Aiken's short story "Silent Snow, Secret Snow" is a chilling classic of horror; I'll never forget happening to hear it produced on public broadcasting. Does one need to know the events behind "Morning Song" to fully appreciate it, how as a boy Conrad woke early on a snowy winter morning to discover that his father had fatally shot himself and his mother? Brilliant, his poem "Goya," "Bread and Music," and others. Some lines from "The Nameless Ones"--
Pity the nameless, and the unknown, where
bitter in heart they wait on the stonebuilt stair,
This one is new to me. And it feels very personal, taking me back to some moments in childhood. not just the L'Engle title, but also the chinaberry tree. We had a chinaberry tree in the house we lived in until the time I was 12. It was a kind of tree that never appeared in the books I read and that no one else seemed to know. So it felt special. My tree. And it was one of the only trees I knew whose leaves actually turned a bright color in the fall. Austin, Texas doesn't have many of those.
I'm also rocking my brain as to why the name Conrad Aiken is striking a chord in my head. I'm pretty sure it's not for his poetry. But I'm not sure why his name is rattling around in there. Maybe eventually it will come out.
I was just going to suggest that it might have been in the context of your JPo project! He was pretty prolific as a critic, though I haven't really read his critical work --- and I don't recall ever reading his fiction, either.
I encountered this poem in some anthology long long ago and thought "here's a poem I love and probably a poet I will love," and there was a bit of anticipated snobbery in it, because I thought I would be a smart fellow who appreciated a neglected artist. But the few additional poems that I found didn't seem to be in the same class as this one. Which, reading it now after many years, I was right to love.
Yes, I'm reading the whole sequence now, a little at a time, and I can see, even a little way in, why this is the one with staying power. I do like these poems overall, and the "Evening Song" seems particularly a conversation with J.Alfred Prufrock:
No silver bells are heard. The westering moon
Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea.
Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools
Left on the rocks by the receding sea
Starfish slowly turn their white and brown
Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown.
Do sea-girls haunt these caves — do we hear faint singing?
Do we hear from under the sea a thin bell ringing ?
Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles
And fallen softly back?
No, these shores and caverns all are silent . . .
But then there keep being unicorns, which do not exist in the Prufrock universe.
But there are such beautiful phrases, all throughout.
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening
The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light,
Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still.
The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the
darkness,
Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground.
The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf,
Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound.
But then things go off into these flights of fancy, with unicorns and sea-maidens --- beautiful language, but it all starts to feel a little too . . . something. Effortfully enchanted, maybe, though I think the whole point is the disenchantment of the world. What I like about the "Morning Song" is that as big as its field of vision is, it's always seeing things that are definitely there (though it seems to have its doubts about the god among the stars).
By the way, I am reliably informed, just now, that I'm wrong about Tichborne --- that he did write other poems. I had thought in error that this one set of deathbed verses was the only thing we had from him, but apparently this is not so.
The other day you or Joseph explained here a bit about choosing the poems for each day, in particular, the way you try to choose some that are familiar to your readers. As I have such a sparse poetry background, that is very rarely the case for me, leaving me with the delight of new experiences with each post.
Today's poem reads for me like one that I have known before even though I know that I have not. There is a wonderful measure of familiarity to the thought of waking up, starting the day, and having one's thoughts drift between the mundane and the awe of our existence. Thanks for this one.
I know I joked to someone the other day that our basic paradigm is "A-sides, obscurities, and funny stuff." But the truth is that one person's A-side is inevitably going to be somebody else's obscurity, and what I think is funny might not amuse the next person at all. You never know how something's going to land --- which is sometimes anxious-making, but usually part of the fun.
And yes, a poem new to you can still feel familiar, maybe because bits and pieces of other things are in it, and bits and pieces of it are in other things (like the title of Madeleine L'Engle's A Swiftly Tilting Planet), and if it's any good at all, it's holding up some kind of mirror of what it is to be human, which may strike us as deeply familiar in ways we maybe can't readily explain.
Ha! I didn't know the Starbuck poem, but that seems both brilliant and pretty on the money. Yes, poor Aiken. I've just been reading the whole Senlin sequence, having pulled it up to write this essay, and not having read it all before. I like it quite a lot, and I keep wondering if that's because I'm a sap, or what. But I do like it.
The link to The Charnel Rose in the essay takes you to the Internet Archive listing for it --- you can download a scanned pdf of the 1918 book, so you can see how the poems actually appeared on the page, which is nice. Not as nice as holding the physical book, but it suffices for me for now.
Aiken's short story "Silent Snow, Secret Snow" is a chilling classic of horror; I'll never forget happening to hear it produced on public broadcasting. Does one need to know the events behind "Morning Song" to fully appreciate it, how as a boy Conrad woke early on a snowy winter morning to discover that his father had fatally shot himself and his mother? Brilliant, his poem "Goya," "Bread and Music," and others. Some lines from "The Nameless Ones"--
Pity the nameless, and the unknown, where
bitter in heart they wait on the stonebuilt stair,
bend to a wall, forgotten, the freezing wind
no bitterer than the suburbs of the mind;
who from an iron porch lift sightless eyes,
a moment, hopeless, to inflaming skies;
shrink from the light as quickly as from pain,
twist round a corner, bend to the wall again;
. . .
the fierce, the solitary, divine of heart,
passionate present, yet godlike and apart;
who, in the midst of traffic, see a vision;
This one is new to me. And it feels very personal, taking me back to some moments in childhood. not just the L'Engle title, but also the chinaberry tree. We had a chinaberry tree in the house we lived in until the time I was 12. It was a kind of tree that never appeared in the books I read and that no one else seemed to know. So it felt special. My tree. And it was one of the only trees I knew whose leaves actually turned a bright color in the fall. Austin, Texas doesn't have many of those.
