Poetry
as Prayer: The Vertical Address as Considered in Three Distinct Voices.
by
Mary-Catherine Jones
poem –noun[1]
1. a composition in verse, esp. one
that is characterized by a highly developed artistic form and by the use of
heightened language and rhythm to
express an intensely imaginative interpretation of the subject.
2. composition that, though not in
verse, is characterized by great beauty of
language or expression: a prose poem from the Scriptures; a symphonic poem.
3. something having qualities that are
suggestive of or likened to those of poetry: Marcel, that chicken cacciatore
was an absolute poem.
prayer –noun
1. a devout petition to God or an
object of worship.
2. a spiritual communion with God or
an object of worship, as in supplication, thanksgiving, adoration, or
confession.
3. the act or practice of praying to
God or an object of worship.
4. a formula or sequence of words used
in or appointed for praying: the Lord's
Prayer.
5. prayers, a religious observance,
either public or private, consisting wholly or mainly of prayer.
6. that which is prayed for.
7. a petition; entreaty.
8. the section of a bill in equity, or
of a petition, that sets forth the complaint or the action desired.
9. a negligible hope or chance
utterance–noun
1. an act of uttering; vocal
expression.
2. manner of speaking; power of
speaking: His very utterance was spellbinding.
3. something uttered; a word or words
uttered; a cry, animal's call, or the like.
4. Linguistics. any speech sequence
consisting of one or more words and preceded and followed by silence: it may be
coextensive with a sentence.
Mahatma Gandhi said, “In the attitude of silence the soul finds
the path in a clearer light, and what is elusive and deceptive resolves itself
into crystal clearness. Our life is a long and arduous quest after Truth”. Ironically,
sometimes what is most successful in a poem is its lack of conclusion. Thereby
its searching, its absolute focus—its detail—can become its only outcome. As
Simone Wiel states, “Absolute unmixed attention is prayer”. In each of the
poems considered here, the human being engages in a vertical address—the human
being in the attempt to address the divine by means of an image in a poem. Each
poem is an utterance: “any speech sequence consisting of one or more words and
preceded and followed by silence”. Perhaps most importantly these poems
enable the exploration of human boundaries. Is it that poetry—in the form of
prayer—can transport the human being safely unto death, without end? Let us not
seek to answer this question, so much as to identify connections; leverage
possibilities. In any case it is these moments of attentive reflection—perhaps
of prayer, no matter how brief—that makes each of these three poems similar in
their vertical approach. As Paul Célan once wrote, “Attentiveness is the
natural prayer of the human soul”. The poet
can be read often times, as that someone, that soul, in search of
something. The poem is then an outcome of what was discovered along the
way. In these poems I consider that in each: 1, there is an act of observance
that is then constructed and composed; 2, there is an attitude of silence, and
an uttering made; 3, there is a wanting for more than what is earthly possible.
Here, the rational world of the poetic form—language, the line, syntax,
sentences—gives even a philosophical quandary like ‘mortality’ rules.
Specifically, it is the carefully crafted language, imagery, or unrelated
juxtapositions—that provide known “structures” (even if it’s “free verse”) with
which to test these observances.
First, we will consider John Berryman’s
Eleven Addresses to the Lord, 1. Initially the reader may assume this is a poem
portraying a formal prayer. Why? Well in
the first line the narrator directly addresses his “Master”, and later the
reader is told the poem is literally a “morning prayer”. But Berryman’s
narrator may not be as transparent. Conversely, Malena Morling’s Visiting chooses to disregard the idea
of any religious understatement yet still contains a vertical address in its
reckoning with ‘what is here…and not here’. Philip Larkin’s High Windows is presented as a lyrical[2]
search for a voice—wherein the speaker is quite literally moved to look
up—without necessarily concluding that such a voice is found by the time the
poem ends. I will consider the acute attentiveness to detail—in all three—that moves prose over
to poetry, and in the process, the speaker’s absolute attention elevates the
poems to what many societies identify as prayer. Where Visiting is the account of one human being’s reckoning with the
transcendental, High Windows is one
person’s brief moment of hope for the transience of human existence. Berryman’s
Eleven Addresses to the Lord, 1 finds its impetus in the
more direct form of address, sometimes ironically, but ends in longing for what
could be perceived as the divine.
