Showing posts with label British Poets. Show all posts
Showing posts with label British Poets. Show all posts

Saturday, December 14, 2019

184. The Toys. Coventry Patmore Poem. Appreciation By P S Remesh Chandran

184
 
The Toys. Coventry Patmore Poem Appreciation

P. S. Remesh Chandran

 
Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum


Article Title Image 1 By Julita. Graphics: Adobe SP.Article
 
Coventry Patmore was a British poet and essayist who had a deep concern for religion. Through his poems, he reacted to the spiritual degeneration of his times. His essays and articles were mostly criticism. His poem Toys pictures the sorrows of childhood and the fatherly relationship of God to man. Just like a father punishes a child, God too can punish a man for his wrong doings but He forgives. It’s the message in the poem for fathers who punish children.

Naturally a child assumes the role of a grown up man to fill the gap of not being there a fatherly care.

  
01. Portrait of Coventry Patmore By John Singer Sargent.

The poet's motherless child spoke and behaved like grown-up people, which the poet disliked. Children should behave like children, not like grown up people. But is it possible for children now not to behave like adults, especially after communication technology has advanced much and knowledge is now at everyone’s fingertips, and everyone is now becoming much mature? But a century before there was not this communication technology and no knowledge at everyone’s fingertips. So why should a child behave like an adult then? It was because there was a gap of fatherly care in his life in his mother’s absence and naturally the child assumed the role of the grown up man to fill that gap.

A domestic situation which opens innumerable doors for child psychologists!

 
For disobeying him for the seventh time in one day, the poet beat him and sent him to bed without the usual kisses. He ought to have been more tolerant towards the motherless child. Fearing grief should hinder the child's sleep he visited his bed to find him in deep slumber. His darkened eyelids and wet eye lashes were proof he had been sobbing for a long time. The poet felt remorse for his act of unkindness. He kissed away his son's tears while he himself wept, for he could see what gave comfort to the child in his grief, in his place. They were his toys arranged neatly on a table beside his bed. They were simple but enough to comfort a grieving child- ‘a box of counters, a red-veined stone, a piece of glass abraded by the beach, six or seven shells, a bottle with blue bells and two French copper coins’. Where the child longed for the caressing of his father, he bridged the gap and found solace by caressing his toys! True, his toys would not beat him and send him away lonely to bed.  


The reader at this part of the poem would immediately think how great must have been the child’s lonely grief and how much he must have wept. He must have just reversed the role of father and child, assumed the role of father and caressed and soothed the toys to sleep as would have wished his father to have caressed him to sleep- a domestic situation which opens innumerable doors for child psychologists! True, it is a reflection of everyone's childhood. One will wonder why the modern day so-called poets can't create poetry of such pure emotions.

God does not punish man for his multitude of wrongs. He forgives.

Just as the poet punishes the child for his puny little misdoings, God can certainly punish the poet for his multitude of wrongs but He does not do it. He forgives instead. That is the fatherly attitude of God to man. Once he has wept as a child, for his child, God's tenderness and kindness dawns on his mind. The poet repents that he had never been as good a father to his child as God has been to him. Man has been moulded by God from the clay; in his own image. Even then man has not understood the goodness of God. When man at last lies with trancèd breath in his death bed not troubling God anymore, He still does not wish to punish him. Such good is God. So when that night the poet wept and prayed, he prayed God to leave aside His anger and forgive him for his childishness and his unkindness to his child.

It is when a child reaches his mother that he is the most soothed and consoled.


  
02. Coventry Patmore in 1891 By Herbert Rose Barraud.

What would be the grievous thoughts passing through the mind of a motherless child? Can a father understand them? Or can anyone understand them for a fact? It is believed that a mother is the only person in the world who is never jealous of the achievements of her children. Not even the father could be that un-jealous. It is when he reaches his mother that a child is the most soothed and consoled. It is like life consoled when it finally reaches the fountain of its origin. The mother and child relationship is incomparable. It’s unique in the world.

What is the effect of a mother’s punishment? Suppose a mother beats a child and sends him away. The child is now cross with its mother and goes to sleep with its father. In his sleep he is carried to his mother. When he awakes, he is lying in deep embrace of his mother and remembers nothing about being cross with his mother ever. Such is the sentiments of children. They forgive easily like God. That is why we say children are the representatives of god in this world, and mothers.