I'm also rocking my brain as to why the name Conrad Aiken is striking a chord in my head. I'm pretty sure it's not for his poetry. But I'm not sure why his name is rattling around in there. Maybe eventually it will come out.
His daughter was Joan Aiken, who wrote The Wolves of Willoughby Chase --- could that be it?
No it’s definitely Conrad. And I feel like maybe I read something by him while at UD. Maybe one of those “critical studies”? Hmm.
Maybe in connection with my Eliot researches?
https://tseliot.com/people-in-his-life/conrad-aiken
I was just going to suggest that it might have been in the context of your JPo project! He was pretty prolific as a critic, though I haven't really read his critical work --- and I don't recall ever reading his fiction, either.
I encountered this poem in some anthology long long ago and thought "here's a poem I love and probably a poet I will love," and there was a bit of anticipated snobbery in it, because I thought I would be a smart fellow who appreciated a neglected artist. But the few additional poems that I found didn't seem to be in the same class as this one. Which, reading it now after many years, I was right to love.
Yes, I'm reading the whole sequence now, a little at a time, and I can see, even a little way in, why this is the one with staying power. I do like these poems overall, and the "Evening Song" seems particularly a conversation with J.Alfred Prufrock:
No silver bells are heard. The westering moon
Lights the pale floors of caverns by the sea.
Wet weed hangs on the rock. In shimmering pools
Left on the rocks by the receding sea
Starfish slowly turn their white and brown
Or writhe on the naked rocks and drown.
Do sea-girls haunt these caves — do we hear faint singing?
Do we hear from under the sea a thin bell ringing ?
Was that a white hand lifted among the bubbles
And fallen softly back?
No, these shores and caverns all are silent . . .
But then there keep being unicorns, which do not exist in the Prufrock universe.
But there are such beautiful phrases, all throughout.
It is evening, Senlin says, and in the evening
The leaves on the trees, abandoned by the light,
Look to the earth, and whisper, and are still.
The bat with horned wings, tumbling through the
darkness,
Breaks the web, and the spider falls to the ground.
The starry dewdrop gathers upon the oakleaf,
Clings to the edge, and falls without a sound.
But then things go off into these flights of fancy, with unicorns and sea-maidens --- beautiful language, but it all starts to feel a little too . . . something. Effortfully enchanted, maybe, though I think the whole point is the disenchantment of the world. What I like about the "Morning Song" is that as big as its field of vision is, it's always seeing things that are definitely there (though it seems to have its doubts about the god among the stars).
By the way, I am reliably informed, just now, that I'm wrong about Tichborne --- that he did write other poems. I had thought in error that this one set of deathbed verses was the only thing we had from him, but apparently this is not so.
The other day you or Joseph explained here a bit about choosing the poems for each day, in particular, the way you try to choose some that are familiar to your readers. As I have such a sparse poetry background, that is very rarely the case for me, leaving me with the delight of new experiences with each post.
Today's poem reads for me like one that I have known before even though I know that I have not. There is a wonderful measure of familiarity to the thought of waking up, starting the day, and having one's thoughts drift between the mundane and the awe of our existence. Thanks for this one.
I know I joked to someone the other day that our basic paradigm is "A-sides, obscurities, and funny stuff." But the truth is that one person's A-side is inevitably going to be somebody else's obscurity, and what I think is funny might not amuse the next person at all. You never know how something's going to land --- which is sometimes anxious-making, but usually part of the fun.
And yes, a poem new to you can still feel familiar, maybe because bits and pieces of other things are in it, and bits and pieces of it are in other things (like the title of Madeleine L'Engle's A Swiftly Tilting Planet), and if it's any good at all, it's holding up some kind of mirror of what it is to be human, which may strike us as deeply familiar in ways we maybe can't readily explain.
I'd forgotten how great this poem is!
Also, makes me think of George Starbuck's amusing double dactyl:
SAID
J. Alfred Prufrock to
Hugh Selwyn Mauberly,
“What ever happened to
Senlin? Ought-nine.”
“One with the passion for
Orientalia?”
“Rather.” “Lost track of him.”
“Pity.” “Design.”
Poor Aiken!
Ha! I didn't know the Starbuck poem, but that seems both brilliant and pretty on the money. Yes, poor Aiken. I've just been reading the whole Senlin sequence, having pulled it up to write this essay, and not having read it all before. I like it quite a lot, and I keep wondering if that's because I'm a sap, or what. But I do like it.
I haven't read it all but I think now I will.
The link to The Charnel Rose in the essay takes you to the Internet Archive listing for it --- you can download a scanned pdf of the 1918 book, so you can see how the poems actually appeared on the page, which is nice. Not as nice as holding the physical book, but it suffices for me for now.
This is one of my favorites so far. Thank you.