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| Neil, Stuart, & Fearghas, Eden Court, Inverness |
Time: Rhyme & Reason
Part One: The Poem
From:
Stuart McKinlay
To:
Neil McKinlay
Fri,
21 May 2021
A
Royal Mail package containing Holding Fast and three copies of Layman (as
requested) has been making its passage to you for the past week and must
have Madagascar abaft the port beam by now. Included are three or four
exquisitely illustrated greetings cards bearing muted pastel scenes of The
Trossachs, purchased whimsically at the Café Circa and Scottish
Antiques & Arts Centre in Doune. It’s the kind of place that mellows
one towards almost buying an ancient edition of Edward Fitzgerald’s translation
of the Rubáiyat of Omar Khayyám... The moving finger writes, and,
having writ moves on... etc, an irresistible echo of grief and loss, and
obeisance to the hand of fate, whether an invention or a mellifluous
embellishment of a persuasive legend. The stanzas carry in the mind so easily
almost everyone can recite a few: your father’s favourite was: A Book of
Verses beneath the Bough, / A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread - and Thou / Beside
me singing in the Wilderness - / And Wilderness is Paradise enow!
*
* *
From:
Neil McKinlay
To:
Stuart McKinlay,
cc:
F. MacFhionnlaigh
Fri,
21 May 2021
Was
the Rubáiyat not at one time your most favourite pub restaurant in
Glasgow, Stuart? Whereas dad quoted from it, you ate and drank in it!
***
21 Apr 2021 at 17:24, Donald Black
wrote
To: Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh
Hi Fearghas,
Cowane Street Writers tonight on
the theme "Time" Attached my contributions. -- Donald
From: Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh To:
Neil McKinlay, Stuart McKinlay
Recent exchange with Donald Black
re a poem he wrote with theme (“Time”) set by the Stirling poetry writing group
(Cowane Street Writers) he is part of. He sent his resultant poem (‘Past
Perfect’) to me for feedback. I am sure he won’t mind you two reading it, under
the circumstances. He quotes the Rubaiyat in it -- F
Past Imperfect
The past is gone.
Recalled or not, it
shapes.
Yet, once recalled
into the now, it darts
instantly into the past again
and lurks and works
its dark and magic arts.
“The Moving Finger writes
and,
having writ, moves on;
nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a
Line,
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word
of it.” *
Still, fickle memory may
take her pen
and subtly
over-write, or sign
a different course.
Time’s arrow, speeding towards
its mark
bows to that external
force
as Newton’s law of motion
says it must.
Rewritten,
the past rewrites
the future. The thrust
of throbbing fate is thwarted
And the hope of
glory crumbles
into dust.
* Rubaiyat of
Omar Khayyam tr. Edward FitzGerald
DB 21/4/2021
Time: Rhyme & Reason
Part Two: The Reaction
Apr 25, 2021 at 2:59 PM Fearghas
MacFhionnlaigh wrote:
Donald,
Thanks for this. A good “poem”. I
appreciate the overall form and the pacing footfall rhythm of the rhymes.
I have been reading it daily since
it arrived. I flatter myself that I “follow” it. Until, that is, the final
words:
“And the hope of glory crumbles
into dust.”
I have been chewing at that on each
reading, determined to unlock it, but fear I am still failing.
One train of thought I had was to
associate it with the writing on the wall at Belshazzar’s feast, “MENE MENE
TEKEL UPHARSIN”, which (appropriately enough given my own perplexity) no-one
could understand but the eventual divinely inspired Daniel. Essentially, my
surmised connection here was that at that moment any “hope of glory” harboured
by Belshazzar (whose knees knocked together) “crumbles to dust”.
A second attempt to fathom your
sentence was based on a poetic misappropriation in my own mind. I confused
FitzGerald’s translation of the ‘Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam’ with Coleridge’s
fragmentary ‘Kubla Khan’ poem:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a
sunless sea.
My drift of thought in this case
being that at the fatal moment a knock on the door put paid to Coleridge’s
fully conceived but only partially written masterpiece, his “hope of (poetic)
glory crumbled into dust”. But then I realised of course my literary history
was seriously deficient....
