Monthly Archives: November 2009

#4 “Birches” (Robert Frost)

The paper birch is one of the most glorious trees of northern North America. It’s not a universal image, perhaps (any more than the blackberry canes that cover waste ground in England), but it’s one of the most striking features of the New England landscape, and familiar to more people than perhaps have ever seen live birch trees through the medium of Robert Frost’s great poem “Birches.”

Birches, as the poem suggests, are easily bent. It’s their way of surviving northern winters, with their frosts and icings. The phenomenon of birches bent to the ground, never quite recovering their upright posture, can be seen in any number of photos on the Internet.

But that is a matter of fact, and “Birches” is a matter of fancy. The speaker imagines a boy taking the place of a natural force. That boy takes up a lonely game of standing in for ice, swinging the birches down with his own weight, so that they will resume their upright posture afterwards, no worse for the experience. The very uncanny nature of the game makes the poem great and terrible. Frost, as we have seen this semester, is the great poet of working outdoors. But this poem is all about play, done purely for its own sake. And while people have doubtless swung birches just as Frost describes in the poem, and still do and will do as long as children have leisure and short attention spans, the game is so pointless that it captures the wonder of art and of existence.

Swinging birches is a benign game with enough of a hint of danger to be momentous. As Frost describes it, it’s also a careful art with enough of a hint of freedom to be exciting – much, certainly, like poetry itself.

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#5 “Blackberrying” (Sylvia Plath)

Sylvia Plath had one of the most storied lives (and deaths) of any poet. The truly tragic circumstances of her passing, and the white-hot rhetoric of the poems that she wrote in the final year of her life, can sometimes obscure her exceptional poetic gift. “Blackberrying” is for me her masterpiece. It’s a poem of plain description that holds at its center something huge and unspoken.

There is no mystery to be “solved” in “Blackberrying”; the poem’s descriptions and events do not “stand” for anything but themselves. But that makes the poem even stronger, and more suggestive. It’s a piece that suggests the wonder of life itself, an amazement that such a conjunction of sights and sounds (of feasts for all five senses, in fact) could come to exist. “I knew that nothing stranger / had ever happened, that nothing / stranger could ever happen,” Elizabeth Bishop says in a different (but just as ordinary) context. Why should humans seek out fruit, why should they compete with flies for it, why should blackberries grow (as they do in England) on scraps of waste ground? Why are humans drawn by an ocean, even when they cannot sense it, and why do such marvelous juxtapositions of land and water exist in our world?

I love this poem for the way it is continually drawn beyond its subject, toward wonder. Plath is often celebrated for her extreme hatreds, for her acid satires of conventional life. But she was also capable of turning her titanic energies toward an expression of just how fabulous it is to be alive in the world.

“Blackberrying” is also a masterful use of free verse, with its long, non-rhyming, irregular lines that wander in and out of the standard ten-syllable line that is the most common pattern in English verse. It is too rhythmic and too meandering to be good prose, but it’s great free verse, unsettling readers and keeping us off balance, just as the day of blackberrying upsets and unsettles the speaker.

#6 “Lapis Lazuli” (William Butler Yeats)

In 1935, a poet named Harry Clifton gave his friend William Butler Yeats a stone carving of a Chinese scene. (The Yeats family still owns the carving; it can be seen in the National Library of Ireland.) It’s a rather conventional carving along “Oriental” themes. But as Yeats’s compatriot Oscar Wilde said, an artist

does not even require for the perfection of his art the finest materials. Anything will serve his purpose. . . . from subjects of little or of no importance . . . [he] can, if it be his pleasure so to direct or waste his faculty of contemplation, produce work that will be flawless in beauty and instinct with intellectual subtlety.

Yeats wrote one of the greatest poems in the English language about this rather ordinary collectible. “Lapis Lazuli” was published in March 1938. Two years before, Hitler’s army had entered the Rhineland (a buffer zone between France and Germany created after the First World War). Three months before “Lapis Lazuli” was published, Japanese troops massacred hundreds of thousands of Chinese people in Nanjing; six months later, the French and British would cede much of Czechoslovakia to Hitler in the Munich Agreement.

War was inevitable, despite British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain’s announcement at Munich that he had secured “peace in our time.” But Yeats had seen wars of many kinds, up close and from a distance. He took the very long view, both by philosophical temperament and because he was in his seventies and had a very long memory.

After a first stanza where “hysterical women” complain that art is frivolous in such a momentous age, Yeats doesn’t talk about the prospect of a 20th-century war at all. Instead he talks about three things:

  1. the inevitability of death, which is an ultimate, unsurpassable tragedy that shouldn’t depress anyone who is truly alive
  2. the gigantic cycles in which civilizations are destroyed and rebuilt, cycles that have not only characterized human history but in a sense have been that history
  3. the stone carving in lapis lazuli that Harry Clifton gave him, where the “Chinamen,” who take the same long view Yeats does, are literally above it all

“All breathing human passion far above,” John Keats would agree about art, in a poem we might still see before the Countdown is over. It takes an extremely patient view to adopt Yeats’s theory of art, but it is an immensely reassuring view once one takes it.

