Part 4 (2/2)
The poetry of our day is not monopolized by dabblers in metre and is not shared exclusively by readers of verse. It is being written by our prose writers and occasionally by our journalists, and is being read by the general public. It is not the heritage of the professor or the critic.
The verse poets and readers are not the only lovers of poetry, but the great public who reads _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ and _Lorna Doone_ is reading poetry, albeit not of the highest order.
I do not mean to imply that there is more poetry in the prose writings of a nation's literature than in its verse writings. The prose writer usually travels leisurely and waxes ecstatic occasionally. He does not concentrate his emotions nor seek to depict them immediately. The verse writer as a rule tries to depict emotions from the start. He is greater as a poet than many prose writers, because he poetizes, thinking he must do this naturally in verse, while the prose writer does not believe it is his duty to do so in prose, but he is often a poet because he cannot help it. There is more poetry in a volume of Burns or Sh.e.l.ley or Heine than in a volume of similar length by a prose writer, because these poets tried to put emotion into every separate portion, no matter how small. Yet a prose writer can do the same thing if he wants to do so.
Any one who is a great reader of books of travel is impressed by the fact that in these works there is occasionally literature of ecstasy of a high order. There are descriptions and narratives recorded with beauty, vividness, interest; there are reflections, insight into human nature that often surpa.s.s the works of prose fiction and verse poetry we read. Yet because these works are called ”travels,” they are not supposed to contain poems or creative literature. Had the authors given us as good description in verse, the critics would have called them poets.
Hearn's books on j.a.pan are after all works of travel, but they contain poetry or the literature of ecstasy because Hearn was a poet. I am not claiming for many works of travel a place only as literature, for it is usually conceded that the best books of travel are literature, but I urge that many of these books are in parts poetry, and their authors are poets. It is recognized, however, that Pierre Loti is a poet in his books of travel. Doughty's _Arabia Deserta_ is full of poetry.
_Robinson Crusoe_ and _Gulliver's Travels_ are but works of travel, and are poetry because of the ecstatic presentation of ideas. You will find poems in prose not only in the travels of great writers, like Goethe, Taine, Heine, in the works of old writers who were chiefly travelers, like Hakluyt, Mandeville, Marco Polo, but in many volumes that have been published in our own day.
Anthologies of thousands of poems in prose could be compiled. The prose of every literature is full of poetry, even concentrated poetry, more or less rhythmical. You may cull poems out of the prose writings of men in England to-day, from Hardy, Moore, Yeats, Symons, Kipling, Hudson, Conrad, Galsworthy, Hewlett and D. H. Lawrence.
You can find poetry in various scenes of the great body of prose dramatists that have grown up in Europe since Ibsen, in Hauptmann, in Synge, in Chekhov, in Jacinto Benavente, in dialogues where an idea is fought for or an emotion displayed. It is manifestly absurd to crown with the name of poetry every petty emotion or description by some versifier, and deny it to the great dramatists who depict pa.s.sions and color great ideas with emotion. No one thought of denying the t.i.tle of poets to the dramatists when they formerly wrote in verse. Are you going to deny it to them because they give us the same, if not a greater effect in their prose than the old dramatist did in verse?
And I find much poetry, especially in letters, memoirs and biographies.
I find poems in biographies like Bisland's _Hearn_, Meynell's _Francis Thompson_, Woodberry's _Poe_, Lawton's _Balzac_. I give these more or less recent books as examples. The works are full of emotional pa.s.sages dealing with crucial events in the lives of the subjects. You will find poetry in famous biographies like Moore's _Byron_, Dowden's _Sh.e.l.ley_, Forster's _d.i.c.kens_, Cooke's _Ruskin_, Bielschowsky's _Goethe_, Froude's _Carlyle_, etc., to name just the lives of some literary men.
It is particularly pleasing to find poetry in literary prose criticism.
For it was always held that criticism was but a secondary art, rarely creative in the same sense as poetry, supposed to be a product of the mind and not the soul, and merely a commentary on poetry. It is true, formerly poets were often inclined to write their criticism in verse, thinking that thus it became poetry. But it is only the ecstatic presentation of critical ideas that makes criticism poetry, whether in prose or verse. Poets have often described the mission of poetry in verse, and given us genuine poems. Horace and Verlaine have done this.
But we have had great poetry in the critical work in prose of many critics. You will find poetry in Carlyle, Ruskin, Goethe, Pater, Brandes. You will find it in the prose essays of poets very often in spite of the popular tradition that poets are not good prose writers.
I give two examples. The first is from Swinburne's book on Blake:
To him the veil of outer things seemed always to tremble with some breath behind it; seemed at times to be rent in sunder with clamour and sudden lightning. All the void of earth and air seemed to quiver with the pa.s.sage of sentient wings and palpitate under the pressure of conscious feet. Flowers and weeds, stars and stones, spoke with articulate lips and gazed with living eyes. Hands were stretched towards him from beyond the darkness of material nature, to tempt or to support, to guide or to restrain. His hardest facts were the vaguest allegories of other men. To him all symbolic things were literal, all literal things symbolic. About his path and about his bed, around his ears and under his eyes, an infinite play of spiritual life seethed and swarmed or shone and sang.
