Evening Isles Fantastical
Monday, January 16, 2006
  The Short Happy-Life of Francis Macomber
This was written earlier today as part of a Creative Writing exam. Because I am lazy, and want to watch 24 more than I want to write yet another new poem, I'll use this one. It's long, anyway, so you shall not want for content.

Professor Garber provided us with a title (from a Hemingway story, it seems), and a first and last line for our work. We had to fill in the rest. I duly obtained his permission to change the structure of the two for metric purposes, and was on my way. The opening line was meant to be "For a long time I used to go to bed early," while the closing line was meant to be "it was as simple as that."

Note also the hyphen between "Happy" and "Life" in the poem's title; that is my own addition, and has Meaning. Finally, as I don't feel like getting the symbol codes for the "e" with a little accent over it to indicate stress, I will indicate that stress by preceding the "ed" with a hyphen. For example, "burned" is one syllable, while "burn-ed" is two.

The Short Happy-Life of Francis Macomber

'Twas oft, betimes, that I'd retire
Before the swell of evensong;
In slumber 'fore the gentle fire
That flared not great, but burn-ed long,
I would, though dozing, contemplate
The embers dying in the grate.

And through such faint encroaching sleep
I'd dwell upon Contentments might;
That genius of the place; so deep
A force, despite the crowding night,
That soft and sweetly sleeps my wife
Unheeding th' embers' fleeting life.

It touched me not, that Spirit sweet;
My dim mind turned to darker stuff.
The musings 'pon the coal compete
With mem'ries of that midnight bluff
O'er which I oft was wont to stare
When weary, worn-out, wracked with care.

"Why not?" my darkest devil cried,
"Simple as that, and there an end."
My judgment fought my foolish pride;
What hate assails, can grace defend?
One night, at last, I took the ledge,
And sunk into the sucking sedge.

Or else, in faith, I would have done,
Had not I heard a lady's shout!
Her hands on mine; my art undone,
She heaved, I heaved, we had me out.
And she, through wracked, reliev-ed sighs
Beheld the tears in mine own eyes.

We spoke, we laughed; in time, we wed.
We made a home on Father's land.
Her thoughts of my grim plummet fled,
We loved and feasted, hoped and planned.
But underneath my smile, a trace
Of tears still stained my wretched face.

And so I sign this testament,
And seal it with my Father's ring.
I stand and face my punishment;
God's wrath arrives on powdered wing.
The poison's justice, love and thrift:
My death shall not be sweet or swift.

This year of bliss is undeserved;
I should have perished in the brae.
Her soul is sad, for its reserved
By one who is not kind, or gay.
Now free to find her heart's desire,
As I found mine in evening fire.

The house is dark, the embers dead,
Their smoke is drifting through the air.
My torment-tortured soul is fled,
Unwearied, rested, dead to care.
The last I hear is my old friend:
"Simple as that, and there an end."
 
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This blog was started in an attempt to write a poem once a day, every day, for an entire year, but this expedition has met with failure! I gave up on transcribing the damn things in late January, and gave up writing them entirely around the end of February. It's not easy to do this at all. In fact, it is hard. I still feel as though I've learned something, anyway, so I'll keep what I did manage to do up here for now. I'll probably start posting stuff again irregularly when my workload decreases somewhat, which was really the reason for my problems in the first place. Who would have thought being in the third year of an honours BA would give you a lot of work to do?

Johnson on Poetry

"To a poet nothing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful and whatever is dreadful must be familiar to his imagination: he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little. The plants of the garden, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety: for every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of moral or religious truth; and he who knows most will have most power of diversifying his scenes, and of gratifying his reader with remote allusions and unexpected instruction."
- Imlac, in Rasselas

"The essence of verse is regularity, and its ornament is variety. To write verse is to dispose syllables and sounds harmonically by some known and settled rule -- a rule however lax enough to substitute similitude for identity, to admit change without breach of order, and to relieve the ear without disappointing it."
- From the biography of John Dryden in Lives of the Poets

Chesterton on Poetry

"Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination. Artistic paternity is as wholesome as physical paternity. Moreover, it is worthy of remark that when a poet really was morbid it was commonly because he had some weak spot of rationality on his brain. Poe, for instance, really was morbid; not because he was poetical, but because he was specially analytical. Even chess was too poetical for him; he disliked chess because it was full of knights and castles, like a poem. He avowedly preferred the black discs of draughts, because they were more like the mere black dots on a diagram.

Perhaps the strongest case of all is this: that only one great English poet went mad, Cowper. And he was definitely driven mad by logic, by the ugly and alien logic of predestination. Poetry was not the disease, but the medicine; poetry partly kept him in health. He could sometimes forget the red and thirsty hell to which his hideous necessitarianism dragged him among the wide waters and the white flat lilies of the Ouse. He was damned by John Calvin; he was almost saved by John Gilpin. Everywhere we see that men do not go mad by dreaming. Critics are much madder than poets. Homer is complete and calm enough; it is his critics who tear him into extravagant tatters. Shakespeare is quite himself; it is only some of his critics who have discovered that he was somebody else. And though St. John the Evangelist saw many strange monsters in his vision, he saw no creature so wild as one of his own commentators. The general fact is simple. Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion, like the physical exhaustion of Mr. Holbein. To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits."
-From Orthodoxy

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The American Chesterton Society
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