Sunday, 8 October 2017

Berryman and Auden on Shakespeare


Auden's reserved book list for classes on Shakespeare (1944)

How many ways can we read William Shakespeare? Reading together on holidays the lectures of John Berryman and W.H. Auden on Shakespeare resurrects the world of seventy years ago, its irresistible confidence, its newfound hope. Both poets are finding their feet within a transatlantic milieu in which the whole terrestrial globe is now mapped.

Auden believed that an English-language poet’s views on Shakespeare were essential to our understanding of themselves as poets, a sign of the nature of their vocation. Berryman agrees implicitly with this view and it drives the force of their interpretation, and their own poetic character.

Although we know much already from their writings about their takes on Shakespeare, both books of lectures are posthumous, published over a quarter of a century after their deaths in the early seventies. So we encounter several pasts at once, that of their own lives now ended, that of the world of Shakespeare criticism mid-century, and that further past which is Shakespeare’s, and which all of us make our calls through independent historical imagination.

Do we rewrite Shakespeare in our own image? Berryman’s Shakespeare dies a Catholic, something he asserts with a conviction we would never expect from Auden. Auden avoids conjectures, and may anyway have had the Anglican view that his subject moved with the Reformation acceptance.

Berryman’s Shakespeare is beset by midlife crises that are not fully determined, that exact a before-and-after pattern to the work. Whereas Auden, while sensitive to Shakespeare’s personal life, adopts a regular indifference to it as of central importance to the work.

Berryman’s Shakespeare is not really a European man of ideas, where Auden’s Shakespeare expresses the ideas of Renaissance Europe slant, copiously, and lightly.

Both poets operate knowingly within the world of academic Shakespeare criticism, displaying their own necessary relationship to that world through reference and quotation. Both poets have immense aptitude to academic pursuit but an inventive, and therefore potentially problematic, relationship to Academe. Indeed, both poets ran into difficulties with the standard-makers of their respective universities and did not succeed topmost in their grades, a sting that doubtless drives much of their later Shakespearean talk. We note here the Peter Porter view, that it’s the poets who under-perform at university who then spend their lives proving themselves, and their interpretations, better than the academic status quo. Something true of all four poets referenced in this paragraph.

Both poets talk Shakespeare into the middle of next week, they are both originals of voice and manner. Berryman though must play the academic game more doggedly. His lectures are drama lessons all of their own, constructed at their best to enjoin his audience in the thrill of working beside unbridled genius. Auden’s tactic is to entertain with thoughts and theories, his celebrated feast of ideas. It must have been a challenge keeping up with all the courses; sometimes indigestion, more times pure pleasure.

Berryman offers ideas with a tone of conclusiveness. Auden too, though he runs the ideas past us, not waiting to test their verity in every case.

The panoply of Shakespeare critics are quoted, Berryman showing a greater need to acknowledge his debts, say Dover Wilson. Auden quotes say Eliot at length simply to save time.

Berryman, of the two, commits to serious textual work on a particular play, ‘King Lear’. Auden writes a long poetry sequence, ‘The Sea and the Mirror’, inspired by ‘The Tempest’. Berryman’s poetry is rife with Shakespearean drop-dead grammar. Neither is far from Shakespeare’s hold.

Berryman will do the very American thing from time to time of reminding us that we are dealing with the greatest ever, a habit that causes occasional flurries of Bardolatry. Auden commences with the assumption we are dealing with the greatest poet and doesn’t come back to that point. His anthology of English poetry, which at university was for us simply ‘Auden & Pearson’, includes the complete text of ‘Antony and Cleopatra’ which, if we choose to treat that work as a single poem, has more claim to being the greatest poem in English than the brief sonnets and passages cited by Berryman. But then, can anyone say which is the greatest, and is it important?

We have more accumulated information about Berryman and Auden than we will ever have biography of Shakespeare. The modern poets live on the other side of the biographical mania that took place in the 18th century and now infiltrates our daily lives with its obsessions over events and facts and gossip and psychology. Reading them on Shakespeare, we are caught out again by absence of biography about someone who could write a play in a fortnight to meet last even's commission (say 'The Taming of the Shrew'), that still takes them by surprise and which they strive to enthuse their students.

Three such delightful humans, and Porter makes four.

Two books:



John Berryman. Berryman’s Shakespeare. Edited and introduced by John Haffenden. Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1999



W.H. Auden. Lectures on Shakespeare. Reconstructed and edited by Arthur Kirsch. Princeton University Press, 2000

Wednesday, 13 September 2017

An eight line poem prompts a dialogue with Talitha Fraser on Facebook about theopoetics






Image by Talitha Fraser

you put up the new fence
but don't take down the old
instead of recycling for parts
there is merely a slow degradation
of the old material
tumour
benign or malignant?
diagnosis unknown

P: There are times when it's clear who 'you' is in your poems, other times when 'you' defies easy identification. This poem is in the latter category, if it's a category.

T: Here the "you" is me! #contemplativereflection #firstthelog

P: Well, that clears that up then.

T: I just fell into a black hole of pros and cons of the use of first person narrative in poetry... which hasn't cleared up anything but suffice it to say the most humbling moments of sharing my poetry would be when I manage to write something that others say it resonates with them and names something they didn't have words for... so while the "you" is me hopefully if I'm doing it right it can also be anyone!

P: The 'you' is the vital pronoun. I have had the same experience often when inside the poem, or wherever the place is where we talk and think in this fashion. Sometimes I'm fairly certain the 'you' in your poems is God, mainly when you give Him a big Y, You. :) Other times it seems it could be God, or yourself at some meeting place in yourself. Then other times it sounds like you're taking it out on someone else, like 'why have you made this fence?'