Spirits imprisoned in the husk and sh.e.l.l of earth consoled or menaced him. Every leaf bore a growth of angels; the pulse of every minute sounded as the falling foot of G.o.d; under the rank raiment of weeds, in the drifting down of thistles, strange faces frowned and white hair fluttered; tempters and allies, wraiths of the living and phantoms of the dead, crowded and made populous the winds that blew about him, the fields and hills over which he gazed.
The second is from James Thomson's essay on Sh.e.l.ley:
The only true or inspired poetry is always from within, not from without. The experience contained in it has been spiritually trans.m.u.ted from lead into gold. It is severely logical, the most trivial of its adornments being subservient to, and suggested by, the dominant idea; any departure from whose dictates would be the ”falsifying of a revelation.” It is unadulterated with worldly wisdom, deference to prevailing opinions, mere talent or cleverness. Its anguish is untainted by the gall of bitterness, its joy is never selfish, its grossness is never obscene. It perceives always the profound ident.i.ty underlying all surface differences. It is a living organism, not a dead aggregate, and its music is the expression of the law of its growth; so that it could no more be set to a different melody than could a rose-tree be consummated with lilies or violets. It is most philosophic when most enthusiastic, the clearest light of its wisdom being shed from the keenest fire of its love. It is a synthesis not arithmetical, but algebraical; that is to say, its particular subjects are universal symbols, its predicates, universal laws: hence it is infinitely suggestive. It is ever-fresh wonder at the infinite mystery, ever-young faith in the eternal soul. Whatever be its mood, we feel that it is not self-possessed but G.o.d-possessed; whether the G.o.d came down serene and stately as Jove, when, a swan, he wooed Leda; or with overwhelming might insupportably burning, as when he consumed Semele.
Criticism deals with ideas that relate to life, and when written with ecstasy on human topics and not on technique it is poetry. The pa.s.sage in Sh.e.l.ley's _Defense of Poetry_, beginning with the words ”Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments, etc.,” as well as the conclusion of Poe's essay on _The Poetic Principle_ are poetry. The critics here were poets in their prose criticism, no less than in their rhymed lyrics.
As the reader will fathom by this time, my aim is to free poetry from its bondage to requirements that were thought essential to it. I object most emphatically to demands for rhyme, metre, rhythm, alliteration, a.s.sonance, parallelism, repet.i.tion of word or phrase or line, tropes or figures of speech, poetical diction, and any form of pattern. The poet has the right to use any of the above instruments as he sees fit, whenever he thinks they enhance the ecstasy in his work. But no critic has a right to lay down a definition of poetry and insist that metre or rhythm must be employed by a poet. Professor Mackail in his _Oxford Lectures on Poetry_ defines poetry as patterned language, formally and technically, adding that the technical essence of the pattern is the repeat, and that when there is no repeat there is technically no poetry.
If this definition were true, then pa.s.sages in the Bible full of poetry, which use no parallelism, would not be poetry. The pattern does not make the poem, it often ruins it. While it is true that when excited we repeat expressions and become rhythmical, we do not do so with regularity and uniformity. How puerile many poems by savages, and even by the early civilized Babylonians and Egyptians, sound because the first impediment of art, the repeat, is employed, and a phrase is repeated _ad nauseam_ like the words of a child learning how to talk.
When we shake off our subservience to the pattern in poetry we shall have little use for the numerous works on the art of writing poetry. We shall find that many of the old books on poetry written with much learning by scholars and poets, like Aristotle, Horace, Vida, Scaliger, Vossius, Fabricius, Boileau, Pope, Opitz, Gottsched, Dante, are in part obsolete. I do not mean that these worthy works have all to be thrown on the sc.r.a.p heap. But they laid down absurd rules as to how to write poetry and how to determine it; they sought to confine it by rules gleaned from older poets and insisted future poets obey these rules. Yet great poets, who never even read them, disregarded all their rules and created great poetry.
The chief thing that can be said for these critics is that they excel the moderns in scholars.h.i.+p. These learned men represent an almost extinct cla.s.s, men who knew all the cla.s.sics and all the books of Europe. They make us regret that the day of the man of learning is over, especially at a time when so many ignorant poets and critics and reviewers discuss and decide emphatically on many matters wherein a little learning is not a dangerous thing.
FOOTNOTES:
[42:A] The italics are mine.
[52:A] ”Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge.”
Wordsworth. ”The atmosphere wherein all the arts exist is poetry.”
Wilhelm A. Ambros: _The Boundaries of Music and Poetry_.
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