Pages You Lose to the River

fallen woman

This poem is by Elisabeth Sennitt Clough (, a poet and friend of mine who has published the award winning pamphlet Glass and her debut collection Sightings. She is currently working on a new book, At or Below Sea Level. Liz has kindly allowed me to post her poem, along with my notes on it, below.

Pages You Lose to the River

By Elisabeth Sennitt Clough

No horror but in folklore round here,
so the girl bathed in velvet silt beds,
swam slalom through river weeds
and harvested mussels and clay.

Algae shone fluorescent on her pale back.
The Ouse was hers to swim and glide along:
a river that spilled onto her clean page
as she watched it until the current shifted.

The breeze worked itself through the sedge,
the bur-reed, the bulrushes. Perhaps it told her
what the farmworker had found one day
on his docky-break. Maybe it was the curlew

who slow-dripped a stalactite of lore from its beak
into her ears. She swaddled their stories
in hessian, tucked their sharp corners in –
the one about her third great-grandmother,

who watched men bail oil from a whale in the dock,
only to climb inside its carcass to lie down,
baptising herself in fleshy hollows,
in the hope it would cure her rheumatism.

A version of this poem has appeared in The Rialto. The painting is Found Drowned by GF Watts, at the Watts GallerySurrey.

To me, this poem feels steeped in Alice Oswald’s Dart – the river Ouse here becomes a creative force that runs through the generations, a home to myths and stories which cannot be separated from the men and women who worked along its banks. But there is more than just the force of the river at work, there is the “breeze” (like Wordsworth’s “vital breeze” which signals the arrival of artistic inspiration) and the almost surreal structure in the final stanza, and at the mouth of the river – the hollowed out carcass of a whale, with its literary connotations, arrived from the monstrous depths like an entirely unexpected and overwhelming new idea – a whole new force – but also like a womb, with its comforting, maternal “fleshy hollows” and possibly its amniotic “oil” in which the speaker’s ancestor “baptises” herself. She is immersed in the whale the way the writer is as she bathes in the river, becoming part of its water and mud – part of the folklore – disappearing into the traditions and old-wives tales. But the “horror” in the first line, although negated and confined to folklore (why is this line italicised I wonder – is this a quote, or is it something spoken to or overheard by the speaker, indicating oral tradition perhaps?), remains throughout the poem; and there is a possible sense that the speaker is referring to a drowned girl, and that what “the farmworker had found” was a corpse. There is perhaps a hint of horror even as early as the second line when we read about the girl bathing in “velvet silt beds” which could be both comforting and menacing in as much as “silt” is so close to “slit” that there is a hint of a slit throat here, and a resultant death bed. Lost to the river. But is the Ouse a creative force linking women generations apart? Or is it a malign killer, perhaps a symbolic, communal forgetfulness, the inverse of a cultural memory, from which the speaker feels the need to protect the precious folk tales she has heard growing up, “swaddling” them in hessian as though they are babies (and, floating down the river with the girl, here we think of Moses being set afloat amongst the reeds by his mother to protect him from the king of Egypt – a biblical link to the self-baptism in the next stanza, where the female ancestor takes on the St. John role and purifies (regenerates?) herself, doing away with the need for the traditional and masculine “Baptist” figure). Or is it both: a creator/killer or capricious god(dess) who gives life to folklore as s/he supports life on her banks, and then destroys it with forgetfulness. As with the Oswaldian Dart, the Ouse in this poem yields no quick answers but each bend leads to another interesting question.

Valley Poem


Valley Poem

(Written in the Duddon Valley, April 2018)

You had better be full of arrogance
before you walk through a valley
and dare to write a poem.

Be ready to shout it out, mind;
full-throated, roar it to the wind –
release it, wild and dominant.

Because if it can’t curl around the low woods
and climb the quarry roads, up slag piles,
to take its place in the white mist and rock

with all the high, slow-dying features
so worshipped by walkers in their soft fabrics;
if it can’t whip the river and knock the birds

off-course, smother the dry-stone walls
with moss-like hubris and establish
from slate-crack to sun-shaft

a colony of perfectly-chosen words,
an empire of ideas about a valley
that will subjugate every other poem,

put down your pen, don’t even draw breath –
your poem will wither and fall from your mouth.
Like a new-born lamb in a long night

of hard sleet, it will bleat into the dark
but no one will come to save it
or even notice it has lived and died.