In the cource of the appreciation of this poem we even doubted if the poet was becoming and behaving like the Duke in Robert Browning’s poem My Last Duchess. No, it is not. He well understands how a motherless child feels, especially when neglected or punished by its father. The poem is the proof. So he must have remarried every time to provide a mother for his children.

 
Beating a child is better than scolding him and comparing him with another.

What is the difference in the effect between beating a child and scolding him? Remember what one of the greatest scholars in England, Dr. Johnson, told about beating children which he considered was very good compared to scolding them instead. ‘The rod produces an effect which terminates in itself’, he said. It means, when the rod is taken away, the effect it produced also ends there. But when you scold a child instead, you usually compare him with another and create long-lasting ugly effects. You actually compare him with his brother or sister and ‘make brothers and sisters hate each other’ in the long run. That was why Johnson said beating a child was better than scolding him and comparing him with another one.


Article Title Image 2 By Alan. Graphics: Adobe SP.

THE LIFE AND WORKS OF COVENTRY PATMORE.

The dilemma of selecting between poetry, art and science.

Coventry Patmore, or Coventry Kersey Dighton Patmore in full, 1823-1896, was born at Woodford in Essex, England. He inherited his literary talents from his father, author Peter George Patmore. He had exceptional artistic talents. He also was a science enthusiast. He was schooled at home and later in France. He was always in a dilemma of pursuing poetry, art or science. Each equally won- poetry a little better. His critical essays also were held in high esteem in his times.

The son follows in the footsteps of the father.

Peter George Patmore was a British writer who was a friend of William Hazlitt and Charles Lamb. He was also a government servant. He was the editor of the New Monthly Magazine for 12 years from 1841 to 1853. He also contributed to such periodicals as the Liberal Review, the Westminster Review, the Retrospective Review, the Blackwood's Magazine, the London Magazine and the Monthly Magazine. The noted among his books include Imitations Of Celebrated Authors 1826, The Mirror Of The Months 1826, Cabinet Of Gems 1837, The Court Of Queen Victoria 1844, The Romance Of A Week 1844, My Friends And Acquaintance 1854, and Marriage In May Fair 1854 in the order of their publishing, not writing. A few among these were published posthumously. He also published a series of articles on old paintings titled Picture Galleries Of England. No wonder his eldest son inherited not only literary talents but artistic talents also from him. His wife, and Coventry Patmore’s mother, was Eliza Robertson. He died in Hampstead in 1855 at the age of 69.

British Museum assistant, poet and family man.

 
In 1846 Coventry Patmore joined the services of the British Museum as a Printed Books Assistant and continued there for nineteen years during which time he wrote many poems also. In 1847 he married Emily Augusta Andrews and they had had two sons and three daughters. In 1862 his wife of 15 years Emily died and in 1865 he married his second wife Marianne Byles. (We will wonder why his wives die after exactly fifteen years and look up Robert Browning’s My Last Duchess to read). In 1880 Marianne died and in 1881 he married his children's governess Harriet Robson.

The unparalleled The Angel In The House and other works.

 03. Coventry Patmore Lived Here 1858-1860 at 85, Fortis Green, London By Spudgun67.

In 1844 he published a small poetical collection which was a failure. After eleven years, in 1853, this collection was re-edited and elaborated and published as Tamerton Church Tower which gained him the friendship of Dante Gabriel Rossetti. The next year, in 1854, the most memorable and acclaimed of his poems came out- the first section of a long lyrical poem in multiple parts, The Angel In The House. The other three sections followed as The Betrothed And The Espousals in 1856, Faithful For Ever in 1860 and The Victories Of Love in 1862. Together The Angel In The House serves as his classical work, considered since then as the ideal of Victorian femininity and happy marriage. (This work shall not be confused with the autobiographical essay by Virginia Wolfe, The Angel In The House, which proclaims women’s rights).

By 1879 he had become more a critic than a poet.
 

In his early writings happy love and marriage was the main theme which was replaced by the grief of loss theme in later years. The finest of his poems were published as The Unknown Eros in 1878. By 1879 he had become more a critic than a poet. Subsequently, his Principles In Art came out in 1889 and Religio Poetae (Principles Of Poetry) in 1893. ‘Courage In Politics And Other Essays’ containing his critical essays till last since then came out posthumously in 1921. He died in 1896 at the famous salt-producing port village of Lymington in Hampshire, one of the finest places in England, where he had moved to spend his last days.

Article Title Image 3 By Khusen Rustamov. Graphics: Adobe SP.

