{"id":133797,"date":"2019-02-20T09:00:55","date_gmt":"2019-02-20T14:00:55","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=133797"},"modified":"2019-02-20T12:38:27","modified_gmt":"2019-02-20T17:38:27","slug":"meet-your-new-favorite-poet","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/02\/20\/meet-your-new-favorite-poet\/","title":{"rendered":"Meet Your New Favorite Poet"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n
\"\"<\/a>

James Thomson (1700\u20131748)<\/p><\/div>\n

I like to tell poetry students about pleasures that are \u201con reserve\u201d for them\u2014meaning pleasures they\u2019re too little to have now, but which they\u00a0will<\/i>\u00a0have, someday, if they just stick with it. Good example of this: owning other poets.<\/p>\n

How can you own a poet? Simple. You have to find a poet whom no one has read in a long time, a poet with no living fans. Then you have to sincerely love that poet\u2019s work. That\u2019s the hard part. But if you love the poet\u2019s poems, and no one else has even read them, there\u2019s your opportunity to plant your flag. That poet is now your private property. Your interpretation of that poet\u2019s work is by definition correct. Your right to be there is indisputable.<\/p>\n

And why can\u2019t beginners have this pleasure? That\u2019s easy. \u2019Cuz they cannot bring themselves to read material that\u2019s \u201cnot gonna be on the test.\u201d And even if they do somehow read such material, they do not love it. They are beginners; they love each other. Everything else is homework.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

James Thomson (1700\u20131748) is my private property. I keep him in my pocket and take him out and look at him sometimes. He always looks good. There are many James Thomson poems that I have never read. Consequently, those pieces do not exist. The ones I have read I have read many times. I\u2019m talking about\u00a0The Seasons<\/i>, a 5,500-line poem that used to be approximately as famous as the Aeneid or whatever. It was translated into a bunch of different languages, Goethe revered it, it was imitated all over the place. People used to sit there, stunned or rocking back and forth, muttering \u201cOh man, oh man, oh\u00a0man<\/i>!\u201d about\u00a0The Seasons<\/i>. These days, however\u20142019\u2014the sun has quite gone down on this great poet.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not hard to see why. His stuff doesn\u2019t sound like it\u2019s going to be good, at all. Number one, it was written in the eighteenth century.\u00a0Nobody<\/i>\u00a0likes that century\u2019s poetry. Number two, it\u2019s in twisted-up Miltonic blank verse. In other words, it\u2019s hard. Number three, it\u2019s 5,500 lines of\u00a0nature imagery<\/i>. There\u2019s no plot, no characters\u2014it\u2019s nature imagery, floor to ceiling.<\/p>\n

Do not adjust your laptop. That sound you hear is fleeing multitudes.<\/p>\n

But! It\u2019s one of the best and most moving poems I\u2019ve ever read or ever hope to read. There are parts that cause me to\u00a0rain\u00a0tears.There are parts whose eloquence is right up there with Shakespeare and company. Let me show you a handful of passages.<\/p>\n

Exhibit A<\/b>: This is just to give you an idea what kind of diction-syntax we\u2019re talking about. This is really early 0n in the poem, and Thomson has been talking about how the coming of spring affects the air and the wind; now he draws your attention to the soil and leaves:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

<\/p>\n

\n
\n
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Nor only through the lenient air this change
\nDelicious breathes: the penetrative Sun,
\nHis force deep-darting to the dark retreat
\nOf vegetation, sets the steaming power
\nAt large, to wander o\u2019er the vernant earth
\nIn various hues \u2026<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

For God\u2019s sake, look at the word\u00a0lenient<\/i>\u00a0there; the word\u00a0penetrative<\/i>; the word\u00a0retreat<\/i>. And the construction \u201csets the steaming power at large.\u201d But, more subtly, consider the strange way that this:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

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\n
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Nor only through the lenient air this change delicious breathes,\u2014<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

is so much better than:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n

Not only does this delicious change breathe through the lenient air,\u2014<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

This latter point instantiates a deep mystery. In 2019, no one would dare Latinize their syntax like that. It would look like if you went to school one day in an Elizabethan ruff. And even in the eighteenth century, this wasn\u2019t always done with grace and \u00e9lan. Thomson, however, has the touch. He always knows when it would be better to say \u201cSomething wicked this way comes\u201d rather than \u201cSomething wicked comes this way\u201d (which, incidentally, has the exact same scansion).<\/p>\n

Exhibit B<\/b>. Example of how, to Thomson, everything in nature is a person:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Hushed in short suspense,
\nThe plumy people streak their wings with oil
\nTo throw the lucid moisture trickling off,
\nAnd wait the approaching sign to strike at once
\nInto the general choir.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

The \u201cplumy people\u201d! He\u2019s talking about birds. Elsewhere, fish are the \u201cfinny race.\u201d Flowers are \u201csummer\u2019s musky tribe.\u201d And so on. (Cf. Holden Caulfield famously saying \u201cAt least a horse is\u00a0human<\/i>.\u201d)<\/p>\n

Exhibit C<\/b>. A soaring description of a rainbow:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n

Meantime, refracted from yon eastern cloud,
\nBestriding earth, the grand ethereal bow
\nShoots up immense; and every hue unfolds,
\nIn fair proportion running from the red
\nTo where the violet fades into the sky.
\nHere, awful Newton, the dissolving clouds
\nForm, fronting on the sun, thy showery prism;
\nAnd to the sage-instructed eye unfold
\nThe various twine of light, by thee disclosed
\nFrom the white mingling maze. Not so the swain;
\nHe wondering views the bright enchantment bend
\nDelightful o\u2019er the radiant fields, and runs
\nTo catch the falling glory; but amazed
\nBeholds the amusive arch before him fly,
\nThen vanish quite away.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