Poetry and the Educated, Liberal Middle Classes


I hope plenty of people send in properly shocking and edgy poems to the Bridport Prize this year, following Daljit Nagra’s recent call for entrants to liberate themselves from feeling they should submit a ‘good, liberal poem’ to the competition. I’ve submitted one that I hope will raise eyebrows and it would be great and refreshing if the eventual winner made readers sweat a bit and take a second, third and fourth look to check that they were really reading what they thought they were reading.
Poetry competitions are at their best when the winner comes as a complete leftfield surprise, and especially when it makes you as an entrant think, ‘Ouch – that’s a beauty!’, which was the effect Dom Bury’s National Poetry Competition winner The Opened Field had on me this year. A sestina! That’s not supposed to happen – they’re too formal, too old fashioned and – mostly – too difficult to write well. But Dom Bury did it, and… it’s a beauty – ouch!.
By the way, Stephen Fry published a fantastic diagram and mathematical formula invented by his father at the back of The Ode Less Travelled to illustrate the complexity of a sestina:

Anyway, on to my headline topic. Writing my own Bridport Prize entry this week, and thinking about shocking people and being shocked in return, I started wondering about something that feels to me like a truism; that is: contemporary poetry, when it comes down to it, is the educated, liberal middle classes talking to themselves (that sounds like it may be a quote from somewhere; if it is, I’ve forgotten where I heard it). Is it true? I don’t know any poets or readers of poetry who fall outside that definition – as diverse as they may be in other ways. And being ‘liberal’ as opposed to ‘illiberal’ (not necessarily anything to do with left- or right-wing) seems to be the key word here. That is why Nagra’s call is so interesting, he is asking entrants to step outside the poetically comfortable world where ‘right choices’ of the ‘decent word and the appropriate subject’ conform to an essentially liberal world view. He is asking us to take on dogmatism and intolerance and other ‘illiberal’ qualities, and not only in an adversarial way, but in the sense of grasping, wearing, getting inside them – using the dramatic monologue perhaps to ‘be so offensive that it is ultimately contradictory’.
What makes this more interesting, for me, is that ultimately this is asking poets to look outside their own sense of the world and attempt to realistically – or at least truthfully – portray ‘another’. The trap for all who attempt to take up Nagra’s challenge, I would imagine, is stereotyping and/or patronising those we are attempting to ‘take on’ in our poems. Even now, thinking about my already-submitted entry, I’m not sure I’ve avoided this. There was certainly something uncomfortable about trying to be ‘offensive’ and I think part of this is because it felt, attempting to write truthfully about a set of views that are not mine and so I ultimately reject, that I was in effect talking about someone behind their back, slagging them off while they were out of the room. I write as a middle class liberal, Daljit Nagra and those who are a) aware of and b) will read the winners of the Bridport Prize are middle class liberals; and yet I am writing about the views of those who are, say, working class illiberals. The fact that I agonise over this at all confirms my status as a middle-class liberal, I suppose. A middle-class liberal talking to myself.
“Poetry makes nothing happen: it survives/In the valley of its making” said Auden. I wonder if he had in mind the idea that poets only talk through poetry to other poets and so any power their work has is trapped within their particular social stratum. Probably not, the landscape was very different in 1939, although it is easy to look for and find parallels. But even if my statement above is true (and it may well not be), poetry would seem to me a very good way for educated, middle-class liberals to talk to each other, with its endless acres of fertile space for contemplation, suggestion, thesis/antithesis/synthesis, first baby steps and Olympic-level long-jump leaps. And if we speak shockingly and offensively to each other within this space sometimes – perhaps even without feeling guilty or worried about patronising others – and having done so if we understand the world a little bit more for when we do interact with non-poem-lovers (which surely we have to do from time to time!), well, that’s okay.

Auden in Yorkville, 1939

NPG P869(3); Wystan Hugh ('W.H.') Auden by Cecil Beaton

Having posted my Christopher Hitchens poem, which was based on Auden’s In Memory of WB Yeats, I thought I might post my WH Auden poem too…

Auden in Yorkville, 1939

He’s in colours I can never give the ‘thirties,
tramping flat-footed, lost but with direction,
through the wind and noise of Upper East Manhattan.

It’s November, not twelve months since he disembarked
with Isherwood on this, the latest stop on his journey
towards Heaven. He knows, really, where he’s going

just not quite how to get there yet. He needs a sign, let’s say
on Eighty-Six and Third, and when he finds it his way
will be clear into the darkness of a movie theatre, where

shortly he will see such silver-hardened hatred flicker
in the faces of the audience of Sieg im Polen
that he’ll be thrown back into the arms of a faith

he never left completely. But I always see him here
in black and white, on the street, cigarette nipped in massive hand,
sad eyes hard ahead. Always still and always incomplete.