Berryman’s narrator
addresses what he/she perceives as the divine “Master”, in a prayer of one
person searching one’s own soul. “You have come to my rescue again & again
/ in my impassable, sometimes despairing
years. / You have allowed my brilliant friends to destroy themselves / and I am
still here, severely damaged, but functioning.” Details of the speaker’s
observed natural world lead to recognition of that which is unseen. Further,
Berryman internalizes much of his awe and ironically sets out to “make up a
morning prayer” to a “Master” of whom he questions its very existence. We find
a narrator who commits to details that describe his personal experience, in
order that the Being he does not know may either “rescue” him again at the
least, or best case, provide “enlightenment”. In support of Simone Weil’s idea
of prayer, Berryman’s fixed attention to detail can provide focus for what is
unexplained for the narrator: “craftsman of the snowflake…endower of the Earth
so gorgeous & different from the boring Moon”. This poem almost reads as
one person’s assumption. “I have no idea whether we live again. It doesn’t seem
likely / from either the scientific or the philosophical point of view / but
certainly all things are possible to you…” It’s as though the narrator assumes
that knowing what he does about verse, and, given his observations of the
external world (“as I believe I sit in this blue chair”), the narrator is
somehow challenged to necessarily know his “Master” as well. Yet, doesn’t.
He/she argues with their self. Throughout this first part of the poem, Berryman
is allowing the reader in turn to question along with the narrator. Thereby
whatever conclusion the narrator holds, the reader has at least the capacity to
sympathize along the way.
Immediately
in the first verse, the reader is given detail, if an homage.
Eleven
Addresses to the Lord
1.
Master of beauty,
craftsman of the snowflake,
inimitable contriver,
endower of the Earth so
gorgeous & different from the boring Moon,
thank
you for such as it is my gift. (4)
The narrator is at the least
recognizing “a Being” which he himself cannot comprehend, let alone imitate. A
series of images—increasingly more sensitive by degree—bears witness to this
Master’s ability. “Beauty” escalates to “snowflake”. A comparison of “Earth” is made to “the
boring Moon” as if to place accolades at the feet of this Master ending with a
final gesture of gratitude. Presumably not just for what can be described here
by the speaker, but in fact what the speaker cannot see or explain—or
create—even as imitation.
Composed in eleven parts[3],
this first part is the introduction to what later delves deeper into a person’s
awe—and self-admitted doubt—of the creation of the natural world.
1.
Master of beauty,
craftsman of the snowflake,
inimitable contriver,
endower of the Earth so
gorgeous & different from the boring Moon,
thank
you for such as it is my gift. (4)
I have made up a morning prayer to you
containing with
precision everything that most matters.
‘According to Thy will’ the thing begins.
It took me off & on two days. It does not aim at eloquence. (8)
You have come to my
rescue again & again
in my impassable, sometimes despairing years.
You have allowed my
brilliant friends to destroy themselves
and
I am still here, severely damaged, but functioning. (12)
Unknowable as I am
unknown to my guinea pigs:
how can I ‘love’ you?
I only as far as gratitude
& awe
confidently &
absolutely go. (16)
I have no idea whether
we live again.
It doesn’t seem likely
from either the
scientific or the philosophical point of view
but certainly all things
are possible to you, (20)
and I believe as fixedly
in the Resurrection-appearances to Peter & to Paul
as I believe I sit in
this blue chair.
Only that may have been
a special case
to establish their
initiatory faith. (24)
Whatever your end may
be, accept my amazement.
May I stand until death
forever at attention
for any your least
instruction or enlightenment.
I
even feel sure you will assist me again, Master of insight & beauty. (28)
Noteworthy in detail also is language
of this prayer. Berryman sidesteps imposing form or laborious high-toned
liturgical language, perhaps intentionally by use of poetic devices. While the
narrator calls upon a “Master,” he avoids “thou.” What could unfold to be a
stifling and didactic monologue marries instead “According to Thy will” to “the
thing begins.” What remains instead is an epistle of gratitude and
self-deprecation, complemented by flares of colloquial language.
Finally in line eight the narrator seems to concede; note the use of common
language. The second verse:
I
have made up a morning prayer to you
containing
with precision everything that most matters.
‘According
to Thy will’ the thing begins.
It took me off & on two days. It does not aim at eloquence. (8)
A reading specifically focused on the
content reveals Berryman putting the narrator in the creator’s chair. And now,
if ironically, the reader is made aware of the narrator’s authority as much as
the “Master creator’s.” One reading of this could be: the narrator’s own awe
has inspired his unavoidable urge to create; as if to honor this Master, the
narrator offers up this very talent back to the Creator. Another reading might
find a presumptuous competitive spirit stepping in. The narrator is now, after
an act of awareness and humble gratitude, capable of stepping in the ring.
