When I think of William Wordsworth and Samuel Taylor Coleridge today, what springs to mind is how their politics reflected their poetry.
Wordsworth was 19 and Coleridge 17 when the French Revolution broke out. It was
in their youth, in other words, that France underwent the Fall of the Bastille
and the execution of the monarch. The youthful idealism that
greeted the former incident – so full of promise in its vision for the future,
free of injustice – couldn’t survive the shock of the latter event,
after which the Revolution congealed into a harsh political actuality that England and
Europe had to combat.
What happened to Wordsworth and Coleridge during this time
was inevitable: lost initially in their youthful ardour over the Revolution,
they regressed to jingoism and conservatism in later years. This was to be seen most in
Wordsworth: when in his early poems he could write of his sympathy
for the downtrodden, in later years (particularly in the period in which he
wrote “England”, “The Excursion” and the sonnets on the English Church) he
reversed that sympathy. He was no longer contemplating on poverty and injustice as though they could only be “resolved” by overthrow of tyranny. He wrote of them as inevitable, as
finding resolution only through an almost mystical tranquillity (“She sleeps in
the calm earth, and peace is here”).
Contrast these two against Lord Byron and Percy Shelley (who
were born after them), and you will realise how easy it is to categorise their
poetry in the face of what happened in France. The latter two weren’t born
during the Revolution. They were the “children of the Revolution”, so to speak,
which meant that they didn’t take the usual route idealists took before
recapitulating. They were born of the Revolution, and hence in their hands the
personal was closely intertwined with the political. In the end, they became
heretics and rebels (“And tyrants and slaves are like shadows of night / In the
van of the morning light”).
It’s difficult to compare John Keats with either of these
poets, particularly when we consider that he was a contemporary of Byron and
Shelley. He was the youngest in their generation (Shelley was three years older than him). And yet, to my mind, Keat’s best poetry shares some affinity with Wordsworth, particularly in the latter’s idealisation of nature and beauty.
The irony of course is that Keats was no Wordsworth when it came to the
ideology he articulated through those poems of his, and in this regard he is
more at home with Byron (more than Shelley, I should add, for Shelley could at
times give into political rhetoric, which almost never happened with Byron).
For my O/Levels I had to learn the poetry of John Keats. We
were prescribed some nine or 10 poems by him, all of which stayed with me for
their intense, almost beatifying, view of nature and beauty. To this day I can
remember lines from these poems – “Ode on Melancholy”, “To Autumn”, and of
course, “Endymion” – and perhaps that was meant to be.
We never learnt to read and understand “Hyperion” or the
poems he wrote as tribute to Leigh Hunt. Not that this meant I overrated Keats
then: when I read the Hunt poems today and think back on Keats the lover of
Nature, I don’t see that much of an incongruence.
I think Keats’ great achievement as a poet was his intensely
poignant vision of the world. That vision, as far as I can understand, was
never marred by political rhetoric or sympathy. There’s no doubt that what
comes out in his two poems on Leigh Hunt, for instance, is anger against his
jailers. But look closer: far from using Hunt’s imprisonment as a means of
venting out frustration against the political order of his day, what Keats
achieves is something else:
Minion of
grandeur! think you he did wait?
Think you he nought but prison walls did see,
Till, so unwilling, thou unturn’dst the key?
Ah, no! far
happier, nobler was his fate!
Keats’ idealisation of Hunt here seems to me to undermine
the reality of his imprisonment. A critic can argue that this was in line with
Hunt’s strength of will even when punished – Jeremy Bentham found him playing
battledore when visiting him in prison – but this is not really congruent with
Keats’ elevation of that punishment as an apotheosis of his maturity as social
critic (“In Spenser’s hall he strayed, and bowers fair”). I may be wrong in
this, but that is how I continue to view his two Leigh Hunt poems.
Notwithstanding that however, he was without a doubt a
nonconformist. He had a fairly liberal education: Nicholas Roe, in “Everyman’s”
anthology of his poetry, has written that Enfield School, which the young Keats
attended, was important for “transmitting to Keats the dynamic intellectual
life of English dissent”. Roe does his utmost to overturn the popular view of
him as a romantic shrouded in enigma, a poet more concerned with beauty and
nature than with social reality, and to his credit he does make a good point
when highlighting the political allegory in “Hyperion: A Fragment”.
But what is it in “Hyperion” that merits such a comparison,
really? To find out for myself I read it, and I came across these lines:
“Shut up your
senses, stifle up your ears,
“My voice is not a
bellows unto ire.
“Yet listen, ye
who will, whilst I bring proof
“How ye, perforce,
must be content to stoop:
“And in the proof
much comfort will I give,
“If ye will take
that comfort in its truth.
“We fall by course
of Nature’s law, not force
“Of thunder, or of
Jove.