In September 2001, W.H. Auden’s poem “September 1, 1939” came to seem eerily topical. But it was not the poem I thought of, and not the one I read in class on September 13th to the people I had shared September 11th with. That poem was “Lapis Lazuli,” where the “affirming flame” of Auden’s poem was first expressed, in terms far more colossal and grand:

All things fall and are built again,
And those who build them again are gay.

#7 “The Whitsun Weddings” (Philip Larkin)

In “The Whitsun Weddings,” Philip Larkin intertwines form and content wonderfully. On the level of form, the poem “enacts” a train journey from the North of England down to London. The speaker (let’s say Larkin himself, because his speakers often parallel him closely) is probably coming from Hull, in the southern part of Yorkshire, and crosses Lincolnshire on his way south. He travels a “slow and stopping curve” of about 200 miles to the English capital.

It’s Whitsunday, the feast that Catholics, and most American Protestants, call “Pentecost.” Whitsunday is a “moveable feast,” keyed to Easter, and it falls in May or June, hence the early-summer heat that the speaker describes on the mid-20th-century, unairconditioned train.

In a unique stanza form (ABABCDECDE, where the second line is four syllables and all the rest are ten), the speaker mirrors the starting and stopping of the train, and its gathering momentum as it speeds up and eventually slows as it reaches its terminus in London. The rhythm of the poem’s lines never varies, but the rhythm of the sentences speeds and slows as they stretch across the uniform stanzas.

The basic idea of the poem’s content is provided by the peculiar, fragmentary glimpse that the speaker gets of all kinds of lives seen momentarily out the window as he passes them. But this is no ordinary train journey that unites mere random impressions. The speaker realizes, in the third stanza, that the train is collecting newlyweds. It makes sense: it’s a Saturday in early summer; a “June wedding” is traditional; so is a honeymoon journey to London. (Probably nowadays Miami or even Maui have become more popular with English newlyweds, but again, this is the 20th century.)

The “frail travelling coincidence” of the train packed with new marriages would be exciting enough, but in his particular genius, Larkin gives us a speaker (again, probably not far from the real Philip Larkin) who has a kind of comtempt for the people he sees getting married. These are working-class or lower-middle-class marriages, people from conventional families doing utterly conventional things. He doesn’t think “how sweet” and he doesn’t think back fondly on his own wedding (never having had one, even to regret it). Instead he reacts with knee-jerk superciliousness about the badly-dressed assortment of tacky types who are all doing the same thing and at the same time all thinking they’re special.

But there’s the mystery of things: just by acting as if they were special, the newlyweds are making their lives special – they are joining in some sort of partnership, while he continues on his way alone. And he can’t help but develop a sort of respect for these dubiously “respectable” people. They are on a kind of adventure, one that will lead them to unpredictable, common yet terribly momentous experiences,

and what it held
Stood ready to be loosed with all the power
That being changed can give.

#8 “Those Winter Sundays” (Robert Hayden)

“Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden is a miniature classic of tremendous power. Like so many other poems on the Countdown, it seems (though who knows how it was really composed) to have proceeded from its last two lines, or even from its final line, one of the great iambic pentameters in the English language. Having found, or been “given” that line (poets sometimes speak of a “gift,” their term for their talent in general or a specially beautiful line in particular), Hayden appears to have worked backwards to “earn” the line. What are “love’s austere and lonely offices?”

To work backward from the conclusion, they are things that the speaker didn’t know anything about when he was younger. (He doesn’t say how much younger, but: younger enough to be ignorant, old enough to be ungrateful and embarrassed about it.) “What did I know?” And what were those offices that the speaker knew nothing about?

The poem is devastatingly straightforward; as so often with the best poetry, if there’s a “hidden meaning” here it’s hiding very effectively. The “offices” are domestic. Although the speaker’s father is a breadwinner (“hands that ached / from labor in the weekday weather”), his weekend work is all at home. He makes the house warm, and he shines the speaker’s shoes.

The tensions in the poem are all on the surface; they are things that everyone in the family seems to know about but will not discuss. The home is full of “chronic angers,” and because of the anger, nobody ever thanks the father (or because nobody ever thanks him, he’s chronically angry; it’s a vicious cycle).

But because the surface crackles with tension, the things that the speaker ignores are things that he actually knows about. “What did I know?” – well, he knows and remembers everything. But the ritual of the house makes it impossible to communicate gratitude, or even to communicate resentment. The whole system of this kind of family is one of a smoldering discontent that is, because and despite its tension, the truest evidence of love.

#9 “Aubade” (Philip Larkin)

Philip Larkin’s “Aubade” is the greatest English-language poem about death. Or perhaps, one should say the greatest poem about a certain view of death. Millay’s “Childhood is the Kingdom Where Nobody Dies” captures the irretrievable loss of death for those who survive. Millay’s “Dirge without Music” is a great statement of defiance of death: “I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground”; by contrast, Emily Dickinson can be blankly affectless in the face of death:

I reason that in heaven
Somehow, it will be even
Some new equation given;
But what of that?