T: God always gets a big You :) if God is in me and I am in God that is right that it should become hard to distinguish... I think that's what theopoetics is, eavesdropping on that internal conversation between oneself and God and learning/discovering one’s self and place in and through that. I'm not going to get into the personal particulars on what's behind this piece but what I'm trying to capture is the ways we carry "baggage" from our life experiences and relationships forward in conscious and unconscious ways that can prevent us from being seen/known or to truly see and know others (since I think everyone does this to different degrees). It seems to me that doing the work to dismantle the first fence is often not encouraged or supported, people prefer to pretend the old frameworks aren't there and want the strong front. I think we harm each other and ourselves in trying to meet this expectation.

P: Yes, Yes, and Yes.

[Pause]

P: I will expand on my response at some later date. Though, why?

T: My poems are can have a bit going on behind them #deceptivelysimple

P: Talitha Fraser OMG, so to speak.

Saturday, 26 August 2017

Peter Gebhardt 1: Remembrance of Things Past


Peter Gebhardt could be old school, which is amusing when we consider he spent half his life turning old schools into new schools. One way he was old school was how he lived on the telephone. The telephone is a conversational device via which he conducted long conversations with family, friends, and colleagues; probably also reformed individuals he watched through the courts. I imagine this was a lifelong practice, or rather, pastime.

I would pick up the receiver to hear the Gebhardt voice commence a dialogue that could go for the next three or the next fifty-three minutes. He never said, “Peter here”, or introduced himself in full, or said hello, it was straight into it. For example: “What do you make of the Prime Minister this week?” This was less an opportunity for me to remark on the government’s latest misadventure than for Peter to launch forth on his newest series of mock-shock observations and rock solid opinions. The Prime Minister, inevitably, was put in his place.

Sometimes I would lift the receiver only to hear Peter taking up where we left off last week: “What you said about the Irish … Well it’s true, isn’t it? I’ve been thinking about it,” upon which his thoughts about my thoughts would deliver and digress in orderly manner, with me hoping to find a lacuna to add something myself. He had a relish for clear ideas.

At his thanksgiving service at Trinity College one of the eulogists drew attention to Peter’s extraordinary ability to live always with the promise of a future. He had things on the go, all the time. The future is there for us to make something positive and concrete, whatever challenges may arise. This truth caused me to reflect on our last phone conversations this year.

In one call I said I was re-reading parts of Proust. I liked the back-and-forward of his narrative, where a person or event may enter, prompting philosophy and memories, memories that prompt deeper memories. I enjoyed Proust’s remarkable digressions, some of them lengthening into pages, before he returned magically to an earlier story. Peter hadn’t looked at Proust for a long time.

A week later, next call, he alludes to Proust. I say I have been lent the recent translation project of Christopher Prendergast & Co. That I have revisited Swann and, not surprisingly, find many surprises that I missed when I read the books thirty years ago. He makes vague noises about versions and how long it all is, before switching to something he knows about, mainly his health. In fact, his health has not been good for a while. I know when it’s really bad because he doesn’t phone at all.

A couple of weeks later, a phone call, and the voice of Peter intervenes on my morning. What was that translation of Proust I was talking about? He has to read it now. He is clearly planning for the future. Proust is something concrete, so Proust is now part of the plan. I imagine having Proust is a good way to pass the hours in hospital. Prendergast. Penguin Books.

Next call is from a hospital. I know this when he starts talking about nurses, tests, and blood. He has his people looking for that Proust set, but to no avail. Where can he find it? ‘His people’, incidentally, are the family members and what I always refer to as his ‘secretaries’, who run his errands, send emails, and do everything a telephone man hasn’t got time to waste upon. He had about five secretaries, by my count, but probably more. He was old school. Readings, maybe. Hill of Content, if anyone, they stock the classics: talk to Andrew or Pauline. Dymocks, if it’s in print.

A week later, phone call, no one has Proust. So I say well you may have to buy online. I praise James Grieve’s translation of the second volume of Proust. Grieve is the enfant terrible of Proust translators, resident in Canberra, even though he’s no longer an enfant and probably not terrible. This annoys Peter even more, a controversial translator of Proust who is an Australian, and he hasn’t got the book. Motivation is reaching fever pitch.

It is a relief to hear that, a couple of weeks later, his secretaries have procured the volumes and that arrival is imminent. I say to Peter he should start with Combray, which is compact and of a piece, setting the scene. That Combray is the narrator Marcel’s recollections of his childhood in Paris and the north of France. That Combray includes the seriously famous passage about dipping the madeleine cake in tea. He listens at the other end and thanks me for all my help on the Proust project.  

There were a couple more phone calls, mainly on politics and a letter he had received from Marie Heaney in Dublin. The news of his death came by chance from one of his secretaries, after I had recommended some of his recent poems for publication in Eureka Street. She wrote in an email to say Peter died on the 22nd of July. In the days that followed I reflected on how he rang me, even when in extremis, and what a great person he was for keeping conversation going right to the end. I was just one of his telephone companions, though we’d had the odd lunch, and yet he took an interest, generated new thoughts, mischievous thoughts and creative, joked about Prime Ministers and the like, and cheered the day. I reflected on the set of Proust he’d had ordered, at home waiting for him to read, the next reading project, always something on the go.

Saturday, 22 July 2017

Getting Up James Joyce’s Nose









 Bloomsday in Melbourne went to new extremes in 2017, in short, the nose. Here is my review of the main show for the journal Tintean.

Many photographs of James Joyce show the author with his nose in the air. This mannerism is interpreted as otherworldliness, or arrogance, or as a symptom of his manifold eye afflictions, though who is to say Joyce is not simply avoiding the down draught of the photographer’s noxious fart?

Ulysses is famously an exposition and celebration of the five senses. Rarely in literature had the sensory, sensual nature of all human experience been given such constant immediacy in a novel. The sight, sound, feel, and taste of Dublin is worded up on every page. But of all the precious five, smell is the most challenging to turn effectively into words. How to transform a list of smells into theatre requires in-depth knowledge of the Ur-Text, or perhaps that’s the Ewww-Text. This was the challenge set for the Bloomsday in Melbourne committee a couple of years ago: how to write about smells.

