Sidney Lanier: The Marshes of Glynn
I just wrote here, in reference to poetry: I don't care about form: I care about the musical properties of rhythm, pattern, and silence. Those concerns can lead to generating form. But form is musical, generative, organic. It comes out of the poem itself, rather than being imposed upon the form beforehand.
In saying this, I realize that I have now come full circle, across decades of involvement with poetry, to one of the original reasons I was drawn to poetry. I have also come full circle to one of the poets who spoke most to me of poetry's music, when I was still in my teens, still discovering all this: Sidney Lanier.
Sidney Lanier was born in Georgia in 1842. During the Civil War, he was captured and interred, during which he contracted tuberculosis, which he suffered from until his death in 1881. (Those of us who suffer from chronic illnesses can perhaps imagine what this must have been like, if only to some small extent.) After the War, he became a professional musician. He had a native talent for playing the concert flute, which he developed with practice and learning to read music. He became famous as a concert flutist, and also as a composer/performer of show pieces for his instrument.
(To a composer, in case you didn't know, a "show piece" is a piece of technically challenging music designed to show off a performer's high level of skill, and also what the instrument is capable of doing in the right hands. Most of Franz Liszt's famous pieces for piano and orchestra are show pieces. Many composers don't take show pieces very seriously, because while they're technically challenging they're not always very heartfelt; but they serve their purpose. For my own music, I do have a history of pushing the performers past their technical comfort zones, into more challenging material; I've written a four-movement suite for solo flute that pushes the technical challenges rather far, while I hope still being musical rather than merely showy.)
In 1876, Lanier was commissioned and wrote The Centennial Meditation of Columbia, an oratorio for the nation's centennial celebrations.
In order to support his family, Lanier wrote poetry, mostly for magazine publication. He also wrote versions of the myths and legends of English history, such as The Boy's King Arthur, which were immensely popular well into the early 20th C.
His poetry was strongly influenced by Anglo-Saxon forms of poetry, and his particular style is intensely musical, lyrical, rhythmic, and sensual. It is rather different from most other Victorian poetry in that was no slave to either poetic form or to the common metric straightjacket of iambic pentameter.
Lanier wrote out his poetic theories—which are musical theories of poetics—in critical volumes such as The Science of English Verse. For me, his most important literary-critical work was: Music and poetry: essays upon some aspects and inter-relations of the two arts. I first read this volume in my twenties, and I was very much interested in it as a composer as well as a writer. I found that his ideas about musical melody and harmony were very much of his time, and not directly relevant to my more contemporary musical language. But the book nonetheless strongly influence my thinking, especially with regards to thinking musically about poetry.
Essentially, and this is very much a musician's view, Lanier opines that poetry is an art subservient to music. That's a composer's viewpoint. I find it congenial because I share it. I am not A Poet as those are who when life's experience urges them to respond artistically, immediately think in words. Words are not my first, most basic response; in fact, I know well how words can limit or even betray the evocation of experience. Words are often inadequate containers for emotion and experience, and fall far short of being able to contain or describe life. The artfulness of words comes in the ways poetry can be made to transcend ordinary words alone. Words come after sounds and images for me. A lot of my poems are soundtracks; a lot of my poems are recordings of images seen on the mind's inner eye. I care little for the manipulation of words as an artform purely made up of words. I care even less for poetic formalism. But I do care about poetry's musical possibilities. A lot of my poems use non-normative syntax and grammar in musical ways.
So I have come full circle with the admission that I don't care about form in poetry: I care about poetry's music. Its musicality, the musical way it works, the musical shapes and gestures and forms it can assume. Poetry must work equally well for me when read aloud as when read on the page; both are essential aspects of the poem, its sound as well as its look and its component typography and orthography.
Here's an image-collage of the first two pages of The Marshes of Glynn, from an edition of Lanier's Hymns to the Marshes.
And here is the poem, in all its music. Look for the musical line, the repetition, the rhythm and melody, all of which follow Lanier's own theories of musical composition in poetry. And do yourself a favor, and read at least the beginning of the poem out loud.
•
The Marshes of Glynn
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,--
Emerald twilights,--
Virginal shy lights,
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows,
When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods,
Of the heavenly woods and glades,
That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn;--
Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire,--
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire,
Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves,--
Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves,
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood,
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good;--
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine,
While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine;
But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest,
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West,
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream,--
Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak,
And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke
Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low,
And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know,
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within,
That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore,
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,--
Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face
The vast sweet visage of space.
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn,
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn,
For a mete and a mark
To the forest-dark:--
So:
Affable live-oak, leaning low,--
Thus--with your favor--soft, with a reverent hand,
(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!)
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand
On the firm-packed sand,
Free
By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea.
Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band
Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land.