Written in: September 1995 
First published on: 14 December 2019

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Image Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
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Tags:
 
British Poets, Beating Scolding Comparing, Child Psychology, Coventry Patmore, Domestic Situations, Dr Johnson, Fatherly Care, God Forgives, Grief, Punishing Motherless Child, Soothe Console, Toys,

About the Author P. S. Remesh Chandran:


04. Author Profile Of P S Remesh Chandran By Sahyadri Archives.

Editor of Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum. Author of several books in English and in Malayalam. And also author of Swan: The Intelligent Picture Book. Born and brought up in the beautiful village of Nanniyode in the Sahya Mountain Valley in Trivandrum, in Kerala. Father British Council trained English teacher and Mother University educated. Matriculation with distinction and Pre Degree Studies in Science with National Merit Scholarship. Discontinued Diploma studies in Electronics and entered politics. Unmarried and single.

Face Book: https://www.facebook.com/psremeshchandra.trivandrum
Twitter: https://twitter.com/PSRemeshChandra
You Tube: http://www.youtube.com/user/bloombooks/videos
Blog: http://sahyadribooks-remesh.blogspot.com/
Site: https://sites.google.com/site/timeuponmywindowsill/
E-Mail: bloombookstvm@gmail.com

Post: P. S. Remesh Chandran, Editor, Sahyadri Books, Trivandrum, Padmalayam, Nanniyode, Pacha Post, Trivandrum- 695562, Kerala State, South India.







Sunday, February 3, 2013

052. The Send-Off. Wilfred Owen Poem. Reintroduced By P S Remesh Chandran

052

The Send-Off. Wilfred Owen Poem Reintroduced

P. S. Remesh Chandran

Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum


Article Title Image By Johann Peter Krafft. Graphics: Adobe SP.

First published: 17th Jan 2013


Jean Jacques Bebel, the Swiss historian, has calculated that in the 5000 years of the recent history of the world, only 282 years were devoid of any kind of wars. Peace is the brief interval between two wars. A shot sent at a visiting Prussian Prince and his wife by a young student at Austria, and the life of millions was shattered and the way of life of the world changed for ever. Horrors of the First World War were sung by thousands but Wilfred Owens’ poems were brought hot from the war front.

The voice of the First World War passed away, knowing not about the fame that was to come to his name.


War imminent. US Poster 1914. Michael P. Whelan.

If World War First had a voice, we can say that it was Wilfred Owen, employed in active service, singing about the horrors of war and killed in action. In his brief life time, only four of his poems were published, but after his death, dozens of them were published and brought out as books. It is believed, many of them have not still come to light. Awarded the Military Cross for bravery posthumously, he passed away in poetic anonymity, knowing not about the fame that was to come to his name in future. Speaking for men in the trenches under his leadership was what he did through his poems, which, it seems, were all written during the last two years of his life, 1917 and 1918.

Soldiers sitting in trains, in funeral decorations, going to war front.


Pre-War Breakfast. Ferdinand Max Bredt 1918.

Wilfred Owen was a British poet who was killed during action in the First World War. Insensibility, Strange Meeting and The Send-Off are his most famous anti-war poems in which he brings out the pity, realism and irony of war, reflecting his and his soldiers’ negative attitude towards war. He sees no romanticism or chivalry in war, but only death, destruction and decay. True, what else is there in war except the glory of victory for a few and the shame of defeat or death for many? But when defense of one's motherland is concerned, opinions may vary and war may have to be justified. In the poem The Send-Off, soldiers in a mountain military camp are ordered to move out to war front, who sing their way to the railway siding-sheds and line the train with faces grimly gray, meaning faces darker than black. Decorations all white, like wreath and spray, are pinned to their breasts making them already looking like dead men clad in white, sitting in a row, all looking out the train windows. We are forced to think about the tremendous thoughts streaming through those troubled souls, someone’s father, brother, uncle, one among them certainly the poet himself. The strong sentiments these and the coming scenes create in our minds move us and carry us such away that we are forced to weep, cringe and shudder, which is this poet’s victory which he enjoys standing among the stars. How many of these soldiers will ever return? 

A few more minutes’ sunshine and mountain air before going to the frontier, never to return.



Going to war. Johann Peter Krafft 1813.

A military camp normally will be a nuisance to the local people there. So exactly there were none there to give them a proper send-off. Those people might only be glad to see them all go and never return. A few dull porters and a lone tramp were the only ones there to see them go and sorry to see them going too, for they were the ones who benefited from the camp, now losing their daily bread and jam. At least the mechanically punctual railway signals, unlike the local human beings, could have shown them a little of mercy by sparing them a few more minutes’ sunshine and mountain air. But they, the unmoved signals too, nodded heartlessly, a railway lamp winked to the guard and the train began to move, all in time. They were gone. 