Getting Up James Joyce's Nose is the result, a new play that began life as an ungainly database list of smelly references in Ulysses, before the committee turned those random lines into Joycean theatre fit for performance, and inhalation. The polymathic nature of the book makes such theatre possible, as we were reminded at the pre-show dinner by Melbourne’s own beloved polymath, the Honourable Professor Barry Jones. Joyce has put enough conundrums into his book to keep even the sniffiest scholar for years with his nose to the grindstone.

An artwork created according to a restrictive rule forces the artist to devise new ways of presenting the material. We know this with Ulysses itself: a gargantuan novel all set on just one day caused Joyce to write out the experiences with ever more elaboration, and further elaborate rules. Likewise with this play, where the rule of ‘smells only’ inspired otherwise unimaginable conjunctions. The scripting team were an olfactory factory.

Handed such a whiffy text, director Wayne Pearn took a deep breath and turned it into a play piece of encaptivating ingenuity. Steampunk, a retro fashion that owes much to the Victorian and Edwardian encounter between industrial production and big dress sense, was a brilliant choice for costuming, not to mention outlandish props that made the point all too well. Likewise, the choice of the Melba Spiegeltent in Johnston Street, Collingwood, was a natural setting for the circus and vaudeville modes that carried the show.

The result was a poetic flow of effects, a fantasia of 1904 Dublin seen and heard through the words of the book. There were theatrical episodes, but no normative Joycean narrative, no book sequence. The smells took centre stage, you might say, raising to the big top many ideas about smells and questions of class, of decorum (“Immorality has a stench”), and literary convention, and a direct and comedic confrontation with early 20th century sexology (“Source of life mansmell”). This loose set of episodes was held together by the Brisbane comedy vaudevillian troupe The Tatty Tenors, who sang period songs with straight faces. This was particularly hard to do with the sacrosanct Bloomsday piece ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’ when the refrain went “Love’s old sweet pong”, but then Bloomsday in Melbourne has never been averse to sending itself up, or subverting the dominant cliché.

James Joyce (Steve Gome) has been portrayed in the past as the obsessive scribbler, the feminist scourge, the egotistical exile, and the misunderstood desperado, but in a circus he is the ring-master. This was Joyce at his most commanding, totally in control of his characters as they smelled the roses or put up with the horseshit. This was Joyce the extreme risk-taker, ready to push both his troupe of characters and his ideas to the limit, and beyond. He held the whip-hand, could not get enough of Molly’s teases, laughed with glee during Bloom’s morning dump, and went too far this time with his desecration of hallowed Robert Emmet’s execution speech. It was the Joyce who smells mischief in every situation. He was the impresario of this ode to odours.   

Leopold Bloom (Silas James) was more like the long-suffering homme sensuel than the urban Odysseus of comic pathos. “The smells are taking you back” we were told. Bloom’s most affective madeleine moments were very much the same as Molly’s, redolent of their paradise lost, and maybe soon to be regained. The disappearance of the wending street odyssey of 16th June was especially noticeable in his case, now that perfumes, scents, stinks, and reeks pervaded our present tense. For this was, indeed, theatre of the now moment, just as smells transmit their transitory meanings, then pass.

It could be said of all of us that “We Blooms live in our bodies”, but Molly Bloom (Christina Costigan) has special ways of reminding us of this ample truth. Costigan trains in aerial hoop, which means Molly hung by a thread for much of the play, while managing to send the verbal messages and body language her fans know so well. If Molly’s whole existence is a balancing act, this was taken literally this year, as she performed suspended from the centre of the Spiegeltent. Hers was a sustained work of figurative beauties, both verbal and physical.

A standout feature of this year’s Bloomsday was a character with the handle Nose (Steven Dawson), an escapee from commedia dell’arte who seemed to live each smell as though it were his last. This luminous dong moved about the stage, at once comically intrusive and spookily spectral. This is the sort of character to give Freud nightmares, as if Nikolai Gogol has come back to life, sticking his proboscis into every nook and cranny of the text. Dawson was made for the part, responding unforgettably to each new smell that wafted past with the Sturm und Drang of the supersensitive nostril.

And there was Matthew Dorning, a versatile actor who played the great unwashed Stephen Dedalus, not to mention Blazes Boylan, Nosey Flynn, a waiter, and the nymph Poulaphouca, the kind of costume-changing clown requisite in any self-respecting circus. His expansive repertoire put one in mind of some of the hallucinatory sections of the nighttown brothel scenes, sometimes known as Circe. As indeed did the whole show, in a space where the limits of the daily world had been temporarily let go. The show must go on!

Getting Up James Joyce's Nose was a treat for the seasoned Joycean, who can pick up the trail in a jiffy, though my one query later was what a neophyte to Ulysses would make of all the glancing references from the book, many of them given no prior context. That said, Bloomsday in Melbourne proved once again that it is the pre-eminent international festival of its kind, capable of remaking itself, testing startling new ideas, and coming up with the latest takes on one of world literature’s greatest comic novelists, and Ireland’s greatest.      



Saturday, 29 April 2017

Gerard Manley Hopkins: ‘Pied Beauty’, ‘Carrion Comfort’, and ‘Thou art indeed just, Lord’

Newman House, University College Dublin, facing St. Stephen's Green



On Thursday the 27th of April Will Johnston, Robert Gribben and I gave a presentation on Gerard Manley Hopkins to the Institute for Spiritual Studies at St. Peter’s Church, Eastern Hill, Melbourne. Here is the second part of my contribution to the evening.
 
Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things –
   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;
      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
                                Praise him.

