Poetry Wednesday: Alexander Pope (finally)

Alexander Pope was born Catholic at a time when that wasn’t a very good idea for all sorts of reasons,* though the one that mattered most was that it kept him from furthering his studies past the basics, which weren’t nearly enough for someone of his curiosity and intelligence.

So he attended school in secret and, more importantly, turned autodidact and educated himself in languages and literature, thoroughly enough to write a translation of Homer’s major works—from the original Greek, mind—that is still in use today.

Riddle of the World
(Alexander Pope)

Know then thyself, presume not God to scan
The proper study of Mankind is Man.
Placed on this isthmus of a middle state,
A Being darkly wise, and rudely great:
With too much knowledge for the Sceptic side,
With too much weakness for the Stoic’s pride,
He hangs between; in doubt to act, or rest;
In doubt to deem himself a God, or Beast;
In doubt his mind and body to prefer;
Born but to die, and reas’ning but to err;
Whether he thinks to little, or too much;
Chaos of Thought and Passion, all confus’d;
Still by himself, abus’d or disabus’d;
Created half to rise and half to fall;
Great Lord of all things, yet a prey to all,
Sole judge of truth, in endless error hurl’d;
The glory, jest and riddle of the world.

Alexander Pope was delicate of health, stunted of height, and twisted of spine from a childhood disease, making it unlikely that he could hold down a regular 17^th Century job—or raise a family.

So he made his living writing, and writing about writing—which is a remarkable achievement in any century—and died at the respectable age of 56, surrounded by his dearest friends, including  Martha Blount who may well have been his lifelong lover.

On a Certain Lady at Court**
(Alexander Pope)

I know the thing that’s most uncommon;
(Envy be silent and attend!)
I know a Reasonable Woman,
Handsome and witty, yet a Friend.

Not warp’d by Passion, aw’d by Rumour,
Not grave thro’ Pride, or gay thro’ Folly,
An equal Mixture of good Humour,
And sensible soft Melancholy.

`Has she no Faults then (Envy says) Sir?’
Yes she has one, I must aver:
When all the World conspires to praise her,
The Woman’s deaf, and does not hear.

Alexander Pope wrote many things that insulted—or seemed to insult—a lot of influential people at a time when that really wasn’t a good idea.  He used his verse to strip away pomposity, expose willful stupidity, and deflate egos and he rarely, if ever, backed down.

And he was one of the best-known writers of his time.  Even his enemies—or especially his enemies— didn’t dare miss a word.

All of this would be enough to make me respect him.  His poetry, though, makes me love him.

As with most of the poets of his time, he could be serious, playful, pensive, and condemning in turn, and—of course—supremely suggestive:

Summer
(Alexander Pope)

See what delights in sylvan scenes appear!
Descending Gods have found Elysium here.
In woods bright Venus with Adonis stray’d,
And chaste Diana haunts the forest shade.
Come lovely nymph, and bless the silent hours,
When swains from shearing seek their nightly bow’rs;
When weary reapers quit the sultry field,
And crown’d with corn, their thanks to Ceres yield.
This harmless grove no lurking viper hides,
But in my breast the serpent Love abides.
Here bees from blossoms sip the rosy dew,
But your Alexis knows no sweets but you.
Oh deign to visit our forsaken seats,
The mossy fountains, and the green retreats!
Where-e’er you walk, cool gales shall fan the glade,
Trees, where you sit, shall crowd into a shade,
Where-e’er you tread, the blushing flow’rs shall rise,
And all things flourish where you turn your eyes.
Oh! How I long with you to pass my days,
Invoke the muses, and resound your praise;
Your praise the birds shall chant in ev’ry grove,
And winds shall waft it to the pow’rs above.
But wou’d you sing, and rival Orpheus’ strain,
The wond’ring forests soon shou’d dance again,
The moving mountains hear the pow’rful call,
And headlong streams hang list’ning in their fall!
But see, the shepherds shun the noon-day heat,
The lowing herds to murm’ring brooks retreat,
To closer shades the panting flocks remove,
Ye Gods! And is there no relief for Love?
But soon the sun with milder rays descends
To the cool ocean, where his journey ends;
On me Love’s fiercer flames for every prey,
By night he scorches, as he burns by day.

Panting herds, y’all.

And he also gives good writing advice that seems as sound today as when he first penned it:

Sound And Sense
(Alexander Pope)

True ease in writing comes from art, not chance,
As those move easiest who have learned to dance.
‘Tis not enough no harshness gives offense,
The sound must seem an echo to the sense:
Soft is the strain when Zephyr gently blows,
And the smooth stream in smoother numbers flows;
But when loud surges lash the sounding shore,
The hoarse, rough verse should like the torrent roar;
When Ajax strives some rock’s vast weight to throw,
The line too labors, and the words move slow;
Not so, when swift Camilla scours the plain,
Flies o’er the unbending corn, and skims along the main.
Hear how Timotheus’ varied lays surprise,
And bid alternate passions fall and rise!

So there you have it: why I adore Alexander Pope and—with one notable exception—his work.

Check out his couplets, too—they’re snarky.