The speaker of these lines (as the poet articulates them) is
Oceanus, the God of the Sea. “Hyperion” (which Keats never completed) is about
the overthrow of one order by another. The Titans are soothing their sorrow in
the aftermath of their fall to the Olympians. Some of the Titans want to rebel,
but Oceanus is the voice of reason here: not only must the old order pass to
the new, but they must accept it as a historic eventuality. Roe must have seen
in this an affirmation of revolution, especially at a time when portraying
dethroned monarchs was “regarded in Britain as potentially an incitement to
revolution”.
But I read these lines differently. “Nature’s law”
presupposes a preconceived (and divinely ordained) history, a passage from the
old to the new which maintains the same basic structure that sustained the old.
Call it “parliamentary democracy”, call it a “coup”, to me the overthrow of the
Titans was nothing more or less than a violent overthrow of one set of gods by
another.
I am of course not suggesting that for Keats the most valid
“overthrow of tyranny” was one which sustained the same political base (which by
the way is what pretty much goes for democracy today!), but I do believe that
Keats’ conception of history as an organic process of change followed by order
is not in line with Roe’s reading of the poem. This is what imputes fresh
nuances of meaning to Keats, and marks him out as probably the most
idiosyncratic, atypical poet among the Romantics.
Not that he was an outsider to them. In his
work we see that same Romantic idealisation of beauty and nature, because of
which his poetry is often classed as “escapist”. That classification is crass,
though. To consider Keats’ high regard for beauty (back when the chief quality
of the Romantics was, yes, their high regard for beauty!) as “escapist” is to
read his work wrongly. His masterpieces – which for me were his odes and
tributes to such abstractions as Indolence, Beauty, Melancholy,
and Art – are marked out well by the intermingling of substantive reality and
aesthetic delight. It is here that his real genius is to be found, and not (as
is claimed by critics who clamour to read the political in his poetry) in
“Hyperion”.
Consider, for instance, these lines from “Ode to a
Nightingale”
Fade far away,
dissolve, and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never
known,
The weariness, the
fever, and the fret
Here, where men sit and hear each
other groan;
Where palsy shakes
a few, sad, last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin,
and dies;
Where but to think is to be
full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed
despairs,
Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous
eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond
to-morrow.
Here’s the motif that defines the intensity of his poetry:
his constant yearning for tranquillity and solace in the face of personal
tragedy (his brother died of tuberculosis, and he himself would succumb to it
at the age of 25). This is what critics class as “escapist” in terms of imagery
– the juxtaposition of the “weariness” and “fever” of mortal man with the
immortal song of the nightingale, as well as the mortality of Beauty in the
face of human suffering – but in my opinion they can equally be classed as the
anguish of a heart beset with personal tragedy, which is reflected in the
tragedy of the world.
To consider this as his strength is to consider Keats’
defining marks – his use of pastoral imagery, metaphor, and personification – as leading to a never-ending search for tranquillity. Wordsworth never
faced this problem, because in his later years he could (thanks to his
reactionary political beliefs) afford to offer an easy way out: a contemplation
of the mystical and the pastoral (which Regi Siriwardena rightly called
“inertia”). That is what I’d consider as “escapist”, and not Keats’ sustained
quest for solace.
He weakened a little, in my opinion, when he deviated from
his meditations on pain and pleasure. To be more specific, when the experience
he brought out was inadequate when compared with the form. I can think of one
poem here specifically, the first of his I ever learnt: “La Belle Dame Sans
Merci”. What we relate to in that poem is the knight and his harrowing ordeal.
But the quickness of that ordeal – which some critics may read as contributing
to its shocking appeal – leads to disappointment. We know the woman isn’t who
she is when we hear these lines:
And there she
lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I
ever dream’d
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings
and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La
Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
We’re made to believe that it is this sudden experience that
frightens and turns him to despair, when in the next verse we are told that
I saw their
starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and
found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
But the suddenness of that experience (“And I awoke and
found me here”) and the economy with which Keats relates it deprive the poem of
any subtlety or colour. Call me a cynic, but when I read these lines now, I
can’t understand why the knight should be disappointed or saddened, whether at
the woman’s transformation or at the fact that his love for her wasn’t
returned. Keats’ use of imagery is sparse, almost austere, and that deprives it
of vitality. I rate it personally among his weaker work.
I must conclude (and confess) that at the time I first read
Keats I was an incurable romantic, and that is what endeared his (better known)
poetry to me. 10 years later, I find that position unchanged: regardless of
whatever political beliefs he may have held, Keats was and is the poet we all
look to when beset with personal tragedy, not because contemplation affords escapism, but because in that contemplation we realise that
suffering and mortality are eternal, and that the quest for eternal(ised)
abstractions like beauty may never end.
I was thankful then. I am thankful now.
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