Coming back again to your enigmatic
words, I began in a third trajectory to wonder if there was a subvertion of
high doctrinaire Calvinism going on here. The latter system’s dogma of “double
predestination” of course giving rise to a helpless fatalism — an existential beartrap
able to be wondrously escaped from if the time-traveller can go back and un-set
the trap. OK, so any predetermined “damnation” is thus eluded, but also any
predetermined “glory” —
“Rewritten, the past rewrites
the future. The thrust
of throbbing fate is thwarted
And the hope of glory crumbles
into dust.”
All three of my musings are no
doubt well missing the “mark” (of “Time’s speeding arrow”), so please forgive
my mental torpor, but I will send off these half-baked thoughts now lest you
begin wondering whether I even received, let alone read, your fine poem.
Fearghas
From: Donald
Date: Sun, 25 Apr 2021 at 17:21
Subject: Re: CSW
To: Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh
Hi Fearghas,
I'm chuckling at your musings on
the final line. I'll come back later but you know how some people talk about a
poem "writing itself"? Well that's what happened here. That line came
to me intact, as if from somewhere else, so I wrote it down without knowing
what I meant by it. It wasn't the last line I wrote, but the line I had to get
the poem to arrive at. I think it's deeper than a train of thought although it
doesn't feel like a non-sequitur, so I'm as puzzled as you are. I'm familiar
with your 3 references, so they're probably in there somewhere. I don't think
my CSW companions had any more of a clue that I had.
Donald
Time: Rhyme & Reason
Part Three: Walter Scott joins the
cut & thrust
22 Apr 2021 at 19:37, Stuart
McKinlay wrote:
To: Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh
If I can comment, ‘umbly, I see the
poem visually as a twirling candelabrum with a flickering flame: It seems time
is a spiral entwined with a vortex, spinning to the sound of a fairground ride
- with a dramatic denouement in the historic present.
This made me wonder why I can’t
“do” poetry. I started by consulting my pal Walter Scott and ended up in a
lockdown-funk cul-de-sac, which doesn’t really explain anything: the premise
“I’m no good at poetry” isn’t answered as I swan around in circles about a
couple of books I’m reading just now and any analysis or hope of glory crumbles
into dust. I chucked my haverings in the bin as it were, as another example of
the meanderings of a listless mind.
But then, I thought perhaps there
is some relevance in its very irrelevance. Keats and Yeats are in this mess
with me, tho’ I don’t get as far as Keats’ Romantic relevance or his “negative
capability”, which is completely relevant here.
“…& once again it struck me,
what quality went to form a Man of Achievement especially in Literature &
which Shakespeare posessed [sic] so enormously – I mean Negative Capability,
that is when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts,
without any irritable reaching after fact & reason.”
He mentioned this in a letter to
his brothers in 1817 and never repeated it (according to a book I’ll mention),
“although it has since become a watchword in Romantic literary studies”. Well,
this is the first I’d heard of it, or of Yeats’ occultist shenanigans with the
Golden Dawn; the very deficiency of knowledge I cite for my uselessness with
poetry. Like me, edit it by wastepaper basket.
When Keats and Yeats don’t rhyme
I’m no good at poetry and I can
prove it. The crux of the thing is you have to think two streams of thought
simultaneously, the way forward mapped by knowledge, the delivery couched with
exquisite insight.
My invisible friend Walter Scott,
with whom I discuss this and that on a bench by the Tweed, shows how to do it
and how not to do it. He is probably one of the worst popular writers in
English, and he knows it. When he was praised for his novels, he was
embarrassed and recommended admirers read instead “Mrs Shelley”, this when
Frankenstein: Or The Modern Prometheus was rising to the top of the
best-sellers chart in 1818; but Walter was still writing furiously, dragging
histories from memory and warping them into the weft of adventure. His is a mind
of creative conflict, scrawling without punctuation, leaving the dots and
commas to his printer.
