Much of the current discussion of poetry—and what, save Prohibition,
is more discussed in America?—is corrupted by a fundamental error.
That error consists in regarding the thing itself as a simple entity,
to be described conveniently in a picturesque phrase. “Poetry,” says
one critic, “is the statement of overwhelming emotional values.”
“Poetry,” says another, “is an attempt to purge language of everything
except its music and its pictures.” “Poetry,” says a third, “is the
entering of delicately imaginative plateaus.” “Poetry,” says a fourth,
“is truth carried alive into the heart by a passion.” “Poetry,” says a
fifth, “is compacted of what seems, not of what is.” “Poetry,” says a
sixth, “is the expression of thought in musical language.” “Poetry,”
says a seventh, “is the language of a state of crisis.” And so on, and
so on. _Quod est poetica?_ They all answer, and yet they all fail to
answer. Poetry, in fact, is two quite distinct things. It may be either
or both. One is a series of words that are intrinsically musical, in
clang-tint and rhythm, as the single word _cellar-door_ is musical.
The other is a series of ideas, false in themselves, that offer a
means of emotional and imaginative escape from the harsh realities of
everyday. In brief, (I succumb, like all the rest, to phrase-making),
poetry is a comforting piece of fiction set to more or less lascivious
music—a slap on the back in waltz time—a grand release of longings
and repressions to the tune of flutes, harps, sackbuts, psalteries and
the usual strings.
As I say, poetry may be either the one thing or the other—caressing
music or caressing assurance. It need not necessarily be both. Consider
a familiar example from “Othello”:
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owed’st yesterday.
Here the sense, at best, is surely very vague. Probably not one auditor
in a hundred, hearing an actor recite those glorious lines, attaches
any intelligible meaning to the archaic word _owed’st_, the cornerstone
of the whole sentence. Nevertheless, the effect is stupendous. The
passage assaults and benumbs the faculties like Schubert’s “Ständchen”
or the slow movement of Schumann’s Rhenish symphony; hearing it is a
sensuous debauch; the man anæsthetic to it could stand unmoved before
Rheims cathedral or the Hofbräuhaus at Munich. One easily recalls many
other such bursts of pure music, almost meaningless but infinitely
delightful—in Poe, in Swinburne, in Marlowe, even in Joaquin
Miller. Two-thirds of the charm of reading Chaucer (setting aside
the Rabelaisian comedy) comes out of the mere burble of the words;
the meaning, to a modern, is often extremely obscure, and sometimes
downright undecipherable. The whole fame of Poe, as a poet, is based
upon five short poems. Of them, three are almost pure music. Their
intellectual content is of the vaguest. No one would venture to reduce
them to plain English. Even Poe himself always thought of them, not as
statements of poetic ideas, but as simple utterances of poetic (i.e.,
musical) sounds.
It was Sidney Lanier, himself a competent poet, who first showed the
dependence of poetry upon music. He had little to say, unfortunately,
about the clang-tint of words; what concerned him almost exclusively
was rhythm. In “The Science of English Verse,” he showed that the
charm of this rhythm could be explained in the technical terms of
music—that all the old gabble about dactyls and spondees was no more
than a dog Latin invented by men who were fundamentally ignorant of
the thing they discussed. Lanier’s book was the first intelligent
work ever published upon the nature and structure of the sensuous
content of English poetry. He struck out into such new and far paths
that the professors of prosody still lag behind him after forty years,
quite unable to understand a poet who was also a shrewd critic and a
first-rate musician. But if, so deeply concerned with rhythm, he marred
his treatise by forgetting clang-tint, he marred it still more by
forgetting content. Poetry that is all music is obviously relatively
rare, for only a poet who is also a natural musician can write it, and
natural musicians are much rarer in the world than poets. Ordinary
poetry, average poetry, thus depends in part upon its ideational
material, and perhaps even chiefly. It is the _idea_ expressed in a
poem, and not the mellifluousness of the words used to express it,
that arrests and enchants the average connoisseur. Often, indeed, he
disdains this mellifluousness, and argues that the idea ought to be set
forth without the customary pretty jingling, or, at most, with only the
scant jingling that lies in rhythm—in brief, he wants his ideas in the
altogether, and so advocates _vers libre._
It was another American, this time Prof. Dr. F. C. Prescott, of Cornell
University, who first gave scientific attention to the intellectual
content of poetry. His book is called “Poetry and Dreams.” Its virtue
lies in the fact that it rejects all the customary mystical and
romantic definitions of poetry, and seeks to account for the thing in
straightforward psychological terms. Poetry, says Prescott, is simply
the verbal materialization of a day-dream, the statement of a Freudian
wish, an attempt to satisfy a subconscious longing by saying that it
is satisfied. In brief, poetry represents imagination’s bold effort to
escape from the cold and clammy facts that hedge us in—to soothe the
wrinkled and fevered brow with beautiful balderdash. On the precise
nature of this beautiful balderdash you can get all in the information
you need by opening at random the nearest book of verse. The ideas
you will find in it may be divided into two main divisions. The first
consists of denials of objective facts; the second of denials of
subjective facts. Specimen of the first sort:
God’s in His heaven,
All’s well with the world.