This was published in 2017 in Issue 21 of Antiphon.

In Memory of Christopher Hitchens

christopher hitchens

This is a poem I had on the excellent but sadly now defunct The Literateur online magazine (actually, it’s still there)… now it’s here too.

In Memory of Christopher Hitchens

What instruments we have…


On the sixteenth of December it was wet
Yet settled, and soaked the pavement
Like a strip of sheet held across my face,
While the day’s iron strapped me down –
Not to suffocate in the news of his death

But drown.
Down I sank and sat beneath the tree
Of his collected words. The wind had stopped,
Albeit temporarily. Though some birds
Twittered with high-pitched bile or syrupy respect,
There was unsung relief also in those branches

I suspect.
Irrespective, the landscape here was sweet
And nervous-fresh; more Alpine was the view
Than Ocean Bed, but lacking in the warmth
Of human flesh, the stink of cigarettes
And whisky; pleasures one partakes of

Then forgets.
Let’s call Death the final loss of Memory
In fact, and Memory the one real weapon
That we have: that’s the bloody tragedy –
Always – a great repository has gone.
Our arsenal is reduced. But the dialectic

Goes on.
Frozen statues terrorise the market square.
Wind will blow the passions who knows where.
Not quite so proud though, Death: the heat of our
Humanity is where wild words well-flung go,
Awaiting generations. Not afterlife perhaps,

But afterglow.


The light and dark of arrow shower rain;
Kissenger, Wolfowitz, Mujahedin.

Bosnia, the Falklands War;
The keyboard, the cocktail bar.

Mythos, Man the storyteller;
PG Wodehouse, the Ayatollah

Earth, receive him; World, your loss –
You were not consistent, he was.


We are keepers of our own museums: you must judge us on our filing.

The old warrior rides into town on a bloated mule, spitting and swearing.

An All-American family around a coffee pot await the man who killed their son.

No interval exists between the thought and its pixelled, 3am translation.

The sycophants will fall in line, their minds are small – they must agree with someone.

Janus debates his older face, locked in mutual disgust and open warring.

The temple gallery is ever-open. Cerberus is almost mad with barking and caring.

Disturbed Turf


This is an essay I wrote for my MA in Creative Writing at MMU in 2015. I thought I’d share it here.

Comparing the Use of Faith in the Work of TS Eliot, WH Auden and David Jones:

A Late Interview with the Three Poets

By Chris Edgoose

TS Eliot died in 1965, WH Auden in 1973 and David Jones in 1974.

One bright early-autumn morning in 2015 the three men sat down together with Disturbed Turf Quarterly Review to discuss the differences and similarities in their poetic approaches to their Christian faith. Three comfortable chairs had been prepared for the three great poets, and they appeared happy and relaxed in the spacious, uncluttered room with its wide, west-facing window. It was interesting to note that throughout the morning the more confident Eliot and Auden treated the quieter and more unassuming Jones with something that can only be described as mildly patronising reverence, and they both insisted that Jones take the central chair. Jones received their attentions with great courtesy and a little embarrassment.


I’d like to talk not so much about the content of your individual senses of faith as how you each choose to represent faith in your poetry, and how in turn your faith affects your work. Shall we start there?


Well, if you’ll excuse me, I think it’s important first of all that we make a distinction between the verse each of us wrote before and after our respective conversions. I myself was baptised and confirmed in the Church of England in 1927 and you will notice many differences in my work that came about thereafter[i]. We might take my use of metaphor as an example. Do you remember those ‘ragged claws/scuttling across the floors of silent seas’ in ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ from 1917? No prizes for noticing that they were metaphorical claws and seas of course. They were a way of indicating how little this poor, pathetic man thought of himself. But now think about ‘The Dry Salvages’, the third of my ‘Four Quartets’, written in 1941, where the sea has ‘Its hints of earlier and other creation: / The starfish, the horseshoe crab, the whale’s backbone’. It’s a similar image but employed in a very different way. These animals are not just metaphors but also examples of ancient life on earth[ii]; they are – as is the sea itself – a metaphor for that thing which is larger and older than ourselves but they are also real because I am talking about the real world. That combination is key to my technique in ‘Four Quartets’.