Local girls are what add colour to mountain military camps. Farewell sisters.



Writing to father in war. Eastman Johnson 1863.

True, the soldiers were not soldiers but they were all hushed up heaps of wrongs and evil doings, the poet admits. They did wrong to the villagers and they will be doing wrong on the war front too. Therefore their losses in battle, limb or life, needn't be regretted. All military movements are secret and under cover of night. So the people never heard to which war front these soldiers were being sent. As everywhere, the local girls were what added colour to the monotonous life in the upland camp. Romances might have budded and nipped. Tears and sighs might have been shed in darkness, and weeping farewells told in whispers. To meet and part, that is the soldier’s life. And they, the village girls, had jokingly asked them boys: cousins, will you ever return? The soldiers had mocked their words then, but after feeling the dead heat of the battle front, the poet wonders, whether they would still be mocking those meaningful words of the village women. 

For those who return from field to camp alive, trodden paths would be half-forgotten in their semi-madness.



Help daddy gone to war. Norman Lindsay 1915.

Soldiers gone to war front have a lesser chance of survival and returning alive to their camp, the least in those times. Direct combat was characteristic of military operations, till this war ended, when it gave way to covert operations, carpet bombing from sky and if possible, nerve gas and nuclear attacks. But in that dawn of 20th century, war techniques had not progressed much from the primitive. Only a few of them may return perhaps, too few to receive a proper reception of bells and drums and yells. And those who do return will be invalid, silent and thirsty apparitions, not walking but creeping back silent to still village wells, up half-known roads, yearning for a place to lower their weary bodies on. Even the once-familiar roads would be half-forgotten in their semi-madness, after having gone through the unspeakable horrors of war.

Entered the services of the church, found it hopeless for the poor, and condemned it.



A Mountain Military Camp Entrance. US Federal Govt. War Archives.

Wilfred Owen was born in 1893 and brought up in a religious atmosphere by his parents. His full name was Wilfred Edward Salter Owen. Fallen from fortune, this family could scarcely provide for the education of their four children; Owen served as a teacher-student and matriculated. Theologically trained by his mother, the Bible influenced him during this period. In the Reading University, he studied botany and old English. To earn boarding, lodging and tuition fees, he served as an assistant to the vicar at Dunsden parish, this close familiarity leading to contempt of church later. Reluctance of church to get involved in helping and alleviating the pain of the poor was what infuriated him to condemn church. Disillusioned by church, he left England for France and lived there for a while tutoring English and French in private homes when war broke out. 

The mother and son stood looking across the sun-glorified sea, looking towards France with broken hearts, saying goodbye to each other.



In France, Owen staying and working near Pyrenees Mountain Ranges remained totally oblivious of war for a time. But copies of The Daily Mail newspaper his mother sent to him from England opened his eyes and he began to regularly go to a nearby hospital, acquaint with a doctor and inspecting war casualties brought there each day. At last he could no longer endure his impatience and in 1915, returned to England and volunteered to fight. He was sent again to France to fight in 1916 where from he was brought back wounded and shocked for recuperating. Before going to France for war, he and his beloved mother Susan Owen ‘stood looking across the sun- glorified sea towards France with breaking hearts, saying good bye to each other’ when the son quoted Rabindranath Tagore’s words ‘when I go from hence, let this be my parting word’. Susan Owen is known to have written a letter to Tagore when he was in England. We don’t know for sure whether her letter reached Tagore after her simply writing ‘Tagore, London’ in the address column of the envelope, but we certainly know about the reputation, efficiency and dignity of the British Postal Service, especially during the war period. 


Publication of his poems in time would have prevented Viet Nam nightmare.


Reconnaissance before attack. Pedro Americo 1871.

Enlisted in 1915 into Rifles Officers’ Corps in England, shell-shocked in mortar explosion in a trench in France, and removed of all romanticism for war, he was removed to War Hospital and brought back to England for recuperating. His romantic ideas of war faded when his soldiers and he had to go through gas attacks, sleeping for months in the open in deep snow and frost, loosing friends to death and the stench of rotting dead blanketing the earth all around. War in his eyes now became just a political equation, unbalanced. No wonder he had to be admitted in the psychiatric department of the hospital. His were the same psychic experiences thousands of Viet Nam War Veterans went through decades later. Publication of his poems and experiences in time would have prevented altogether the nightmare we called Viet Nam and resulted in the governments’ adopting a more humane attitude towards soldiers. 