And Dylan Thomas is famously angry (or angry at the thought that a loved one might not be angry at the prospect of dying):

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Larkin is different. “Aubade” is less emotional than all these poems but Dickinson’s, but far more elaborate and analytical than Dickinson. “Aubade” is in some ways an essay on death. It has features in common with some of the great essayists’ thoughts on the “great stage-curtain.” Francis Bacon said “Of Death” that “It is as natural to die, as to be born; and to a little infant, perhaps, the one is as painful, as the other.” But Larkin would answer that it isn’t the pain of death that he’s worried about, but the absence of pain:

this is what we fear – no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anaesthetic from which none come round.

Montaigne asked “how is it possible a man should disengage himself from the thought of death, or avoid fancying that it has us, every moment, by the throat? . . . Let us disarm him of his novelty and strangeness, let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.” For Larkin’s speaker, conversing and being familiar with death merely means that death has us all the more by the throat. Unlike Keats, “half in love with easeful death,” Larkin is flat-out petrified, and every additional thought of death
brings “furnace-fear when we are caught without / people or drink.”

But unlike even the most succinct prose essay, Larkin’s poem condenses whole territories of argument into single phrases. Fifty lines here say more than entire books can, and say it in a memorable, almost inevitable way that is scaldingly unflinching. “Death is no different whined at than withstood.”

That tremendous line shows another aspect of Larkin’s work: he tended to place the big payoff, the great line that serves as the kernel of a great poem, somewhat before the end of the poem, with the final few lines or last stanza as a denouement or (to use a more musical term) a coda. It’s not that he backs off a majestic statement, or qualifies it in any way, but that his more ironic sense of rhetoric won’t let him end a poem the way a high Victorian like Tennyson or Matthew Arnold would. He knows there’s always something more to be said. But that doesn’t prevent him from having his say.

#10 “Ode to a Nightingale” (John Keats)

For John Keats’s “Ode to a Nightingale” I will provide a weblog glossary to the unfamiliar language of the poem. Once that’s in place, the magnificent Ode itself is a pretty straightforward poem, full of the tensions between Death and Beauty that characterize so much of Keats’s work.

  • Nightingale: “A secretive bird” with a proverbially beautiful song; associated with nighttime, of course, and thick vegetation. “Nightly she sings on yon pomegranate-tree,” says Juliet to Romeo, trying to persuade him to stay awhile longer, “Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.”
  • hemlock: POISON! as this website says. When the Athenians got tired of Socrates, he exited this life by knocking back some hemlock.
  • Lethe: A river in Greek legend. Once you drink of Lethe, your memory is gone forever. Kind of like the garbage-pail punches I drank as an undergraduate, but with a more systemic effect, i.e. instead of just forgetting one weekend in October 1978, you’d forget everything.
  • Dryad: Another regular character from Greek mythology. Dryads are forest spirits, leafy, secretive like the bird Keats compares them to. Sort of nubile and sort of vegetable at the same time.
  • Flora: A Roman vegetation goddess; as her name might suggest, connected with flowers. She gave her name to a whole branch of living things, of course.
  • Provençal: Associated with Provence, in the Southeast of France. A country not unlike Texas in its climate, in other words an awful lot unlike rainy, cloudy, chilly, miserable England.
  • Hippocrene: The fountain of the Muses, and one can imagine that the Muses serve something more potent than Diet Dr Pepper.
  • Bacchus and his pards: Bacchus was the Roman god of wine, and here he is pictured in a sketch by Delacroix, his chariot packed with wine jugs and drawn by two leopards. Actually these look to me more like saber-tooth tigers, but Delacroix had a lot of imagination. “Pard” is an earlier English abbreviation for “leopard,” as in Shakespeare’s soldier “Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard.” Though why 17th-century English people needed an abbreviation for “leopard” is beyond me.
  • White hawthorn: Prickly, showy, fragrant hedge plant common in England.
  • eglantine: A variety of rose, also called sweetbrier. Prickly too, with a lovely open blossom.
  • musk-rose: A huge number of rose varieties are called “musk-roses,” and Keats uses the phrase more for its sound and its suggestion of scent than for any visual cue.
  • clown: No, not Bozo. Keats means the word in its original sense, that of a none-too-refined country man.
  • Ruth: In the book of Ruth, the title character, a young widow, says to her mother-in-law Naomi: “Let me now go to the field, and glean ears of corn after [him] in whose sight I shall find grace.” (Rth 2:2). (And by “corn,” she means “barley.”) This patient gleaning got Ruth a husband, but she had to leave home and hie herself into a strange country to get him. If you have been to a Christian wedding in this country, you have probably heard Ruth’s words: “whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people [shall be] my people, and thy God my God” (Rth 1:16). Of course, what they usually don’t point out at weddings is that she said this not to her husband but to her mother-in-law.