At its most immediate ‘Pied Beauty’ is a poem of praise to God, deriving its form and purpose from the psalms of the Hebrew Bible. It is a hymn, in that the words are directed to God, speak of God’s good works, recognise him in all things, and are “lost in wonder, love, and praise”, as Charles Wesley would have it. It uses the sprung rhythm that the American poet Robert Hass says transcends the “easy fit” to “give the feeling of overmuch.”

It is, though, not a conventional praise poem. Rather than listing the many beauties of creation, as we find in that opening hymn of the Bible, in Genesis chapters 1 and the start of 2, Hopkins goes into select and very detailed description of some favourite features of the English countryside. Only then to say that “all things”, by extension, meaning the whole of creation, pied as it all is, deserves our praise. “All things counter, original, spare, strange” is everything. Hopkins takes very particularised effects – “a brinded cow”, “finches’ wings” – as examples of how the whole universe in fact is “pied beauty”. The shift from the particular to the general, an elementary strategy of essays and debates, happens between the two verses, thus making the poem a miniature exercise in rhetoric; the rhetoric beloved of Oxford dons and Jesuit orators.

The poem is also an invitation. How do we read the final lines? “He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change: / Praise him.” While we hear this as praise to the maker of all things, the poem is also asking us to praise him. It is stating that we too may engage freely in the expression of praise, in our own words, our own somewhat unique and human way, in our own time. Hopkins has just shown us how to do it, and how to do it if you are Hopkins. He ends by saying it is your turn to do this, in your way.

‘Ad maiorem Dei gloriam’ is the motto of the order that Hopkins joined: ‘To the greater glory of God.’ He would have seen this motto frequently,
probably written in chalk at the top of blackboards in tutorial classes: it is a reminder to offer everything to God in God’s Name. We sometimes think of the Jesuit dedication as austere and absolute, which is why ‘Pied Beauty’ is such a release. Instead of cautious reserve the poem comes from a personal state of joyous, even ecstatic, bliss. Instead of the kind of ‘us and them’ Catholic language we find in Hopkins’ letters sometimes, here the poem is all-embracing, almost delirious over the marvels of difference, one could even say ecumenical in its divine understanding of the world.

Hopkins, who took a huge interest, like Robert Bridges, in English word history, knew that ‘pied’ is Middle English for ‘black and white’ or any marked colour on white. In other words, blemished or marked, as distinct from unblemished. The acceptance of the world as blemished, as fallen from some perfect state, seems to exist consciously or not, behind the poem ‘Pied Beauty’. While this is a tentative argument that cannot be pushed too hard, we have to remember that Hopkins has been given a thorough grounding in the reality of sin, in his own life as well as in the seminary, and that his poetry is the verbalisation, in various forms, of that awareness.

We also have to remember that Hopkins was a contemporary of Charles Darwin, someone who proposed challenging ways of understanding nature, some of them at odds with conventional religious thinking. ‘Pied Beauty’ is a nature poem. The examples it gives of God’s ‘fathering-forth’ are nearly all from nature and Hopkins, through his condensed language, teaches us to look upon nature with new eyes. He would have us see the wonders of nature in their own right, not simply as products of a process of unremitting natural selection. We are being placed in the reflective mode that respects the inscape of each individual being.

This leads to my final way of reading ‘Pied Beauty’, which is that we see the living world glorified in its physical presence and ongoing existence, albeit mortal in its passage. In some ways the most important clue to the poem is not in the famous words like “dappled things”, “fickle, freckled”, or “rose-moles all in stipple”, but in the very plain English word “change”. Everything he talks about is open to mutability, will alter and age with time. Only God does not change and yet it is only through God that we may see the true wonder of what God has made possible. His “beauty is past change.” As happens frequently in poetry, the last line is the one that shares the underlying meaning, and makes us read it again.

‘Pied Beauty’ shows how this style of rhythm and stress render an argument effective. A simple theology lesson is transformed into a living hymn of praise, a universal sermon, urging us to see the world anew. It is theopoetic before the fact. Yet Hopkins discovered that his style could serve internal dramatic monologue as well. He takes the conventions of prayer and expands the results into a present drama.

Carrion Comfort

Not, I'll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

   Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

We can hear ‘Carrion Comfort’ as a stark testament to the state of ‘fight-or-flight response’. Each temptation to give in to despair, “to avoid and flee”, is quickly countered by the alternative, to stay, meet, and overcome. Each phrase details a new part of the internal contest. Grammatical sense is pushed to breaking point in order to include all the vying forces of emotion and reason. The second half of the sonnet reveals what has already been implied, that this is a struggle with God, whom he both addresses directly and speaks of as the one he wrestles.

While it is useful to know the poem was written during an Ignatian retreat using the Spiritual Exercises, and is therefore an acute expression of his soul at the time, our interest is only secondarily in biography. As in all his poetry, the form Hopkins invented is utilised to depict a spiritual experience, a struggle, an epiphany, a revelation. It is we who cry ‘I can no more’ only to counter with ‘I can’. The slow overcoming of despair is imitated in the poetry. He uses biblical images – ‘I wretch lay wrestling with my God’ – but this is secondary to their use as meaning to his, and our, own shared experience of learning God’s will.

The last years of his life were hard. He wrote to Richard Watson Dixon that “Liverpool is of all places the most museless,” a despondent state that changed little after he took up the offer to teach in Dublin. The so-called ‘terrible sonnets’ evidently written in a state of spiritual turmoil and crisis, keep his unique eye for nuance and fine detail while shifting in their directness of speech closer to the Metaphysicals like John Donne. This change in composition will always leave us wondering what other changes may have occurred if Hopkins had lived as long as Robert Bridges. Here he is, near the end of his life, taking his cue from the prophet Jeremiah:

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend

Justus quidem tu es, Domine, si disputem tecum; verumtamen
justa loquar ad te: Quare via impiorum prosperatur? &c.