So your conversion changed your use of metaphor?


No, I wouldn’t go that far, but I was required to expand my use of metaphor to include the literal as a way of attempting to express something that is essentially inexpressible.


I’d also like to pick up on what Tom’s saying here if I may. Look at one of my poems from shortly before my return to the Anglican Communion in 1940[iii], ‘Miss Gee’ (1937), next to one that I wrote in the very year of my return, my long poem ‘New Year Letter’. The former is one of three or four similar poems that I wrote in the form of popular ballads around the same time[iv]. Miss Gee develops cancer and dies. The reason for this is her repression of sexual desire (at the time, not an unreasonable idea) but aside from this there is no moral to the story, nor is reference given to any attempt to find one; and the tone is nihilistic if anything, almost cruel:

                                                They laid her on the table,

                                                   The students began to laugh:

                                                And Mr. Rose the surgeon

                                                    He cut Miss Gee in half.

I see a parallel here, by the way, with the lack of moral substance of Tom’s eponymous ‘Hollow Men’ in 1925, you know, ‘our voices…are quiet and meaningless’. But then in ‘New Year Letter’ you find that events throughout history are explained in terms of a balance between good and evil, and reference is constantly made to the devil and God (particularly in Part Three) and my language is suffused with biblical, particularly New Testament, images and words (in the final stanza alone you find ‘bless’, ‘judge’, ‘forgiving’, ‘neighbour’ and ‘lion’s den’).


So could we say that your renewed faith added a moral aspect to your language?


Well, I certainly think my search for a set of values in the face of Nazism – which I didn’t believe liberal humanism had proved itself able to provide – sent me towards the language of the Bible[v].


And David, do you see any similar changes in your work after you converted to Catholicism in 1921[vi]?


It’s a rather different in my case because I converted to Catholicism before any of my major poetical works were written. I didn’t actually write In Parenthesis until the early ‘thirties[vii]  and The Anathemata until the ‘forties and early ‘fifties[viii], you see. So although In Parenthesis is essentially a secular work I wrote it as a practising Catholic. I would be more inclined, therefore, to point towards similarities between the two works rather than differences. For example, much has been made of the archetypal voices that I employ in In Parenthesis such as that of Dai Greatcoat[ix] but many of them are intended to be the ‘real’ voices of ‘real soldiers. For example: ‘The relief elbows him on the fire-step: All quiet china? – bugger all to report? – kipping mate? – christ, mate – you’ll ‘ave ‘em all over’ (p.55). This is the slang, the vulgarity, the blasphemy and the H-dropping of a real Cockney voice; and the intended effect is that my allusions to the myths of Le Morte d’Arthur, The Mabinogion and other classic and ancient texts become rooted in the real and the current (for 1914). Hence also my use of slang terms for the equipment of war such as ‘gas-rattles’, ‘toffee-apples’, ‘picket maul’ etc., which are explained in the notes (p.212).


I’m reminded here of what Tom said earlier about the blending of the literal and the metaphorical. You seem to use both metaphorical and literal characterisation in a sense, and perhaps each increases the impact of the other?


That’s it, yes. I think that for both Tom and myself, although we were of different denominations, our shared sense of mythos, or the Universal Narratives, was intimately linked to our faith and had to be tied in prosody to a genuine sense of reality. Listen to his Cockney voice in ‘A Game of Chess’ from ‘The Waste Land’ (139-172); it may sound patronising to some these days (‘When Lil’s husband got demobbed, I said – / I didn’t mince my words, I said to her myself…’ (139-40)), but only, I think, because the rhythms and colloquialisms of the voice has since become over-used by parodists. No, this is an acutely observed real voice that binds the larger truths of the poem to the real here-and-now of London in the early ‘twenties. But my point about the way I used genuine-sounding voices in In Parenthesis is that I did more or less the same thing in The Anathemata fifteen or twenty years later: Elen Monica, the lavender seller of ‘The lady of the Pool’ is a multi-layered character who ultimately embodies not only the city of London – and by extension ‘largely the mind of Europe’ – and ‘the British sea thing’, but also the entirety of Catholicism itself[x]. And she does all of this through the voice of a late-medieval ‘waterside tart’[xi], albeit one whose vocabulary is rather richer than reality would allow! I’ll read you a bit where she erotically and charitably considers a boatswain’s slave boy whose fate worries her[xii]:

                                                                        Plucked with his jack bucket from the Punic foreshore b’ a bollocky great Bocco procurer, or I weren’t christed Elen Monica in Papey Juxta Muram. ‘V’ a mind to sign him Austin Gregorians in Thames-water, an’ ransom him with m’ own woman’s body. (p.167)

The tone here, and throughout this section of the poem, is distinct from the content, earthier, more common (emphasised in this example by the use of prose). Again, the higher concepts (here charity, self-sacrifice, baptism and perhaps absolution) are, I think, grounded in the humanity of vulgarity, solecism and erotic desire. This goes to the very heart of my faith.