Back to regiment from safety, to die with loved friends and comrades.



Even though Owen from his youth very much wished to become a poet and was impressed by the writings of Keats and Shelley, his actual writing of poems which made him world famous were written during the fifteen months he spent in trenches in the war front in 1917 and 1918. The war which once shocked him then seemed to thrill him, the reason for which can be attributed to the poetic sentimentality and recklessness to be with his loved friends and comrades in the war front in the days of their misery. Certainly like all poets or cowards, on regaining health and fitness, he could have left war and lived in security and safety after released from the War Hospital. He indeed had joined or formed an intelligent literary circle there in Edinburgh during the days of his recuperation. But instead, he returned to his regiment, to be killed days later, just before the war ended. In fact, his friends and family were eagerly waiting for his return when the news of truce reached them. The news of his death reached his village on November 11, 1918 along with the bells of armistice and peace. What horrifies us is the vain death of a brilliant poet in duty who filled his poems with the futility of war. It was the sacrifice of a poetical fame for fine citizenry. 

Would Owen have lived longer if he was recognized as a published poet and also given the Military Cross?



Burn crops so that enemy won't eat. Emanuel Leutse 1852.

Rejoining duty on fitness, he was delegated to lead a party to storm the enemy positions in a village in Ors. He seized a German machine gun and used it to kill a number of Germans. He was shot on the bank of a canal and killed while trying to cross the canal, only days before the war ended. He always considered him as a remarkable war poet, who he actually was, but only four of his poems had been printed by any publishers in his life time. That too was only because he happened to be the editor of the magazine The Hydra published by the War Hospital at Craig Lock hart, Edinburgh where he recuperated. And this Hydra Magazine had only a very limited circulation among the patients, doctors, nurses and staff of that hospital, a very discouraging situation for any poet. What would have happened had he not been shell shocked and admitted there but died directly in action? Would fate have changed his destiny if he had been given due recognition as a published war poet by printers…? He always sought in secret the Military Cross for his supremacy as the most talented war poet of his times, but it was awarded only after his death, in 1919. What if Military Cross had been awarded earlier while he lived…? 

Personally manipulated a captured enemy machine gun and inflicted heavy losses on the enemy.


What the other side feels. Horace Vernet 1814.

The citation to the Military Cross awarded to the poet reads: ‘2nd Lt, Wilfred Edward Salter Owen, 5th Battalion. For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty in the attack on the Fonsomme Line on October 1st/2nd, 1918. On the company commander becoming a casualty, he assumed command and showed fine leadership and resisted a heavy counter-attack. He personally manipulated a captured enemy machine gun from an isolated position and inflicted considerable losses on the enemy. Throughout he behaved most gallantly’. Even after this Military Cross awarded for his gallantry, the world was not willing to acknowledge his poetry. Today, Wilfred Owen is a synonym for war poetry but for having been presented with this much fine war literature to read, we owe our debt to his family. He sent 600 letters to his loved mother who kept them all safe, from which was the war front feelings, emotions and experiences of Owen were discerned later. His sister donated these letters to the University of Oxford where people can still see them. His brother collected his manuscripts and helped bringing out his poems as a book. 

Writing boldly about the horrors of war was his catharsis to escape from shell shock trauma.

American Marines in Belleau Woods. Georges Scott 1918.

Was Wilfred Owen overly influenced by friends like Siegfried Sassoon and physicians like Arthur Brock is still a thing of debate, which they did more or less. Sassoon himself was an accomplished poet who advised Owen to abandon the old style he followed since when he was ten years old and turn to more seriously writing about the futility of war. We shall dismiss all critics’ allegations of them sharing an attachment more than manly. Arthur Brock treated him when he was admitted in the War Hospital following shell shock trauma and advised him not to try to forget the horrors of war which haunted his mind, but to go straight continuing to boldly write about them which would serve as his catharsis, a fine clinical advice in those times of Sigmund Freud. Anyway, since joining the army and fighting in the front line, we see a dramatic change in the poetic style of Owen. Every soldier who took part in the world war underwent war horrors and trauma which went untold in the chronicles of historians. With Owen putting them into words after actually experiencing them, recorded them in livid humility for future generations to see and evaluate in times to come.

World War started with liberation, and ended with cessation, annexation and colonization.