Thou art indeed just, Lord, if I contend
With thee; but, sir, so what I plead is just.
Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavour end?

    Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? Oh, the sots and thralls of lust
Do in spare hours more thrive than I that spend,
Sir, life upon thy cause. See, banks and brakes
Now, leavèd how thick! lacèd they are again
With fretty chervil, look, and fresh wind shakes
Them; birds build – but not I build; no, but strain,
Time’s eunuch, and not breed one work that wakes.
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.


Sources

Hass, Robert, quoted in a review by Scott Esposito of his ‘A Little Book of Form’, San Francisco Chronicle, 19 April 2017

Hopkins, Gerard Manley. Poems and prose of Gerard Manley Hopkins, selected with an introduction and notes by W.H. Gardner. Penguin, 1953

Hopkins, Gerard Manley. Selected letters, edited by Catherine Phillips. Oxford University Press, 1990





Poetry and Gerard Manley Hopkins and Robert Bridges

St Peter and St Paul Church Yattendon, with the Bridges family cross in the foreground


On Thursday the 27th of April Will Johnston, Robert Gribben and I gave a presentation on Gerard Manley Hopkins to the Institute for Spiritual Studies at St. Peter’s Church, Eastern Hill, Melbourne. Here is the first part of my contribution to the evening.

Gerard Manley Hopkins and Robert Bridges were born three months apart in the year 1844. Their families were devoutly religious, also inspired by the movement of reform within the English Church which we today call Anglo-Catholicism. The Hopkins family attended High Anglican churches, including All Saints’ Margaret Street in London, a church designed and built by William Butterfield, the same architect who designed the cathedral down the hill from here near the Yarra River.

The books tell us Hopkins and Bridges met at university, but they were moving in the same social and cultural circles for years, taking in the same air. In a previous generation Hopkins’ grandfather went to school with the poet John Keats.

‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty’ – that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

These lines of Keats had become a dogma of English Romanticism. They signal the genesis of a whole way of thinking, judging, and acting that we associate with names like Ruskin, Rossetti, Pater, Pugin, Arnold, Wilde, and, irresistibly we might say, Hopkins and Bridges. Keats cannot be held responsible for the Oxford Movement, and yet when we observe the reclamation of aesthetic values in the expression, language, and worship of the English Church, ‘the beauty of holiness’ is an affirmed and central object of both our poets. It is more than theme and ideal, it is its own meaning.

They were both classicists. Bridges was to write lengthy and increasingly unusual poems on subjects from classical mythology during his long life. Hopkins was to finish up as a Professor of Greek in Dublin during his short life. Their poetic was deeply formed by classical poetry, as revived by Victorian scholarship.

But they were also both what today we call medievalists, influenced by the Victorian revival of everything gothic. Bridges yearned for a pre-industrial England and a pre-imperial English language, free of the foreign imports adopted by the first global language. Hopkins’ sprung rhythm relies inordinately on the alliteration of Anglo-Saxon and medieval Welsh poetry, and on the timbre of Shakespeare.

This is all one happy symptom of their broader passion for the English language, in terms of poetic play, linguistic invention, and word derivation. They are true poets in their total intoxication with words.

As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I dó is me: for that I came.

I say móre: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is —
Chríst — for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.

Having registered their poetic complicity, we then have to meet the difficult reality of the essential subject of their poetry, which is God as revealed in Christ. They are a living contradiction of the Victorian commonplace of loss of faith as exemplified in, say, Matthew Arnold and Thomas Hardy.

Hopkins’ conversion to Roman Catholicism, under the guiding hand of no less a person than John Henry Newman, was a dramatic surprise to all. His father thought he had “gone mad”, and Gerard’s letters to his parents remind us painfully of just what a headstrong and conceited 22-year-old is capable. The choice between the Rule of Saint Benedict or Saint Ignatius vexed him briefly, but he went with Ignatius, and with that the social and religious disadvantages Victorian England imposed. His letters are gloriously knowledgeable, but we cannot help noticing that most of his fervent literary communication continues with Anglicans, not Catholics. More surprising, from our distance, is his subsequent (not to say consequent) destruction of all his manuscripts, an act recorded in his diary for 11 May 1868 with the macabre joke, “the slaughter of the innocents”.

It has been observed that Hopkins, unlike Bridges and other Romantic poets, did not privilege poetry as a vocation. He already had a vocation: he was a priest. Like Thomas Merton, Hopkins could not see how his writing could fit into his newfound life. This may have continued were it not for news of a shipwreck, that favourite motif of gothic literature, in the Thames Estuary in which five nuns were amongst those who drowned. Hopkins’ provincial superior, a canny individual if ever there was one, hinted that someone should write a poem about this terrible event. When Hopkins took up the challenge, he used his immense poetic gift and accumulated theories about poetry, to enunciate his own true vocation, to Christ.

Hopkins died too young. We will never know how much he actually wrote and how much he threw into the fireplace, but he directed that his estate be left either to the care of family or to his closest literary confidant, Robert Bridges. Families being what they are, they probably had no idea or interest in exactly what to do with Gerard’s fanciful words, so the words went to Bridges.

While conjecture continues to this day about why Bridges took thirty years to publish a collection of the most original poetry in English, this conflicted inheritance overlooks their joint achievement as experimenters of style, and of style trained deliberately to express special versions of Christian vision.    

For me, this is the most remarkable thing about their friendship. They were both preoccupied, as few others of their contemporaries were in quite the same way, with stress. Hopkins’ single-minded focus on the stress of words and syllables in the line is seen and heard everywhere.

