept secret is gone, but the secret is true.
All the places were us, we were all the places,
and the inscrutable innocent altars of nature.
I see two children slipping into a wood
speechlessly happy. Two lives lived have not changed it.
For our ways, our fields, our river, our lostness
were children. So we were our country.




The Forest In this life when no-one lives as themselves I found myself - photo 3
The Forest
In this life when no-one lives as themselves
I found myself moving in a great Forest. All was shadow.
And I walked deeply:
no bird song shone, no footstep
made a quiet beat on the Forest drum.
In the lining of the leaves
no light was torn; above, no face of sky
shaped by the parted boughs looked down on mine.
And I walked deeply
without laughter or fears. And I walked deeply.
Mind or spirit in me saw the still roots
as deep under the trees as their branches were high.
And I walked deeply,
singing in the double-depth Forest
which was visible and invisible;
happy in the way no human being should be happy
in silence, alone, and in shadow.
I was like the heart of a dead man
singing in the grave, to be buried forever.
And I walked deeply in the Forest, when suddenly
there was a stone man with fresh white honeysuckle
crowning its blindness: and its eyes were stone
without flinching. And I stopped, for here was an effigy
of my joy: holy stone and white scent
linked to me, sightless, until the bald eyes
glared into tears, and the tears fell over the face
flashing like harp-strings
A wild ancient air poured out close by me.
And I wept deeply, nor sang for the leaves sang so loudly.
And I wept deeply. And I weep always.



Four Crows The sky is dark with wind Thunder moves in the trees What do - photo 4
Four Crows
The sky is dark with wind. Thunder moves in the trees.
What do I see flying in front of me? Four black crows.
What do four crows mean? Nothing.
What does sorrow accomplish? Nothing.
They fly so fast and heavily.
Four black crows, fly to the dead and tell her my messages quickly:
tell her how dearly I loved her, that I would not have left her
if I had not been ill. Tell her I pine for her.
I would go, but I must not yet.
Fly fast, for the world is empty, and I know she is waiting for me.
We are separated.
The Crows Answer
We are four black crows
but we are not flying to the dead,
so we cannot take your message.
We are only flying to our young ones
in the nests, carrying food to them from the fields.
We are messengers of life not death.
We regret that you are so sorrowful.
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