The tone and content working off each other to extend the meaning, rather than being blended seamlessly as would usually be the case. Fascinating, David, thank you. Can we talk a little more about how your faith affects the actual form your poetry took? Wystan, could I put that to you first?


Yes, I think the best I can do is to draw your attention to my ‘Horae Canonicae’ here. You see the whole shape of the sequence is based around, indeed predicated upon, the hours of the liturgical day, ‘Prime’, ‘Terce’, ‘Sext’ and so forth. So I tie the work up with a notion that is very important to me[xiii]: that of religious rites. And I know that this is something I share with David.


That’s absolutely right, Wystan. The shape of The Anathemata, as I wrote in the introduction, is based around ‘matters of all sorts which, by a kind of quasi-free association, are apt to stir in my mind at any time and as often as not “in the time of the Mass”’ (p.31). And I go on to say ‘What I have written has no plan…If it has a shape it is chiefly that it returns to its beginning.’ (p.33): the beginning that it returns to, of course, being the Catholic priest carrying out Mass. Only seven seconds divide the first and last lines and yet the entire poem is contained in that[xiv]. After all, for me, ‘The Mass makes sense of everything’[xv].


Tom, do you share this feeling that the rites of your faith are an important feature in the form of your poetry?


Well, it’s not quite the same I know, but you can hear towards the end of ‘The Hollow Men’, for example, how I used the Lord’s Prayer (repeating, splitting up and cropping that line ‘For Thine is the Kingdom’) to emphasise the doubt and fragmentation going on within the morally vacuous people who are the subject of that poem. And I quite often took on the diction of a preacher to lend my verse the weight of authority and wisdom that comes from the Bible. Listen to this from ‘East Coker’ and I think you can sense church, pulpit and congregation:

                        I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

                        For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love

                        For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

                        But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting. (23-26)

Notice the repetition of both lexis and clause structure, the pace-modulating commas before and after ‘be still’ to emphasise the talked-to-soul and the request for stasis, and that final definite article lending weight to the gerund ‘waiting’. All of these are rhetorical aspects that build into the passage the feeling of a sermon delivered. I do this to an even greater extent in ‘Choruses from “The Rock”’. So, I think I would perhaps say that the language of prayer and sermon rather than the structure of rite is important in my work.


You mentioned the concept of ‘stasis’ there and I think that you may be getting to the centre of things for all three of you with that notion.


Indeed, indeed. ‘At the still point of the turning world…there the dance is’ (Burnt Norton, II, 16-17). This Polaris-like image is key to faith in my work – particularly ‘Four Quartets’ – because it is here that we men of movement, we poets (and readers of poetry, for remember ‘Words move, music moves’ (Burnt Norton, V, 1)) can step outside the movement, the turning, of time past, present and future. And I see this in both David and Wystan.


I agree. And I think that the space provided by our long and longish poems (‘Four Quartets’, ‘Horae Canonicae’ and The Anathemata, for example) helps us to slow the pace down and create this sense of stasis. They take a long time to read and during reading, to some extent, the world outside the reader and the poem ceases to exist, or it exists ‘on pause’ so to speak. I would also add that I use a similar image of stillness and movement to Tom’s in ‘Compline’, Part 6 of ‘Horae Canonicae’, where the hours of the crucifixion become an absence for the watching crowd, a group non-memory if you like, and I (or at least the poem’s ‘I’) hopes to:

                                                            …join the dance

                                    As it moves in perichoresis,

                                       Turns about the abiding tree. (62-4)

So at the centre, at the ‘still point’, for me is the ‘abiding tree’ of the crucifixion, and ‘the dance’ which is associated with man’s relationship to the Trinity (i.e. perichoresis), goes on all around it; whereas with Tom, the dance is at the very centre. It is interesting I think that we are both looking for a sensation of “spinning” to some extent, disorientation – although in my case this is part of the dance of faith and for Tom it is part of the world outside the stillness of religion – Tom achieves it by emphasising the other half of the juxtaposition: his extended description of this rather paradoxical ‘point’ which is both ‘still’ and where ‘dance is’ (the second movement of Part 2 of Burnt Norton), while I do it largely through the use of that long and unusual word ‘perichoresis’, which is itself disorienting to read with its Greek unfamiliarity (for most readers), its five syllables and dancing vowels (‘e’ and ‘i’ repeated on either side of a central ‘o’ – the differing stress and length of the ‘e’ adding particularly to the effect; the giddying second ‘e’ pronounced /ei/ as in ‘sway’).