Berryman’s sixth line goes so far as to fashion this prayer “with precision
everything that matters most.” Audacious it continues with a quote of the
Creator’s own prayer, “According to Thy will”—more comparison. Then, the
imagination capable of cavalier as well as creative, reduces it to “the thing
begins.” Berryman has already warned it is composed with “precision”—yet it
only “took…off & on two days”. If this reading were to continue in the vein
of comparison, creation of the world took the “Master” seven days. Berryman
self-deprecatingly—or with false humility?—states, it’s not supposed to be
“eloquent.” And the speaker is off the hook. Colloquial language accepted. Any
mistakes or lack of eloquence or specificity? The narrator is not to be held
responsible.
The third verse by contrast addresses
the “You” again: “You have come to my rescue again & again / in my impassable, sometimes
despairing years. / You have allowed my brilliant friends to destroy themselves
/ and I am still here, severely damaged, but functioning.” And again, the
narrator acknowledges in earnest, though in more general terms that the
“Master” has been a savior more than once. Note in fact the lack of specificity
in this [italicized] language. Berryman has led the reader to think that each
word has been scribed with “precision.” This is a deliberate voice. Then Line
11 marks a sobering turn. “You have allowed my brilliant friends to destroy
themselves.” The idea of praise runs steadily until this line. It is at this
point that the complexity of Berryman’s narrator is made clear. On the one hand
this is a humbled, brazenly honest seeker of Monotheism. One who admits to his
or her own being that faith in a higher power does not preclude devastating
outcomes. One who acknowledges that in light of this reality, “functioning” may
in fact be the extent to which one’s graces are divulged. Another reading could
discern the calculated, albeit consistent, reproach of a narcissist in the
midst of an accusational throw-down with God. In any case, the reader makes no
mistake this is a person in crisis with his/her own identity. Someone seeking
to penetrate the essence of that which makes them wholly unique—in order to make sense of the world at large.
Berryman’s sentence construction in lines 15,16 nod to the narrator’s near
drowning in tail-spinning doubt. It is also perhaps an inversion of John
Bradford’s last words “There but for the grace of God, go I.”[4] “I
only as far as gratitude & awe / confidently & absolutely go.” (Line
16) While Eleven Addresses
acknowledges some sense of belief in a higher being, it does not risk
alienation of any one particular audience. The poem is harrowingly subjective,
if not flippant at times, in its persistent questioning of a supposed
omniscient being and creator.
This is a casual address in many ways.
The care for details is in fact toward its humanity. While Berryman points to a
prayer composed in only two days, yet with “everything that most matters,” he
includes such commonalities in grammar as the ampersand, versus the written
word “and.” Written in quatrains of variable meter, Berryman strays from
predictable rhythms, or really repetition of any kind. The feeling in these
verses is not studied. The poignancy perhaps in the Address, lies in almost obsequious praise that then shifts to
conceit and ultimate unknowing. The narrator opens certain stanzas with
declarative statements that are then retracted via questioning. An indulgent
tone with echoes of self-effacement almost seem to corner the Addressed. End-stopped
lines and a few enjambed lines offer some insight into the narrator’s
self-assurance. Yet as Berryman states early on with precise detail, the
self-confidence is derived from the very act of creating the prayer. The
struggle could be read to be about disillusionment as a result of this
“knowing” and “not knowing.” Or as line 21 and 22 reveal, this sense of
“believing fixedly” in redemption and the overcoming of death itself and still experiencing grave doubt.
What was an exercise in “precision” and
“everything that most matters,” becomes a summary of generalizations and
pleas—for even the barest, most naked acknowledgement of existence. “Whatever
your end may be, accept my amazement. / May I stand until death forever at
attention / for any your least instruction or enlightenment. / I even feel sure
you will assist me again, Master of insight & beauty.” Vocabulary and
grammar that was initially confident and inviting, then increasingly more
conversational and less structured, returns to slightly more formal
construction. Yet now any palpable confidence the narrator may have is in
concession and acceptance. Berryman’s narrator ends as he/she began. The
circuitous argument with one’s self reaches out still, beyond itself. Unknowing, uncertain, yes; but with “absolute
unmixed attention.” Berryman’s narrator is in awe. The “attentiveness” of this
human soul is perhaps its ultimate “natural prayer.”
