London Diaries: When Poets Spoke to me at Westminster Abbey

Dear friends,

Experiencing the Poets’ Corner at London’s Westminster Abbey, where lay at rest some of world’s most beloved authors and poets, was like none other. I wasn’t at Alfred Lord Tennyson’s Tintern Abbey, but from the depths of my soul broke loose:

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,  
Tears from the depth of some divine despair 
Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, 
…And thinking of the days that are no more.
(The Princess: Tears, Idle Tears)

I was moved perhaps, because in Tennyson’s wisdom:

I am a part of all that I have met
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, 
whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
(Ulysses)

Sitting there on a bench amidst this altar to poets, in awe of the brilliant minds literally buried underneath my feet or immortalized with a stone, a flood of memories of all that I had met through life broke loose—my childhood, my school, my college, my readings, my libraries, part of my life gone forever, several thousand miles away on another continent. But the words of these great poets stood the test of time. And their words in that moment, wrapped themselves around me like a warm fuzzy blanket, inspiring me to be more, do more, to go to that untraveled world, and write for ever and for ever.

More than 100 poets are buried at the Poets’ Corner at London’s Westminster Abbey, making it a place of pilgrimage for literature lovers.

Rudely though, I was woken from my poetic stupor by my teen who wanted me to hurry, as it was getting close to lunch time. Hot pizza was awaiting, somewhere in the chaos of the city outside. Alas, I thought, irked, how is it that even after four hundred years from when that bard from Stratford-upon-Avon—whose elegant statue was staring at me from the wall—penned these words, the dilemma still remains the same:

To be or not to be, that’s the question
(Hamlet)

Should I be the annoyed mom and shove my son out of my hair and continue in wonder to stare (although I am eternally thankful for him for insisting on a half day tour of the Abbey)? Or, should I be the giving mom who puts the child, still all of mine, ahead in line? What role should I pick? Since after all:

All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances;
(As You Like It)

Should I exit my poetic space at the Abbey into the world outside as tourist, mom, and wife? Or, enter into it some more alone as me, and whirl away into the yonder?

But all’s well that end’s well.
(All’s Well that Ends Well)

My husband came to my rescue and with a flick of a hand, reassured me to spend more time with my poets, taking my child away for now.

William Shakespeare was buried in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon in Warwickshire. Shortly after Shakespeare's death there was some talk about removing his remains from Stratford to Westminster Abbey but the idea was soon abandoned. The carved heads of Queen Elizabeth I, Henry V, and Richard III appear on the base of the pedestal dedicated to Shakespeare. Shakespeare’s left hand index finger points to a scroll hanging from the pedestal on which is painted a variant of Prospero's lines from The Tempest:

The Cloud capt Tow'rs,
The Gorgeous Palaces,
The Solemn Temples,
The Great Globe itself,
Yea all which it Inherit,
Shall Dissolve;
And like the baseless Fabrick of a Vision
Leave not a wreck behind.

Although momentarily pleased, Charles Dickens came into view and his call for putting others before oneself popped into my head:

A day wasted on others is not wasted on one’s self.
(A Tale of Two Cities)

A small stone with a simple inscription marks the grave of Charles Dickens in Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey.  This was at his own wish. He wrote in his will "that my name be inscribed in plain English letters on my tomb... I rest my claims to the remembrance of my country upon my published works...". Dickens died at his house, Gad's Hill Place, and it was presumed that he would be buried at Rochester Cathedral. Public opinion, led by The Times newspaper, demanded that Westminster Abbey was the only place for the burial of someone of his distinction. Description adapted from https://www.westminster-abbey.org/.

Be selfless, said he. Yet, I told myself, he also reminded us:

There is a wisdom of the head, and... there is a wisdom of the heart.
(Hard Times)

Wisdom of the heart, I chose. My heart told me to stay on, as at that moment, I was in love with my poets.  Incidentally, just yesterday, back on home turf, our spiritual leader taught us that wisdom from the heart is none other than that of the mind and a strong intellect combined. Wisdom from the heart is solid.

Jane Austen seemed to agree, as I passed her memorial stone next:

We have all a better guide in ourselves, if we would attend to it, than any other person can be.
(Mansfield Park)

Jane Austen is buried in Winchester Cathedral in Hampshire, but a small tablet was unveiled to her memory in Poets' Corner on 17th December 1967. This was given to the Abbey by The Jane Austen Society. Description adapted from https://www.westminster-abbey.org/.

Yes, we must believe in our inner guide, our Self. The advice seems universal and is a fundamental teaching of the Bhagavad Geeta. Some things or most things in our life, we have to decide for ourselves in our heart.

As I lay my eyes on W.H. Auden next, I could not help but think of his gut-wrenching call to put a halt to the working of the entire universe, in his grief. I thought of the post I wrote on him several months back and revisited my take on him being pessimistic in the Funeral Blues. No, he was just being in the moment:

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
(Funeral Blues)

A memorial stone for W.H. Auden, poet and essayist, was unveiled in Poets' Corner on 2nd October 1974. It adjoins the grave of John Masefield and memorials to George Eliot and Gerard Manley Hopkins. Description adapted from https://www.westminster-abbey.org/.

But he did overcome his grief, thank God, enough to give us this chuckle-worthy quote, so true. Especially as you age and really don’t want to be with anyone who remotely makes you feel anywhere close to negative:

Thank God for books as an alternative to conversation.

:-)

To which, neighbor Henry Wadsworth Longfellow may counter:

A single conversation across the table with a wise man is better than ten years mere study of books.

The life-size white marble bust of the poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was unveiled in Poets' Corner at the Westminster Abbey in 1884, on a pillar near the tomb of Geoffrey Chaucer. The main inscription reads: LONGFELLOW:This bust was placed amongst the memorials of the poets of England by the English admirers of an American poet. Description adapted from https://www.westminster-abbey.org/.

Suddenly though, I was face-to-face with William Wordsworth, sitting solemn, in deep thought, and the image of a bright field of daffodils descended on my soul. I felt obligated to pull up his poem, I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud on my phone and read it to myself in honor of this piece that taught us high schoolers back in India, not just about this exotic flower unknown in the tropics, but similes, alliterations, metaphors, and the English language itself.

A white marble life size figure of poet William Wordsworth is placed next to Shakespeare's memorial and below the bust of Samuel Taylor Coleridge in the Poets' Corner. The figure is seated with crossed legs with a book on his lap. The quill in his hand has been broken off. The inscription on William Wordsworth’s statue reads: WILLIAM WORDSWORTH: Blessings be with them - and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves and nobler cares, The poets - who on earth have made us heirs of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays! Description adapted from https://www.westminster-abbey.org/.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
(I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud)

I passed many other masters of words—Lord Byron, Chaucer, Kipling, and more. And at the end of it, thought of Longfellow and how to make the best of this moment and of life. One of my favorite poems of all times (and hopefully my son’s favorite) emerged:

Lives of great men all remind us 
We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 
Footprints on the sands of time; 

Footprints, that perhaps another,  
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,  
Seeing, shall take heart again.
(A Psalm of Life)

What would my footprint be for this world, I wondered. Will they weather the sands of time? Will I leave behind a legacy?

When we left Westminster Abbey, as London weather would have it, we were greeted with some rain. I opened my umbrella with a smile as Longfellow spoke to me once more:

The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.
Youth comes but once in a lifetime.
The best thing one can do when it's raining is to let it rain.
(Henry Wadsworth Longfellow)

Meaningfully yours,
Anu Prabhala