The dead soldier. Joseph Wright of Derby 1789.

Liberation of Belgium was the objective with which the First World War started but war politics soon turned into the objective of grabbing colonies for future which the civilians did not recognize but poets like Wilfred Owens and philosophers like Bertrand Russell did, and they reacted through their writings to rouse civilian conscience. Theirs was not blind rage against wars but mature protest against abandoning the honoured causes of war and turning to use war to grab colonies. Owen’s poem ‘The Strange Meeting’ even went to creating the extreme human situation of a dead American soldier meeting a dead German soldier whom he had killed and listening to his version of the war, the enemy finally becoming a friend. 

The frontline picture painted by Wilfred Owen in The Send- Off.



What is left of a war. Juan Manuel Blanes 1879.
  
Publishers of his times ignored him, perhaps due to their inability to cope with or even go through the great quantity of war poetry poured in each day. He, as an acclaimed poet and as a civil servant dedicated to those soldiers under his care, wanted only for his poems to be read by all and the people to open their eyes to the futility and horrors of war. Who can say this brilliant young man who sacrificed his life for his country would try to limit the circulation of his poems by wishing not to be read here again? We think it only just and fair to include his lines here, without which this appreciation won’t be complete or contained. See the front line picture painted by Wilfred Owen in The Send-Off. 


THE SEND- OFF * WILFRED OWEN


Down the close, darkening lanes they sang their way

To the siding-shed,
And lined the train with faces grimly gay.
Their breasts were stuck all white with wreath and spray
As men's are, dead.

Dull porters watched them, and a casual tramp

Stood staring hard,
Sorry to miss them from the upland camp.
Then, unmoved, signals nodded, and a lamp
Winked to the guard.

So secretly, like wrongs hushed-up, they went.

They were not ours:
We never heard to which front these were sent.
Nor there if they yet mock what women meant
Who gave them flowers.

Shall they return to beatings of great bells

In wild trainloads?
A few, a few, too few for drums and yells,
May creep back, silent, to still village wells
Up half-known roads.




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Pictures Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
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Comments
Sivaramakrishnan A
18th Jan 2013 (#)



My fervent hope and prayers are for war and strife to end. Am I being idealistic? So be it! We have come thus far and we know wars kill and affect the most innocent. The heroes who are decorated for bravery also end up with mental anguish at being part of the insane violence. I believe few start wars and incite their citizens. With the help of technology the majority should unite and not fall into their vicious hands time and time again. Like a World War veteran reminisced - what use a piece of paper of peace in the end for those who are killed and maimed? Thanks for this wonderful post - siva 

PSRemeshChandra
30th Jan 2013 (#)



War is an unnecessary expense in which nations waste resources and innumerable units of precious time and man power. To defeat another country, we spend unimaginably huge sums of money. Most often those countries could be bought with only a fraction of this money. Such futile and waste is war because it never improves mankind. Thank you dear Sivaramakrishnan A for your informative and inspiring note. 

Md Rezaul Karim
20th Jan 2013 (#)

Wow! what a nice piece of article to read, wonderfully attached paintings and pictures. Thank you Ramesh ji.


PSRemeshChandra
30th Jan 2013 (#)


When I saw these paintings and pictures for the first time, I thought they were waiting for the right literary creation. Wilfred Owen's Send Off suited them most. I am immensely thankful to those painters and photographers who were moved like Owen by the horrors of war, to create these masterpieces. I hope the painters, photographers and the poet would supplement each other. Thank you dear Md Rezaul Karim for caring to leave a comment.

Madan G Singh
22nd Jan 2013 (#)

A wonderful post. You have put in a lot of effort. Congratulations

PSRemeshChandra
30th Jan 2013 (#)



When I read your articles in Wikinut, I feel the same as you noted here. What can I say when a compliment comes my way from an accomplished writer like you? Thank you dear Madan G Singh. 

Sivaramakrishnan A
31st Jan 2013 (#)


Thank you RameshChandra. It is time war and violence are removed from the face of the earth. What use making all the arms for them to fall into "wrong" hands! What use a piece of peace treaty for those killed, maimed and orphaned? Even the survivors and victors carry severe scars mentally. Politicians start the war making use of the innocent people creating hatred. And the less said about religious fanatics of all hues the better - all Gods can defend themselves, thank you! They don't need our help! Best regards – siva.

Madan G Singh
1st Feb 2013 (#)

Thank you for the nice words, but I feel I am ordinary. But I really appreciate your writing.