The word\u00a0awful<\/i>, there, of course meant something like \u201cfull of awe.\u201d Sounds bad now, but that\u2019s not Thomson\u2019s fault. (He originally had the word\u00a0mighty<\/i>\u00a0there.)<\/p>\n

Pleasant to note that Sir Isaac Newton had only recently died (1727) at the time the first version of these lines was published (1728). British intellectuals were proud Newton was on their team. Newton\u2019s\u00a0Opticks<\/i>\u00a0(1704) had correctly explained for the first time in human history the rainbow phenomenon, but, as the lines point out, the word hadn\u2019t gotten out to everybody just yet. Anyhow, will you please take a second to consider the construction \u201cdissolving clouds form, fronting on the sun, thy\u00a0showery prism\u201d and also: \u201cunfold the various\u00a0twine of light.\u201d<\/p>\n

Exhibit D<\/b>. Thomson\u2019s persuasive call for vegetarianism:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n

\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 The wolf, who from the nightly fold
\nFierce drags the bleating prey, ne\u2019er drunk her milk,
\nNor wore her warming fleece: nor has the steer,
\nAt whose strong chest the deadly tiger hangs,
\nE\u2019er plowed for him. They too are tempered high,
\nWith hunger stung and wild necessity,
\nNor lodges pity in their shaggy breast.
\nBut man, whom Nature formed of milder clay,
\nWith every kind emotion in his heart,
\nAnd taught alone to weep,\u2014while from her lap
\nShe pours ten thousand delicacies, herbs
\nAnd fruits, as numerous as the drops of rain
\nOr beams that gave them birth,\u2014shall he, fair form!
\nWho wears sweet smiles, and looks erect on Heaven,
\nE\u2019er stoop to mingle with the prowling herd,
\nAnd dip his tongue in gore? The beast of prey,
\nBlood-stained, deserves to bleed: but you, ye flocks,
\nWhat have you done? ye peaceful people, what,
\nTo merit death? you, who have given us milk
\nIn luscious streams, and lent us your own coat
\nAgainst the Winter\u2019s cold? And the plain ox,
\nThat harmless, honest, guileless animal,
\nIn what has he offended? he whose toil,
\nPatient and ever ready, clothes the land
\nWith all the pomp of harvest; shall he bleed,
\nAnd struggling groan beneath the cruel hands
\nEven of the clowns he feeds? And that, perhaps
\nTo swell the riot of the autumnal feast,
\nWon by his labour? This the feeling heart
\nWould tenderly suggest \u2026<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

Come\u00a0on<\/i>; you must have a heart of stone if you don\u2019t respond to the bit beginning \u201cBut you, ye flocks, \/ what have you done?\u201d<\/p>\n

Thomson is always like this. And don\u2019t even start with me about sentimentality. It\u2019s not sentimental; it\u2019s\u00a0sentiment<\/i>. I\u2019ll show you sentimental \u2026<\/p>\n

Exhibit E<\/b>. This will be the last exhibit. Here, Thomson has been describing birds taking care of their young. This long passage, a cornucopia of goodies, culminates in an excellently observed bit about fledgling birds first leaving the nest:<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n

\n
\n
\n

\u2019Tis on some evening, sunny, grateful, mild,
\nWhen nought but balm is breathing through the woods
\nWith yellow lustre bright, that the new tribes
\nVisit the spacious heavens, and look abroad
\nOn Nature\u2019s common, far as they can see
\nOr wing, their range and pasture. O\u2019er the boughs
\nDancing about, still at the giddy verge
\nTheir resolution fails; their pinions still,
\nIn loose libration stretched, to trust the void
\nTrembling refuse\u2014till down before them fly
\nThe parent-guides, and chide, exhort, command,
\nOr push them off. The surging air receives
\nThe plumy burden; and their self-taught wings
\nWinnow the waving element. On ground
\nAlighted, bolder up again they lead,
\nFarther and farther on, the lengthening flight;
\nTill, vanished every fear, and every power
\nRoused into life and action, light in air
\nThe acquitted parents see their soaring race,
\nAnd, once rejoicing, never know them more.<\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n
\n

That makes me cry!<\/p>\n

The little birds refuse, trembling,\u00a0to trust the void. (I don\u2019t trust it either!) but then their wings \u201cwinnow the waving element,\u201d which sounds like Dickinson. (I don\u2019t know, but I pretty much guarantee Dickinson knew her Thomson.) And then the \u201cacquitted\u201d<\/i>\u00a0parents see their \u201csoaring race,\u201d and, once rejoicing, \u201cnever know them more.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u2022<\/p>\n

All of my exhibits are from the \u201cSpring\u201d section of\u00a0The Seasons<\/i>, which naturally comes first. I confined myself to that section quite on purpose, so that if anyone should choose to trace my steps back into this excellent piece of superannuated art, that person will find these now-familiar bits right away.<\/p>\n

To that person, I say: Wait till you see the thing about fly fishing. You\u2019re not gonna believe your eyes. And also: Don\u2019t miss Dr. Johnson\u2019s \u201cLife of Thomson\u201d in the\u00a0Lives of the Poets<\/i>. It\u2019s probably the most charming of the middle-length lives, and it includes a funny letter from Thomson to his sister. Great stuff.<\/p>\n

You\u2019re welcome.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>\n

Anthony Madrid lives in Victoria, Texas. His second book is\u00a0<\/em>Try Never<\/a>. He is a correspondent for the\u00a0<\/em>Daily.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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