“The misfortune of writing fast is
that one cannot at the same time write concisely,” he says, perhaps an excuse
for careless prolificacy. He can make the facts ding to suit, confiding in his
journal: “Many a clever boy is flogged into a dunce and many an original
composition corrected into mediocrity.” He’s always in a fine taking of
doublethink, or internal ambiguity (auld Scotch Tory, champion of Scottish
causes, reeking of sentimental regret in Old Mortality, you can hear in him the
same lame claim so often heard today: “I’m a proud Scot, but…”)
Even Robert Louis Stevenson is
brusque on Walter’s work, saying he lacks the application needed for seamless
continuity: “He conjured up the magic with delight, but had hardly patience to
describe it.” Exactly, but it is possible to love him as a novelist for all his
faults, in fact, because of his failings he is personable, friendly and
accessible as a flawed friend who knows his limitations and is relieved when he
manages to get something profitable, to the point, and that pleases him, down
on paper ( “I think there is a demon who seats himself on the feather of my
quill when I begin to write, and leads it astray from the purpose” - The
Fortunes of Nigel) –and at least he is pleased with his poetry.
The Lay of the Last Minstrel was
published in 1805 to prolific praise and Walter, now in his mid-thirties is an
international celebrity, with the public clamouring for more of the same. He
has a notion to write Marmion: A Tale of Flodden Field, with Constable, his
publisher, offering 1000 guineas for the copyright of the work unseen. He
writes a galloping poetic narrative of duplicity and disaster and loves it: “Oh
man, I had many a grand gallop among these bracs when I was thinking of
Marmion.” Henry Morley in his introduction to A Public Domain edition writes:
He is riding his charger at full speed up and down the sands of Portobello
within spray of the wave, while his mind was at work on such lines as -
They close, in clouds of smoke and dust,
With sword-sway and lance’s thrust;
And such a yell was there,
Of sudden and portentous birth,
As if men fought in upper earth,
And fiends in upper air.
Simply typing that stanza sends a
frisson through me, and immediately calls to mind: “Oh, life and death were in
the shout, Recoil and rally, charge and rout, And triumph and despair…”
I can see and feel there the
hoofbeat of the couplets, the same thunderous, ground-shaking battle of life
and death Fearghas MacFhionnlaigh captures with taut suspense in The Axe:
he came at you
poised in your saddle
like an eagle on a crag
like a crouching lion
he came at you
with lance and shield and helmet
and plume
and horse and armour and thunder
and sweat
and impetus and dust and invective
and death
he came at you
but instantly
with an agile movement
with a neat sudden movement
with a precisely executed movement
with an elegant energetic movement
on which our entire history hinged
the steel of your axe
blazed in the sun
and like a blur the blow fell
splitting helmet
and skull
displaying an errant Goliath
red on green field
but your axe was broken, O King
And another we have yet to find.
The beauty of this is not only in
the taut construction and emotional tension, in breathless expectation, but in
the subject of de Bohun and Bruce, a matter of recognisable history. It
conjures an age of chivalry Walter understood all too well with Ivanhoe; but I
wrestle with this demesne when I try to enter the world of John Keats: La Belle
Dame sans Merci is beguiling and mystifying. Of course, everyone uses the
phrase “palely loitering” as casual coinage now, but in its place in a ballad
it becomes up-close and personal:
O what can ail thee,
knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the
lake,
And no birds sing.
This is the sort of thing I think I
understand, but then find I don’t, and set about repairing the miscomprehension
only to find I don’t understand the thing at all. I was reading what I wanted
to read, superficially reconstructing it according to inadequate knowledge,
rather than seeing what is there. Why “palely”?, what does it matter if sedge
has withered? Or if no birds sing. Yet it is putting a chill in the air, the
draining face, a tragic story in the making.
Lucasta Miller in Keats – A Brief
Life in Nine Poems and One Epitaph acknowledges the popular interpretation with
a literary shrug of inevitability: “Its protagonist is a medieval
‘knight-at-arms’ who has loved and lost a supernatural femme fatale; she feeds
him, tells him she loves him, and lulls him maternally to sleep, only to
abandon him to an eternity of loneliness on a cold hillside.” It is possibly
allegorical biography: Keats was abandoned by his mother as a child of eight:
she disappeared with her lover, and the poem has been unravelled, according to
passing fashion, she says, in strands of Freudian psychobiography, a mode of
interpretation particularly popular the 1920s. She doesn’t endorse it.
She says: “An over-exited critic
could go looking for Freudian subtexts in La Belle Dame sans Merci, and soon
descend into parody by finding submerged erotica all over it.”