Friday, March 16, 2012

017. The Lotos-Eaters. Tennyson. Appreciation By P S Remesh Chandran

017.

The Lotos-Eaters. Alfred Lord Tennyson Poem. Appreciation By P S Remesh Chandran

 
Editor, Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum


 Image By Amanda Phung. Graphics: Adobe SP
 
First published: 24th Apr 2011.

 
The great veil of Victorian hypocrisy was lifted by Alfred Lord Tennyson and was shown to the world the lovely English mind behind it that was his. The Lotos-Eaters is the world’s greatest poetical experiment synchronizing sublime music with the changing moods and fancies of the exotic, psychedelic intoxication of a band of marine soldiers marooned on an island that nowhere existed. 

Failure of musical geniuses in exactly imitating changing moods of the exotically intoxicated.

Alfred Lord Tennyson was a Nineteenth century English poet. He is considered the greatest poet and true representative of the Victorian Era. In Memoriam was his masterpiece. The Lotos-Eaters is a memorable poem in which he describes the arrival of Ulysses’ Greek soldiers on the island of Lotos Eaters. They are a lazy philosophic lot who do not like hard labour of any kind. Once the sailors in the ship are given the Lotos fruit, leaf and stem and they have eaten them, they too are such transformed that they no more wish to sea-travel and see their homes. Sublime music and selected words create an atmosphere of languor, laziness and sleepiness in the poem which is Tennyson’s unique achievement and craftsmanship. This is the poem in which Tennyson experimented with music changing with the moods of each action, each bit of music perfectly reflecting the corresponding change in mood. Attempts to perfectly orchestrate this song have more or less failed through years due to failure of musical geniuses in exactly imitating the changing mind and moods of the exotically and psychedelically intoxicated. 
A land of mountains, rivers, valleys, wind and waves, and Lotos plants. 

A portrait of Baron Alfred Lord Tennyson.
Greek hero Ulysses and his band of soldiers had spent ten years in the Trojan War. Returning home they were lost in the sea and had to spend a few more years in roaming the sea. At last they sighted land. It was the land of Lotos Eaters. From the height of their anchored ship they could see far into the interior of the island. It was an island of mountains, rivers, valleys, wind and waves. Streams and falls were everywhere. Green woods and meadows ornamented plains and hills. It was a land where all things always seemed the same. No signs of cultivation or other human activities were to be seen anywhere there.
 
Lotos: Personification of exotic, psychedelic intoxication of human mind. 

Then the mild and melancholy eyed island dwellers appeared and they silently approached the ship. They bore branches, leaves and stems of that enchanted plant of Lotos as presentations to visitors to their island from which they gave to each. Before Ulysses could prevent, his soldiers one and all had eaten them. Once they tasted this magical herb their attitudes and outlook dramatically changed. The once-courageous and strong mariners and soldiers all seemed tired suddenly. Those famous soldiers who fought bravely beside Ulysses in the fierce Trojan War now no more wish to bear the burden of sailing their ship through turbulent seas. Whoever tasted that magical herb given by those islanders became exactly like them. They seemed to be deep asleep yet all awake. The voices of nearby persons seemed to them thin voices from the depth of grave. Even their own heart beats resounded loudly and musically in their own ears. So now we see the Ulysses’ famous soldiers all sitting on the yellow sand, begin singing a chorus, the likeness of which has never ever been seen anywhere in English literature. All the efforts of their captain, the mighty Ulysses, could not move them an inch or release them from their hallucination and the spell of that magical plant. 

Why sweetness of soul’s music and soothing pleasure of sleep are denied to man?

Path to Tennyson's Monument in the Isle Of Wight.
The mariners who tasted Lotos all became philosophers overnight who begin to worship idleness. Man is the roof and crown of things. He is the first and foremost of things but he alone is destined to toil. He makes perpetual moan in his life and is thrown from one sorrow to another perpetually. Enjoying leisurely the sweetness of his soul’s music and the soothing pleasures of sleep are forbidden to him. Weariness, heaviness and distress weigh him down. Hearing the excellent arguments of the mariners expressed in their chorus will make us wonder at the mathematical perfection of their logic and philosophy. We will be moved to stay with them and approbate their logic verbatim. That is the descriptive skill of Tennyson which made him the prominent poet of his era and after. There has never been a poem describing the attitude towards life and the philosophizing of a unique, exotically and psychedelically intoxicated band of humans more vividly.
 