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*The Anglican and Catholic Churches played a deadly game of leapfrog throughout this time period, depending on which way the reigning monarch knelt.  The 1788 Test Act had been passed a decade or so before the birth of Alexander Pope (pun unintentional, but telling), as an an expansion of the existing statutes that forbade Catholics from teaching school or attending university, voting or holding public office—even the aristocracy.  Catholics couldn’t live within ten miles of London, either, which appears to have been no great loss, since they couldn’t actually do anything.

**I don’t honestly know if he wrote this about Miss Blount, but I like to think that this was the kind of person she was.

Poetry Wednesday: Rape of the What Now?

This was going to be a post on why I adore Alexander Pope.

Because I do—I really do.  He hails from my favorite literary era—17^th and early 18^th century, if you’re just joining us now—and he’s a huge reason why I find it as terrific as it is.

He’s a brilliant, witty, sensual, scathing man, who only suffered fools gladly because of the inspiration.

It wouldn’t be a lie to say that I’ve got a serious braincrush on him.

But while I was trying to figure out how much of his work I could wedge into one post before I lost all you patient people and would be forced to post  LOLcat Wednesdays in a desperate attempt to lure everyone back—which is  what Thursdays are for around here—two brief sentences evolved into a ranty exploration of why some poems just aren’t worth the effort, even if you think they should be, and why that’s perfectly all right, dang it.

Because this didn’t fit the original intent of the post,  I tried sticking it all in a footnote—as I do—but though I’ve occasionally had a notes section that was longer than the actual post, even I could figure out that if a single note is longer than a post, I’ve got things upside-down.

So my  scheduled Popefest is going to wait a week.  Today, I’m tackling “Rape of the Lock.”

Bear with me.

Alexander Pope published the first two cantos of what would become one of his most famous poems—if by famous, we mean destined to be inflicted on generations of confused English Lit students—anonymously in 1712.  By 1717, there were five of these things in total and several letters of introduction to different versions, for which Pope was accepting credit.

It’s an epic, heroic poem in high-narrative style, concerning the fraught aftermath of a man snipping off a single curl of hair from the woman he admires without her permission.

I’m not joking—it’s based on an actual event that caused a major rift between two prominent families.  Pope supposedly began writing this epic in order to point out that even though it might have been a tad rude to slice a bit out of someone else’s coiffure, it was, after all, only hair.  And, then, being Alexander Pope, he went on to poke at a society that is so skewed in its values that it allows stuff like this to be blown out of proportion.

There are articles and theses, tracts and treatises dedicated to this poem and how absolutely, classically marvelous it is.

I don’t like it much.

I’m sure this is partially because when I first encountered it, in Eng Lit 101, no one told me it was supposed to be a burlesque satire.  Or maybe  they did but I was looking out the window or digesting lunch.  I know I skipped over the intro pages to this poem in Norton’s Anthology, since I remember spending the first three cantos waiting for the key to the lock to show up, because this is exactly the kind of blatant sexual metaphor you quickly learn to expect from poetry of this time, especially when the word rape is in the title. 

Imagine my expression when I realized what all the fuss was about.  But I still assumed Pope was serious, which is not the way to approach this poem and expect it to make any sense whatsoever.

I did go back and re-read it several years later, after realizing my mistake,**  because, as a self-professed, poem-carrying Alexander Pope Groupie, I thought I should.  And though it was better now that I  knew that the writer was rolling his eyes when he wrote it, it still didn’t do it for me.

So I tried again a week ago.  I mean, I enjoy the Canterbury Tales and I respect The Divine Comedy, so I couldn’t figure out why this one tongue-in-cheek poem by a writer I’m half in love with was giving me such a hard time.  I mean, I know I keep telling everyone that poetry is subjective and not every poem is for everyone and what dunks your doughnut might crumble my cruller, and so forth, and that’s perfectly fine . . .  but I just couldn’t let this one go.

Why couldn’t I find the funny that all these experts said was there?

And then this past Sunday, in the frozen veggie aisle of the grocery store, I overheard someone saying that the reason she didn’t like the Scary Movie parodies because she hadn’t seen most of the original source materials.

Well, duh.

Parody and satire depend on people understanding all the references and in-jokes—and I’m almost exactly three-hundred years too late to be reading “Rape of the Lock” for light, popular entertainment.  Odds are, the stuff that had Pope’s audience rolling in the aisles isn’t going to work that well on me.

I’m not really going to get why the chastity sylphs are hilarious instead of annoying or why petticoat lint is an homage to the Illiad—or whether the names of the characters are sly digs at real people or references to ancient Greco-Roman mythology without Cliffnotes and a map.  And at this point, I just don’t have the energy or inclination to unpack each and every line and understand it according to the societal rules of its time.

This particular poem just isn’t worth my time.

And that’s okay.

It was worth a post, though—and if someone would like to do a guest spot on why ”Rape of the Lock“ is the greatest poem of all time and I’m a lazy, ignorant philistine, I’ll gladly accept the offer.   I’m not promising that I’ll change my mind, but I’ll listen.

Meanwhile, next week I’ll do my best to convince you that Alexander Pope’s poems, with one possible exception, are worth your time . . . Though of course, you’re under no obligation to agree.

And that’s okay, too.

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*During a conversation in which I didn’t come off looking particularly bright at an age when I wasn’t sure embarrassment should be survivable.