To what serves mortal beauty ' —dangerous; does set danc-
ing blood—the O-seal-that-so ' feature, flung prouder form
Than Purcell tune lets tread to? ' See: it does this: keeps warm
Men’s wits to the things that are; ' what good means—where a glance
Master more may than gaze, ' gaze out of countenance.
Those lovely lads once, wet-fresh ' windfalls of war’s storm,
How then should Gregory, a father, ' have gleanèd else from swarm-
ed Rome? But God to a nation ' dealt that day’s dear chance.
To man, that needs would worship ' block or barren stone,
Our law says: Love what are ' love’s worthiest, were all known;
World’s loveliest—men’s selves. Self ' flashes off frame and face.
What do then? how meet beauty? ' Merely meet it; own,
Home at heart, heaven’s sweet gift; ' then leave, let that alone.
Yea, wish that though, wish all, ' God’s better beauty, grace.

But this was never simply ornate show, embellishment for its own sake, or lilting loveliness typical of other flowery types of the time. The words enact meaning, they send out double and triple meanings, nouns become like verbs and vice versa in a dramatic deployment. The result is a poetry so charged that readers , Bridges included, it was freakish. Hopkins was reviving stress as found in Shakespeare and Milton, it was English at its most enforced, enlivened.

Bridges could not fully understand himself what Hopkins was really trying to do, but meanwhile was cultivating a kind of poetry which is almost free of the demands of stress. No less a reader than W.H. Auden could say in the early 1970s, and admiringly, that “So far as I know, Bridges was the first to write quantitative verse in English which ignores stress altogether.” His ‘Testament of Beauty’ is written in accent-free verse counted by the syllables, something that today is more the norm than the exception.

Today we are more likely to meet Bridges in church than in a café, more likely to know his translations than his inspirations. The New English Hymnal, the one we use next door, lists ten hymns by Bridges translated from ancient Greek, Latin, and German. This places him firmly in the line of Victorian hymnographers like John Mason Neale. He was choir master of his local church and wrote a hymnbook there, the Yattendon Hymnal. And just to show what Bridges can do in quantitative verse, I am going to read one of his finest renditions.

All my hope on God is founded;
  He doth still my trust renew,
Me through change and chance he guideth,
  Only good and only true.
    God unknown,
    He alone
  Calls my heart to be his own.

Pride of man and earthly glory,
  Sword and crown betray his trust;
What with care and toil he buildeth,
  Tower and temple fall to dust.
    But God's power,
    Hour by hour,
  Is my temple and my tower.

God's great goodness aye endureth,
  Deep his wisdom, passing thought:
Splendour, light and life attend him,
  Beauty springeth out of naught.
    Evermore
    From his store
  Newborn worlds rise and adore.

Daily doth th’Almighty Giver
  Bounteous gifts on us bestow;
His desire our soul delighteth,
  Pleasure leads us where we go.
    Love doth stand
    At his hand;
  Joy doth wait on his command.

Still from man to God eternal
  Sacrifice of praise be done,
High above all praises praising
  For the gift of Christ his Son.
    Christ doth call
    One and all:
  Ye who follow shall not fall.

“Beauty springeth out of naught.”

Although Bridges studied medicine and worked briefly as a doctor, he retired to the country at the tender age of 38 and lived more or less for the rest of his life in what one observer has called a “prolific period of domestic seclusion.” Gentlemen can do that. He became Poet Laureate under King George V in 1913, an honour that could be seen as a misfortune for Bridges, as he was expected to write nationalistic verse during the war that ran counter to his aesthetic, his own sense of English values, and his growing awareness of what was actually going on at the Western Front. Complaints were raised in Parliament that he wasn’t doing enough for the war effort, something we must set beside his instruction to omit many of his war poems in subsequent reprints.

But it is during the War, clearly, that Bridges determines to publish Hopkins and it is his editorial work on the poems that occurs during this time.

As I have said, both poets were committed to English language. Hopkins revived certain kinds of English poetic construction and diction as part of a project of Englishness. Bridges also invented new ways of doing old things. ‘The Testament of Beauty’ is written using spelling reforms that rival Melville Dewey’s.  He also founded the Society for Pure English, to promote “a sounder ideal of the purity of our language.” Students of Anglo-Catholicism will note that the Society’s project was spelt out in an ongoing series of numbered Tracts, an unavoidable echo of the Tracts for the Times, leaving us to ponder with what evangelical fervour our two poets pursued their beliefs about English.

Could Hopkins have imagined that his friend Bridges would initiate such a crusade at the same time when he was preparing the poems for publication? Hopkins wrote in 1882, "It makes one weep to think what English might have been; for in spite of all that Shakespeare and Milton have done [...] no beauty in a language can make up for want of purity". Linguistic purism in English, the idea that words of English origin should take precedence over foreign imports, runs counter to the modern paradigm of English as adaptable to all forms of word borrowing, a paradigm established (if anyone can be given this credit) by Samuel Johnson in his prefaces to his Dictionary and it indeed gets “curiouser and curiouser” that two Oxford men who took great interest in that book’s famous successor, the Oxford English Dictionary, and who were steeped in Greek and Latin, in fact argued against the hybrid nature of English itself in poetry.

Today we ponder how the 700-plus pages of Robert Bridges Oxford Standard Authors is read by a small band of enthusiasts while the 70-odd pages of Hopkins’ collected poetry are read and known wherever English poetry shows up. Without Bridges certainly we none of us would have encountered Hopkins, yet it is one of the quirks of literary history that the Poet Laureate is now thought obscure, while the Jesuit who died in obscurity, his work unknown, is one of the household names of English Literature.    

Sources

Auden, W. H. A certain world : a commonplace book. Faber and Faber, 1971

Hopkins, Gerard Manley. Poems and prose of Gerard Manley Hopkins, selected with an introduction and notes by W.H. Gardner. Penguin, 1953

Hopkins, Gerard Manley. Selected letters, edited by Catherine Phillips. Oxford University Press, 1990

The new English hymnal. Full music edition. Canterbury Press Norwich, 1986






 

Tuesday, 11 April 2017

Rowan Williams : an Abiding Attention to Christianity



This profile of Rowan Williams was written by Philip Harvey for the ‘Heroes of the Faith’ page of The Melbourne Anglican, April 2017.