The leaf and fruit and flower all have their sweet lives; man alone toils.
Tennyson's house in Farringford.
The mariners begin to compare the tediousness of their lives with the easiness and quietness of the lives of leaves, fruits and flowers. They complete the cycles of their simple lives without any toil. Leaves open, grow and fall gently. The ripe fruits drop silently in autumn nights. Whereas man is a traveller and roamer, flowers are fast-rooted in their fertile soil. Flowers enjoy their allotted length of days, bloom and fade and fall, without toil. But man is the only being that is seen to be toiling in one way or another, in the fields, forests or oceans. Time driveth onward fast and in little time man’s life period is expired. Whatever man achieves is taken from him to become portions and parcels of a dreadful past which we commonly call history. All things under the Sun have rest except man. Therefore the mariners are not going to mount the rolling waves and travel any more. They want to stay forever on the island. After listening to their arguments we will be tempted to do nothing but agree. 

Why return after years like apparitions to their native island of chaos?
Freshwater Bay seen from Afton Down.
But Ulysses was a very persuasive person. He used every trick and argument in his quiver to tempt his mariners to return to Ithaca. But they warn their captain that it would not be wise for them to return to their island home of Ithaca. Everything might have changed there. Their sons would have inherited them after all these years. The returning ancestors would only be viewed as ghosts and apparitions come to trouble their joy. Or else the over-bold island princes of Ithaca, fearing no return of the heroes might have married their wives and spent their fortunes. Their great deeds in wars would have been half-forgotten, sung only in songs. Even if they are lucky and oriented enough to return to their land, it would be harder still to please their gods after all these years and settle order once again in their island. So why not spend the rest of their lives in this quiet island of Lotos and enjoy sleep and laziness to their fill? How can even a very persuasive person counter, in the face of this unbroken torrent of reasons? 

Mariners declining to resume travel: the dread of all sea-going captains.
Coastal path to Tennyson's Monument.
These instances were not uncommon in the days of the rowing sea ship travels. They were the dread of every captain. Crew may refuse to move on after months of tiresome travels and incline to stay for ever in a new found land. A sailor’s life is a life of action. The mariners here have had enough of action and of motion in their lives. They had been constantly rolling to the starboard and larboard sides of the ship as it swayed left and right on the surging waves. The deep sea where the wallowing monster that is the whale spouted his foam-fountain had been their home and playground for too long. Now that is past and enough. They are tired of the sea and now they are inclined only to live and lie reclined in the hollow Lotos Land forever. 

Gods lying together happily on their hills, careless and fearless of mankind!


When man does not obey, the clever will threaten him with the consequences of antagonizing their gods. As a last resort Ulysses seems to have done this, because now begins their discourse which, if he had had an opportunity to listen to, might have converted even the most firm believer into an atheist. When sensations and feelings were divided between man and gods, miseries were reserved for man while pleasures went to gods. Man suffers much in this world. Blight, famine, fire and earthquake, ocean flood and desert heat are all his lot. Man sows the seed, reaps the harvest and toils endlessly till his death. He stores wheat and wine and oil for his future but he has no future as he is most often withdrawn silently without notice from this world. Even after death he is doomed to suffer in hell. Man’s sorrowful songs of lamentation steam up to gods’ abode in heaven, like tales of little meaning though the words are strong. But listening to them, gods find music in his woes and laugh. It is the gods who are responsible for man’s sorrow. But they act indifferent to man. They lie together happily on their hills, careless and fearless of mankind. They keep their divine food nectar always close to them; what else do they do except relishing and draining it? They hurl their thunder bolts at man far below craving in the valleys, which is a joke to them. They sit in their golden houses surrounded by clouds and smile at the misery of man far below. All arguments of their captain were blunted by the magnificent and sincere defense of the mariners. Tennyson in the poem does not tell us whether their captain was finally able and eloquent enough to persuade his soldiers to return to their home land, but history does.

Image By Claudio Schwarz. Graphics: Adobe SP





 

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Pictures Courtesy: Wikimedia Commons
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Tags
Alfred Lord Tennyson, Appreciations, British Poets, English Language And Literature, English Literature, English Poems, English Songs, Literary Criticism, P S Remesh Chandran, Poems, Poetry Reviews, Sahyadri Books And Bloom Books Trivandrum, Songs, The Lotos-Eaters, Victorian Poets
 

Meet the author
PSRemeshChandra
Editor of Sahyadri Books & Bloom Books, Trivandrum. Author of several books in English and in Malayalam. And also author of Swan : The Intelligent Picture Book. 

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