She focuses on the functioning of
Keats’ vocabulary, particularly on this “adverbial colour-word”, “palely”. You
can see the cold fate in his face: “palely”, rather than “paly”, she says, and
the extra syllable in the centre is vital: “The doubling of the l literally
makes you linger over ‘palely’ if you read it out loud, drawing out the sense
of languor and postponement.” This is a nicety of poetry I can sense but can’t
initiate.
Coleridge has a hand in this
imbroglio, too: “The knight-at-arms, like Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner, is
magnetically drawn into a situation he cannot control, in which his will or
volition is unseated.” In short, “He goes on to dream a dream that becomes a
nightmare, in which the belle dame’s former conquests line up to tell him he is
doomed.”
This has the making of a tabloid
sensation as he reworks an old ballad into a lustrous tale, but Keats, was
always in a hurry, “restless and rootless” – he wrote Ode to a Nightingale in
one spring morning – making up memorable phrases as he rushed along, delivering
quotable lines in his outpourings: “tender is the night” (Ode to a
Nightingale), “A thing of beauty is a joy forever” (Endymion), and neologisms,
“surgy”, “palely”, “soother”.
But, I’m losing myself in raptures
and straying from my first point: of knowledge mapping the way forward. It
seems a common matter that poets often find themselves in a spell and must not
stop while the Muse has them in transports: It is an in-the-moment energy that
drives the composition as the writer hangs on grimly hoping not to be thrown
before the end is achieved. If it isn’t at that moment, it is gone. All that’s
left is the hard work of repair. Even Walter Scott says Marmion’s reception
gave him “such a heeze he almost lost his footing”. Keats was influenced by
Virgil and Shakespeare (it says here) and like Walter his head was replete with
knowledge that poured out, his style unfettered by blank spots or dizziness and
unhindered by halts and hesitations: the mind was fully armed.
It is as well, too, to have regard
for the warning against extravagant poetic temptations satirised by E T A
Hoffmann in The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr (1821) – my edition is
translated from German by Anthea Bell. It has the familiar construction of the
unknowing bungler:
Ah, rustling forests, whispering
rivers
In whose deep waters sweet feeling
yet quivers,
Share the Lament!
Say where she went!
Lovely sweet Kitty, Kitty so
cheerful! [etc, etc]
“As you see, gentle reader, a good poet
doesn’t actually have to be in a rustling forest, or beside a whispering river:
deep water quivering with sweet feeling will still flow his way, and he will
see what he likes and he can sing about it as he likes. Should anyone be lost
in wonder and admiration at the sublime merit of the above lines, let me
modestly point out that I was in a state of ecstasy, in amorous frenzy, and
everyone knows that a person in a feverish grip of passion, even if he could
scarcely rhyme moon with June and dove with love in the usual way, if, as I
say, he normally couldn’t just hit upon these not entirely uncommon rhymes
however hard he tried, yet in the grip of passion poetry will suddenly come
over him and he is bound to spout the most excellent of lines. We owe much
great poetry to this onset of ecstasy in prosaic natures.”
But, I don’t really know all of
this, not really, any more than I understand in less elevated prose form the
joke of Ulysses with Dedalus and Bloom strolling around Dublin “in reasonable
command of themselves” (Terry Eagleton: How to Read Literature) , and while it
seems to me very little is happening, others know there “is a deep Homeric
sub-plot at play”. Thus, I am nervous of not having the “whole picture” of relevant
obscurities in mind, and can never be at ease with perhaps uninformed
perceptions when the motion is transmuted into poetry.
The poets have got it up top all
right before they start, of course, which probably explains why some of us can
only admire On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer from afar. For example, I
know his “peak in Darien” reference only because the phrase “wild surmise” is
often quoted by Wodehouse’s Bertie Wooster; but here is the original:
Then felt I like some watcher of
the skies
When a new planet swims into his
ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with
eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific – and all
his men
Looked at each other with a wild
surmise –
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
Stout stuff, but Lucasta Miller
(again) underlines the perils of an uneven education: “Since Tennyson pickily
pointed it out in the nineteenth century, it’s been a crux of Keats criticism
that it was not in fact Cortés, the conqueror of Mexico, but his contemporary
Balboa who, in 1513, led the first party across Panama, where Darien is
situated, to cast the first European eyes on the Pacific.” Academic debate
rumbles about the source of this misapprehension, and even Alexander Pope’s
translation of Homer is libelled. But there is something else going on:
“Just as interesting,” she says,
and this is the stuff of heroes, “is what Keats does here with the sonnet’s
iambic pentameters. He flexes the rhythm to represent a moment of astonished
acceleration in the syncopated, hypermetric line ‘He stared at the Pacific –
and all his men…‘ which contains a break and a hurried beat too many. The final
line, ‘Silent upon the peak of Darien,’ has the right number of syllables, but
works against the metrical rhythm as the English word ‘silent’ is naturally
emphasised on the first not on the second syllable. The upshot is the sonnet
does not feel ‘finished’. It is as if we’re brought up short to contemplate an
endlessly unfolding expanse that is continuing to unfurl beyond the poem’s
end.”