Rowan Williams, as a child, grew up in a Welsh Calvinist village. We encounter this formative world of Wales throughout his writing, for example in his translation of the Nonconformist poet Ann Griffiths:

Under the dark trees, there he stands,
there he stands; shall he not draw my eyes?
I thought I knew a little
how he compels, beyond all things, but now
he stands there in the shadows. It will be
Oh, such a daybreak, such bright morning,
when I shall wake to see him
as he is.

It’s only when the family moved to another village that Rowan first encountered High Church Anglicanism, with its strong emphasis on social action and a sacramental worship that engaged all the senses.

As a young man Rowan almost became a Benedictine, a decision that his biographer Rupert Shortt avers would have disappointed some of his female friends.  Benedictinism, nevertheless, remains a strong influence in his life, perhaps most consistently in his keeping a daily prayer life.

At university Rowan became immersed in Russian Orthodoxy. He wrote his thesis on the mystical theologian Vladimir Lossky. Two of his most popular works are readings of icons and one of his more impenetrable also explores Orthodoxy, the book about Dostoevsky he wrote one holiday while Archbishop of Canterbury.
Possibly his most popular book is a wry and sympathetic reading of the Sayings of the Desert Fathers (‘Silence and Honey Cakes’ (2003)) where Rowan makes the Egyptian monks of the 3rd century seem peculiarly contemporary to our own needs and experience. 

“Arsenius was famous not for physical self-denial but for silence; and if there is one virtue pretty universally recommended in the desert, it is this. Silence somehow reaches to the root of our human problem, it seems. You can lead a life of heroic labour and self-denial at the external level, refusing the comforts of food and sleep; but if you have not silence – to paraphrase St Paul, it will profit you nothing. There is a saying around in the literature describing Satan or the devils in general as the greatest of ascetics: the devil does not sleep or eat – but this does not make him holy. He is still imprisoned in that fundamental lie which is evil. And our normal habits of speech so readily reinforce that imprisonment.”



Of another monk he writes:  “Abba Pambo is represented as refusing to speak to the visiting Archbishop of Alexandria. ‘If he is not edified by my silence, he will not be edified by my speech,’ says the old man, unanswerably; archbishops are regarded with healthy suspicion in most of this literature. Our words help to strengthen the illusions with which we surround, protect and comfort ourselves; without silence, we shan’t get any closer to knowing who we are before God.”

That an archbishop would think suspicion of an archbishop “healthy” tells us a lot about Rowan’s own self-awareness, self-deprecation and sense of the awkwardness that exists between the role of church authority and true holiness. The question of how a truly holy person can at the same time exercise influence and control as a leader is one we encounter frequently in his writing.

I list these different attractions in Rowan’s spiritual growth to emphasise his abiding attention to Christianity in its many complex forms; hence his ability to talk authoritatively across traditions. Also, to argue that this free access to Christian traditions is a mark of Anglicanism. Rowan’s range, and comfort within that range, is partly explained by the kind of Church he chose to stay in. He has talked of Anglicanism at the Reformation being capable of accommodating “a mixture of opposite extremes”, what could be called a way of accepting very different forms of Christianity together. This connection with Christian traditions and freedom to read, hear, mark, learn and inwardly digest them is, I believe, a typical gift of Anglicanism.

Rowan shows how the via media is not just some narrow road through valleys of death but a highway where many useful and illuminating detours are available and welcome. Risk-takers and P-platers share the lanes with sightseers and Sunday drivers. It’s why I keep returning to this writing. Rowan affirms the possibilities for a questioning church; he represents the kind of church I grew up in and identify with. He is a trusted guide. Indeed, guidance as an episcopal responsibility inspires and drives his writing, whether lucid and inviting, as in his recent apologetic work, through to the most gnarly areas of the Groves of Academe. 

He talks of the Anglican imagination that “seeks to discern God in unexpected places, and to see the world itself as a kind of sacrament of God.” Notice here his connection to place: he regularly starts from a particularised place, even when that place is the whole world. 

Much of his work involves finding out things about the whole Christian experience, admiring their sheer existence, and using them to expand our awareness and thinking in new ways. The Gospel revelation is the source and foundation of his thinking in every field – ethics, social justice, philosophy, psychology, politic, science and understandably, theology, spirituality, and homiletics.

Only one person has ever read everything written by Rowan Williams, but if you want to know where to start try ‘Tokens of Trust’ (2007). This book on the Creed treats the statements as the inspiration for creative ways of trusting our experience with God, rather than primarily as a set of statements with examples following. What to make, for example, of his opening response to ‘I believe in God, maker of heaven and earth’?

“It should be a rather exhilarating thought that the moment of creation is now – that if, by some unthinkable accident, God’s attention slipped, we wouldn’t be here. It means that within every circumstance, every object, every person, God’s action is going on, a sort of white heat at the centre of everything. It means that each one of us is already in a relationship with God before they’re in a relationship of any kind with us. And if that doesn’t make us approach the world and other people with reverence and amazement, I don’t know what will.”

It is impossible, I think, to read this passage and not notice how quickly Rowan moves from basic theological premises to a poet’s way of illustrating how creation works when God is the mover, to expressions that pronounce a mystic’s awareness of creation, the ultimate spiritual implications of the argument. He goes from theologian to poet to mystic in the space of a page. But he still keeps in mind his broader audience:

“The scientist, of course, will tell us that at the heart of every apparently solid thing is the dance of the subatomic particles. The theologian ought to be delighted that this sort of talk puts movement and energy at the centre, but will want to add that at the heart of the subatomic particles is an action and motion still more basic, beyond measure and observation – the outpouring of life from God.”