Inward and outward to northward and southward the beachlines linger and curl
As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl.
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight,
Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light
And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high?
The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!
A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain,
To the terminal blue of the main.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free.
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin,
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies:
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea
Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be:
Look how the grace of the sea doth go
About and about through the intricate channels that flow
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes,
And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose-and-silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun!
The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run
'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir;
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr;
Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run;
And the sea and the marsh are one.
How still the plains of the waters be!
The tide is in his ecstasy.
The tide is at his highest height:
And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep
Roll in on the souls of men,
But who will reveal to our waking ken
The forms that swim and the shapes that creep
Under the waters of sleep?
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in
On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.
(Baltimore, 1878)
In saying this, I realize that I have now come full circle, across decades of involvement with poetry, to one of the original reasons I was drawn to poetry. I have also come full circle to one of the poets who spoke most to me of poetry's music, when I was still in my teens, still discovering all this: Sidney Lanier.
Sidney Lanier was born in Georgia in 1842. During the Civil War, he was captured and interred, during which he contracted tuberculosis, which he suffered from until his death in 1881. (Those of us who suffer from chronic illnesses can perhaps imagine what this must have been like, if only to some small extent.) After the War, he became a professional musician. He had a native talent for playing the concert flute, which he developed with practice and learning to read music. He became famous as a concert flutist, and also as a composer/performer of show pieces for his instrument.
(To a composer, in case you didn't know, a "show piece" is a piece of technically challenging music designed to show off a performer's high level of skill, and also what the instrument is capable of doing in the right hands. Most of Franz Liszt's famous pieces for piano and orchestra are show pieces. Many composers don't take show pieces very seriously, because while they're technically challenging they're not always very heartfelt; but they serve their purpose. For my own music, I do have a history of pushing the performers past their technical comfort zones, into more challenging material; I've written a four-movement suite for solo flute that pushes the technical challenges rather far, while I hope still being musical rather than merely showy.)
In 1876, Lanier was commissioned and wrote The Centennial Meditation of Columbia, an oratorio for the nation's centennial celebrations.
In order to support his family, Lanier wrote poetry, mostly for magazine publication. He also wrote versions of the myths and legends of English history, such as The Boy's King Arthur, which were immensely popular well into the early 20th C.
His poetry was strongly influenced by Anglo-Saxon forms of poetry, and his particular style is intensely musical, lyrical, rhythmic, and sensual. It is rather different from most other Victorian poetry in that was no slave to either poetic form or to the common metric straightjacket of iambic pentameter.
Lanier wrote out his poetic theories—which are musical theories of poetics—in critical volumes such as The Science of English Verse. For me, his most important literary-critical work was: Music and poetry: essays upon some aspects and inter-relations of the two arts. I first read this volume in my twenties, and I was very much interested in it as a composer as well as a writer. I found that his ideas about musical melody and harmony were very much of his time, and not directly relevant to my more contemporary musical language. But the book nonetheless strongly influence my thinking, especially with regards to thinking musically about poetry.
Essentially, and this is very much a musician's view, Lanier opines that poetry is an art subservient to music. That's a composer's viewpoint. I find it congenial because I share it. I am not A Poet as those are who when life's experience urges them to respond artistically, immediately think in words. Words are not my first, most basic response; in fact, I know well how words can limit or even betray the evocation of experience. Words are often inadequate containers for emotion and experience, and fall far short of being able to contain or describe life. The artfulness of words comes in the ways poetry can be made to transcend ordinary words alone. Words come after sounds and images for me. A lot of my poems are soundtracks; a lot of my poems are recordings of images seen on the mind's inner eye. I care little for the manipulation of words as an artform purely made up of words. I care even less for poetic formalism. But I do care about poetry's musical possibilities. A lot of my poems use non-normative syntax and grammar in musical ways.
So I have come full circle with the admission that I don't care about form in poetry: I care about poetry's music. Its musicality, the musical way it works, the musical shapes and gestures and forms it can assume. Poetry must work equally well for me when read aloud as when read on the page; both are essential aspects of the poem, its sound as well as its look and its component typography and orthography.
Here's an image-collage of the first two pages of The Marshes of Glynn, from an edition of Lanier's Hymns to the Marshes.
And here is the poem, in all its music. Look for the musical line, the repetition, the rhythm and melody, all of which follow Lanier's own theories of musical composition in poetry. And do yourself a favor, and read at least the beginning of the poem out loud.