 |
| Fearghas, Stuart, & Neil, Inverness, Scotland |
The nuts and bolts, the engine
within. I feel that if you don’t know this, then you don’t know nothin’, even
if, I believe, one could be in worse company than the supposedly benighted
Bertie’s, but one throws in the t.
I have even sometimes confused the
name Keats with Yeats, a scandalous admission. I’m soundly corrected by W B
Yeats – Poems selected by Seamus Heaney, given to me by Catriona McKinlay.
Heaney says: “Yeats’ radical devotion to the potential and otherness of a
specific Irish reality should never be underestimated.” He delves deeply into a
man of “fantasies” and “convictions”, his desire “to sweeten Ireland’s wrong”.
I feel sure, but I must check with Fearghas, that Yeats never wanted to write
in English at all, but in the vocabulary of his soul, Irish Gaelic. Heaney
writes: “In fact, his imagined Ireland represented not only a regenerative
breakaway from the imperium of Britain but also from the magisterium of
orthodox Christianity.”:
Nor may I less be counted one
With Davis, Mangan, Ferguson,
because, to him who ponders well,
My rhymes more than their rhyming
tell
Of things discovered in the deep,
Where only body’s laid asleep.
For the elemental creatures go
About my table to and fro,
That hurry from unmeasured mind
To rant and rage in flood and wind;
Yet he who treds in measured ways
May surely barter gaze for gaze.
(“To Ireland in the Coming Times”)
I’m not sure I truly understand
that, but I feel its force deeply. It leaves you gazing around in wild surmise.
Before this, I had known only the line quoted by my father from The Lake Isle
of Innesfree: “I will arise now, and go to Innesfree.” Not because he was going
there, but as an earnest of going anywhere; and who does not know something, at
least the third line, of his The Second Coming:
Turning and turning in the widening
gyre
The falcon cannot hear the
falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre
cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the
world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed,
and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is
drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while
the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
And there it is again, a trick of
the eye, the thing you see but don’t see. Visual rhyme. Or not? We have imagery
here and hyperbole there, but what exactly is assonance? You can see “mind” and
“wind” up there, and I’m not sure, but “falconer” and “everywhere” and others
if you peer keenly, “cannot hold” has the cadence of “is drowned”, but not
quite in syllabic sympathy, perhaps for abrupt emphasis. Tch, y’see, I’m
shooting at shadows.
But… even so, The Wild Swans At Coole, perhaps the
least pugnacious of his musings, shot from dusty page to cinematic stardom.
Just a couple of words from the first stanza are often reprised to magnificent
effect on a telly near you:
The trees are in their autumn
beauty,
The woodland paths are dry,
Under the October twilight the
water
Mirrors a still sky;
Upon the brimming water among the
stones
Are nine and fifty swans.
Willie Russell uses this to
munificent purpose in his 1983 screenplay of Educating Rita, starring Michael
Caine as Professor Frank Bryant, and Julie Walters as Rita:
Rita: What does assonance mean?
Prof: What?
R: Don’t laugh at me.
P: Er, no. Erm, assonance, it’s a
form of rhyme.
R: Erm, what’s an example?
P: Do you know Yeats?
R: The wine lodge?
P: No, WB Yeats, the poet.
R: No.
P: Well, in his poem The Wild Swans
At Coole, Yeats rhymes the word “swan” with the word “stone”. You see? That’s
an example of assonance.
R: Ooh, yeah, means getting the
rhyme wrong.
P: I’ve never thought of it like
that.
Stuart McKinlay (May 2021)