Rowan Williams happened to be lecturing in Lower Manhattan on the morning of that decisive date for our own age, 11th September 2001. He was an eye witness to those events and could have died. Reports reveal he spent that and subsequent days ministering to those around him, preaching consolation to the traumatised in New York, and witnessing to reactions, his own and others. Some of these are recorded in his dispassionate book ‘Writing in the Dust’ (2002), where he argues calmly to stand back and consider our judgements, words that go to the heart of his question, well how do we respond? Typically, language use is of telling interest for Rowan, also where is God in all of this? 

“Last words. We have had the chance to read the messages sent by passengers on the planes to their spouses and families in the desperate last minutes; and we have seen the spiritual advice apparently given to the terrorists by one of their number, the thoughts that should have been in their minds as they approached the death they had chosen (for themselves and for others). Something of the chill of 11 September 2001 lies in the contrast. The religious words are, in the cold light of day, the words that murderers are saying to themselves to make a martyr’s drama out of a crime. The non-religious words are testimony to what religious language is supposed to be about – the triumph of pointless, gratuitous love, the affirming of faithfulness even when there is nothing to be done or salvaged.”


Not long after, he became 104th Archbishop of Canterbury, a spectacular achievement that has to be placed beside the holy living of the man himself. The divisive politics of that time, both church and state, have not gone away and Rowan has written about them at length. But when I consider his approach to an issue, my mind keeps coming back to other words of his, words that better explain his temperament.

He demonstrates how our tradition gives license to all the people (clergy and laity) ways of speaking of God and our life in God through new words and new metaphors. He talks of ‘contemplative pragmatism’, “an attitude of time-taking, patient, absorbing awareness of the particular situation you are in.” While of course not unique to Anglicanism, this virtue influences much of the literature of the church. He speaks of looking “long enough and hard enough for God to come to light.” We find this ‘contemplative pragmatism’ in the way he sizes up a situation, not using hasty religious language and not exaggerating or getting enthusiastic, in the 18th century meaning of that word. 

‘Contemplative pragmatism’ is “that sense that in all things God waits, and if we wait, then somehow the two waitings become attuned.” Even his self-trained use of conditional terms, like ‘somehow’ in that last sentence, is a manoeuvre, an avoidance of dogmatic propositions, that keeps open the possibility for further discovery. This is an observable Williams’ manner in all his work.

Rowan talks about how the 17th century mystical poet Thomas Traherne. exemplifies “Platonism through autobiography, reflection on childhood, and poetry, and emphasized there very particularly, not just the sense of God pouring through the ordinary perceptions of the child and of the adult, but … that wonderful remark, ‘the Nature of the Thing confirms the Doctrine’: language is true when the nature of the thing confirms the doctrine. You simply point to the beauties of the world and don’t map it out as a system of things owned by some people and not by others.” Living that is outward directed, not possessive of its own findings, shares the world in kind. 

In ‘Anglican Identities’ (2004) Rowan Williams talks of the Anglicans discussed being “in their different ways … apologists for a theologically informed and spiritually sustained patience.” This position resonates strongly with my own experience growing up and living within a diverse complement of believing communities. It means even more now, in “an age dramatically impatient and intolerant of many sorts of learning.” Learning is itself fundamental to Anglican life, a position from which to engage securely and sensibly with the problematic mess of contemporary dialogue, rife with enforcing argument, chauvinist self-righteousness, and mindless trolling. He continues:  

“They [Anglicans] do not expect human words to solve their problems rapidly, they do not expect the Bible to yield up its treasures overnight, they do not look for the triumphant march of an ecclesiastical institution. They know that as Christians they live among immensities of meaning, live in the wake of a divine action which defies summary explanation. They take it for granted that the believer is always learning, moving in and out of speech and silence in a continuous wonder and a continuous turning inside-out of mind and feeling.” 

This abiding recourse to tradition, to Word and Sacrament, as first principle for our understanding of and progress with all presenting issues makes for exhilarating and challenging reading. 

Speaking myself as a permanent writer and reader of poetry, I connect very directly to Rowan’s own poetic vocation. He has talked of poetry as ‘The text that maps our losses and longings’, and this lifeline in his own writing has matured and strengthened. In ‘The Edge of Words’ he states, “The poet is under the discipline of routinely trying to see one thing through another; the language is marked as poetic by such obliqueness.” 

Everything Rowan Williams says and writes reveals a person with a highly developed sensitivity to language, its force, directness, instantaneousness, its subtlety, indirectness, longevity. A person though may speak three languages fluently and read at least nine languages with ease, as he does, and still not engage with language in the way we are looking at here. Because Rowan is unquestionably someone with a poetic gift.
Let me quote without comment his poem ‘Oystermouth Cemetery’:

Grass lap; the stone keels jar,

scratch quietly in the rippling soil.

The little lettered masts dip slowly

in a little breeze, the anchors here

are very deep among the shells.



Not till the gusty day

when a last angel tramples down

into the mud his dry foot hissing,

down to the clogged forgotten shingle,

till the bay boils and shakes,



Not till that day shall the cords snap

and all the little craft float stray

on unfamiliar tides, to lay their freight

on new warm shores, on those strange islands

where their tropic Easter landfall is.

Rowan writes of the Welsh poet Waldo Williams as one of those ‘inner landscape shapers’,  who “imagined his own work as a form of quiet but unyielding resistance to a hectic inarticulate violence in the mind, the feverishness that overflows in personal aggression as in wars and pogroms of all kinds.” Close readers notice the same tendency to resistance in Waldo’s namesake. Listen to Rowan’s English translation of Waldo’s refreshing catechism that becomes the poem ‘What is Man?’ :

What is believing? Watching at home

till the time arrives for welcome.

What is forgiving? Pushing your way through thorns

to stand alongside your old enemy.