•
The Marshes of Glynn
Glooms of the live-oaks, beautiful-braided and woven
With intricate shades of the vines that myriad-cloven
Clamber the forks of the multiform boughs,--
Emerald twilights,--
Virginal shy lights,
Wrought of the leaves to allure to the whisper of vows,
When lovers pace timidly down through the green colonnades
Of the dim sweet woods, of the dear dark woods,
Of the heavenly woods and glades,
That run to the radiant marginal sand-beach within
The wide sea-marshes of Glynn;--
Beautiful glooms, soft dusks in the noon-day fire,--
Wildwood privacies, closets of lone desire,
Chamber from chamber parted with wavering arras of leaves,--
Cells for the passionate pleasure of prayer to the soul that grieves,
Pure with a sense of the passing of saints through the wood,
Cool for the dutiful weighing of ill with good;--
O braided dusks of the oak and woven shades of the vine,
While the riotous noon-day sun of the June-day long did shine
Ye held me fast in your heart and I held you fast in mine;
But now when the noon is no more, and riot is rest,
And the sun is a-wait at the ponderous gate of the West,
And the slant yellow beam down the wood-aisle doth seem
Like a lane into heaven that leads from a dream,--
Ay, now, when my soul all day hath drunken the soul of the oak,
And my heart is at ease from men, and the wearisome sound of the stroke
Of the scythe of time and the trowel of trade is low,
And belief overmasters doubt, and I know that I know,
And my spirit is grown to a lordly great compass within,
That the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn
Will work me no fear like the fear they have wrought me of yore
When length was fatigue, and when breadth was but bitterness sore,
And when terror and shrinking and dreary unnamable pain
Drew over me out of the merciless miles of the plain,--
Oh, now, unafraid, I am fain to face
The vast sweet visage of space.
To the edge of the wood I am drawn, I am drawn,
Where the gray beach glimmering runs, as a belt of the dawn,
For a mete and a mark
To the forest-dark:--
So:
Affable live-oak, leaning low,--
Thus--with your favor--soft, with a reverent hand,
(Not lightly touching your person, Lord of the land!)
Bending your beauty aside, with a step I stand
On the firm-packed sand,
Free
By a world of marsh that borders a world of sea.
Sinuous southward and sinuous northward the shimmering band
Of the sand-beach fastens the fringe of the marsh to the folds of the land.
Inward and outward to northward and southward the beachlines linger and curl
As a silver-wrought garment that clings to and follows the firm sweet limbs of a girl.
Vanishing, swerving, evermore curving again into sight,
Softly the sand-beach wavers away to a dim gray looping of light
And what if behind me to westward the wall of the woods stands high?
The world lies east: how ample, the marsh and the sea and the sky!
A league and a league of marsh-grass, waist-high, broad in the blade,
Green, and all of a height, and unflecked with a light or a shade,
Stretch leisurely off, in a pleasant plain,
To the terminal blue of the main.
Oh, what is abroad in the marsh and the terminal sea?
Somehow my soul seems suddenly free.
From the weighing of fate and the sad discussion of sin,
By the length and the breadth and the sweep of the marshes of Glynn.
Ye marshes, how candid and simple and nothing-withholding and free
Ye publish yourselves to the sky and offer yourselves to the sea!
Tolerant plains, that suffer the sea and the rains and the sun,
Ye spread and span like the catholic man who hath mightily won
God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain
And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.
As the marsh-hen secretly builds on the watery sod,
Behold I will build me a nest on the greatness of God:
I will fly in the greatness of God as the marsh-hen flies
In the freedom that fills all the space 'twixt the marsh and the skies:
By so many roots as the marsh-grass sends in the sod
I will heartily lay me a-hold on the greatness of God:
Oh, like to the greatness of God is the greatness within
The range of the marshes, the liberal marshes of Glynn.
And the sea lends large, as the marsh: lo, out of his plenty the sea
Pours fast: full soon the time of the flood-tide must be:
Look how the grace of the sea doth go
About and about through the intricate channels that flow
Here and there,
Everywhere,
Till his waters have flooded the uttermost creeks and the low-lying lanes,
And the marsh is meshed with a million veins,
That like as with rosy and silvery essences flow
In the rose-and-silver evening glow.
Farewell, my lord Sun!
The creeks overflow: a thousand rivulets run
'Twixt the roots of the sod; the blades of the marsh-grass stir;
Passeth a hurrying sound of wings that westward whirr;
Passeth, and all is still; and the currents cease to run;
And the sea and the marsh are one.
How still the plains of the waters be!
The tide is in his ecstasy.
The tide is at his highest height:
And it is night.
And now from the Vast of the Lord will the waters of sleep
Roll in on the souls of men,
But who will reveal to our waking ken
The forms that swim and the shapes that creep
Under the waters of sleep?
And I would I could know what swimmeth below when the tide comes in
On the length and the breadth of the marvellous marshes of Glynn.
(Baltimore, 1878)
Labels: Appreciations, music, poetry, Sidney Lanier
posted by Art Durkee at 9:09 PM
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