Specimen of the second:
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
It is my contention that all poetry (forgetting, for the moment, its
possible merit as mere sound) may be resolved into either the one
or the other of these frightful imbecilities—that its essential
character lies in its bold flouting of what every reflective adult
knows to be the truth. The poet, imagining him to be sincere, is
simply one who disposes of all the horrors of life on this earth,
and of all the difficulties presented by his own inner weaknesses no
less, by the childish device of denying them. Is it a well-known fact
that love is an emotion that is almost as perishable as eggs—that
it is biologically impossible for a given male to yearn for a given
female more than a few brief years? Then the poet disposes of it by
assuring his girl that he will nevertheless love her forever—more,
by pledging his word of honor that he believes that _she_ will love
_him_ forever. Is it equally notorious that there is no such thing as
justice in the world—that the good are tortured insanely and the evil
go free and prosper? Then the poet composes a piece crediting God with
a mysterious and unintelligible theory of jurisprudence, whereby the
torture of the good is a sort of favor conferred upon them for their
goodness. Is it of almost equally widespread report that no healthy
man likes to contemplate his own inevitable death—that even in time
of war, with a vast pumping up of emotion to conceal the fact, every
soldier hopes and believes that he, personally, will escape? Then the
poet, first carefully introducing himself into a bomb-proof, achieves
strophes declaring that he is free from all such weakness—that he will
deliberately seek a rendezvous with death, and laugh ha-ha when the
bullet finds him.
The precise nature of the imbecility thus solemnly set forth depends,
very largely, of course, upon the private prejudices and yearnings
of the poet, and the reception that is given it depends, by the same
token, upon the private prejudices and yearnings of the reader. That
is why it is often so difficult to get any agreement upon the merits
of a definite poem, _i. e._, to get any agreement upon its capacity to
soothe. There is the man who craves only the animal delights of a sort
of Moslem-Methodist paradise: to him “The Frost is on the Pumpkin” is
a noble poem. There is the man who yearns to get out of the visible
universe altogether and tread the fields of asphodel: for him there
is delight only in the mystical stuff of Crashaw, Thompson, Yeats and
company. There is the man who revolts against the sordid Christian
notion of immortality—an eternity to be spent flapping wings with
pious green-grocers and oleaginous Anglican bishops; he finds _his_
escape in the gorgeous blasphemies of Swinburne. There is, to make an
end of examples, the man who, with an inferiority complex eating out
his heart, is moved by a great desire to stalk the world in heroic
guise: he may go to the sonorous swanking of Kipling, or he may go
to something more subtle, to some poem in which the boasting is more
artfully concealed, say Christina Rosetti’s “When I am Dead.” Many men,
many complexes, many secret yearnings! They collect, of course, in
groups; if the group happens to be large enough the poet it is devoted
to becomes famous. Kipling’s great fame is thus easily explained. He
appeals to the commonest of all types of men, next to the sentimental
type—which is to say, he appeals to the bully and braggart type, the
chest-slapping type, the patriot type. Less harshly described, to the
boy type. All of us have been Kiplingomaniacs at some time or other. I
was myself a very ardent one at 17, and wrote many grandiloquent sets
of verse in the manner of “Tommy Atkins” and “Fuzzy-Wuzzy.” But if
the gifts of observation and reflection have been given to us, we get
over it. There comes a time when we no longer yearn to be heroes, but
seek only peace—maybe even hope for quick extinction. Then we turn to
Swinburne and “The Garden of Proserpine”—more false assurances, more
mellifluous play-acting, another tinkling make-believe—but how sweet
on blue days!