I’ll rein you in on that intriguing analysis if I may, Wystan! You highlight a number of interesting differences within a very similar image, which could indicate a fundamental difference in the content of your individual faiths. David?


Wystan is right to dig deeply into the word-choice there. I call such words ‘deposits’[xvi] because in them the ancient rites, symbols and indeed thoughts of the early church fathers live on. I use such terms in my work as more than mere allusion, and though they may be one reason some people consider The Anathemata ‘difficult’ they are fundamental to what I’m trying to achieve.


Which is?


Which is, like Tom and perhaps to some extent like Wystan, the slowing down or merging of time: past and present coming together to create something ‘other’ – i.e. Art. There is a perfect example of this at the beginning of The Anathemata, where the image of a priest carrying out the Mass, turning bread into the flesh of Christ (‘making this thing other’), becomes a ‘double exposure’[xvii] image of a pagan Roman priest (a ‘cult-man’ or ‘pontifex’) who is, like the Catholic priest, among ‘venerated trinkets’ but through my use of archaic, precise words and images like ‘institutes’, ‘ancilia’, ‘fertile ashes’ and ‘pontifex’ I take the reader directly back into a past which is also present in the rite of Mass itself.


It occurs to me that what David does in The Anathemata to some degree is, ironically, ‘making it new’ in Ezra Pound’s famous phrase, inasmuch as by viewing the history of Western culture through the lens of the Catholic religion he sheds new light on both Catholicism and the culture that it has contributed to creating over the centuries. Looking in a new way is something I was also intent on doing, particularly in my portrayal of the human species, as I did in ‘A New Year Greeting’ towards the end of  my life, when I drew a parallel between us humans and the microbes on our bodies – thus turning humanity into the God-like, providing/annihilating Earth itself:

                                                     If you were religious folk,

                                                how would your dramas justify

                                                     unmerited suffering?

                                                By what myths would your priests account

                                                     for the hurricanes that come

                                                twice every twenty-four hours,

                                                     each time I dress or undress,

This feels like a humorous if rather flippant picture of religion until you reach the last stanza and the human (the ‘I’) dies ‘…stripped of excuse and nimbus, / a Past, subject to Judgement.’ Perspectives are re-aligned and I hope the reader is jolted by those final two lines. The fantasies are over, I am saying, with death we are a Past alone, and only Judgement awaits us.


Gentlemen, on that note we’ve run out of time and space. Given the size of your respective bodies of work, I feel that we have just scratched the surface; but thank you for so concisely showing some of the ways that your individual senses of faith have informed and shaped your poetry. I think we have seen that from the macro- (the overall form and shape of your works) to the micro-level (the implications for metaphor and the shape of words) your religious poems work to express what Tom described earlier as the ‘ultimately inexpressible’.


[i] A. David Moody (ed.), The Cambridge Companion to TS Eliot (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994)  p.xvi

[ii] Thomas Howard, A Reader’s Guide to TS Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, <; [accessed 9th Dec 2015]

[iii] Edward Mendelson, ‘Auden and God’, New York Review of Books <; [accessed 27th Nov 2015]

[iv] John Fuller, WH Auden: A Commentary, p. 277

[v] Edward Mendelson,Auden and God’

[vi] Keith Alldritt, David Jones Writer and Artist, p. 52

[vii] Ibid p. 82

[viii] Ibid p. 144

[ix] Poetry Foundation <; [accessed 12 Dec 2015]

[x] Thomas Dilworth, Reading David Jones (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2008) p. 145-147

[xi] Ibid p. 146

[xii] Ibid p. 156

[xiii] Edward Mendelson, ‘Auden and God’

[xiv] Thomas Dilworth p.176

[xv] Ibid p. 178

[xvi] David Jones, Intro. to The Anathemata, (London: Faber and Faber, 1952) p.20-21

[xvii] Thomas Dilworth p. 121