Jane Hirschfield makes a case for
“every poem being about the way what transpires between the realm sometimes called
shadow and the realm sometimes called light, ripens us—as human beings, as
readers, as writers—into more fully realized aliveness.” A fine example of a
human being in the very midst of such a realized aliveness, possibly even a
realm of transcendentalism, is Malena Morling’s Visiting.
Morling in her narrator’s beholding,
derives poetry from life-like episodes. Everyday rhetoric is transformed into
poetic voice. Visiting reads more as
a revelation. “In the shape of a human body,” Visiting is a first person account of a human soul literally
“visiting the earth.”
In
the shape of a human body
I
am visiting the earth;
the
trees visit
in
the shape of trees.
Standing
between the onions
and
the dandelions
near
the ailanthus and the bus stop,
I
don’t live more thoroughly
inside
the mucilage of my own skull
than
outside of it
and
not more behind my eyes
than
in what I can see with them.
I
inhale whatever air
the
grates breathe in the street.
My
arms and legs still work,
I
can run if I have to
or
sit motionless purposefully
until
I am here and not here
the
way death is present
in
things that are alive
like
salsa music
and
the shrill laughter of the bride
as
she leaves the wedding
or
the bald child playing jacks
outside
the wigshop.
This is a delicately crafted, first
person utterance using an uncontrived form. It exercises simple vocabulary and
spare punctuation. It possesses an elemental grace. Further, in what could be
construed as an ambiguous, metaphysical, even confessional poem, Morling’s “I”,
almost methodically, instructs the reader. Transcendence is made possible as
Morling’s “I” recognizes, through a series of observations, that the physical
body is merely a medium. The celebration of the self is as vital as death
itself.
In her essay “Facing the Lion,”
Hirschfield says, “What we can do is be willing to see what we do, what we are,
what is around us, and to stake a claim in the marriage of artistic craft to
that unflinching and steadfast looking.” Morling’s marriage of craft to the
unflinching details and images of Visiting,
engages the reader in “steadfast looking” for 25 lines. While its form is
open, in contrast, syntax is uncomplicated. As if Morling has perhaps
determined, the question of mortality, the existential dilemma is complex
enough.
Intellectually, the narrator is
presumably just taking a walk and telling us about it. We are made aware of the
details—all be they unembellished and conversational in tone. Suddenly Morling
is summoning body parts. The mood is quasi-emotionless. Emptiness, a hollowing;
the emotional climate is stripped bare yet the “It is not wanton or cold.
Somehow the illusion of motion is struck. Each noun mentioned becomes a
vehicle. “I don’t live more thoroughly
inside the mucilage of my own skull / than outside of it / and not more behind
my eyes / than in what I can see with them. / I inhale whatever air / the
grates breathe…” Words like “mucilage,” “skull,” “eyes,” dissect the human body
but with a haunting self-awareness. Finally, no longer simply a bare record of
experience, what were before the volte, banal objects and places—onions, a bus
stop, street grates—are at poem’s end, carefully chosen mediums of transport.
It is only because of the speaker’s consciousness of such detail in lines 1-20,
that observations in lines 20-25 impart greater depth. Specifically, in the
first 17 lines, the human body is moving through space, and in time recording
what it is experiencing. “I am visiting… I don’t live…I can see… I inhale…I can
run…until…” the volte. In line 18,
the turn—perhaps even transcendence—occurs: “My arms and legs still work, / I
can run if I have to / or sit motionless purposefully / until I am here and I
am not here / the way death is present / in things that are alive /.” The poem moves from the “I” as the
subject. “Death” in line 19 becomes the subject, “is present”—its verb. The
speaker, “I” has moved beyond itself. Lines 20-25 carry fewer syllables; the
“I” is no longer experiencing life in real-time. Reflection is underway, the
speaker contemplates life in things outside of itself. Death is not a finite
end, but an allowance for unending.
The phrase “…death is present / in things that are alive” for example is a
literal interpretation of this. Perhaps death for the sentient is not to be
defeated, but retold—relived.
Unlike Berryman’s narrator, Morling’s
is no longer searching, but reflecting. Meditations on the revelation of being
human are at work. Similar to Berryman, Morling’s language plays with a modern
sensibility. A closer look reveals simple sentence constructions; not complex,
unwinding monologues of say, an interior heart in high prayer. Also, details
convey more modern day comparisons. Consider this simile: “death is present /
in things that are alive / like salsa music.” Vital, if not the backbone, are
images that inhabit most lines. It’s Morling’s imagery that both grounds and
illuminates this picture of human enlightenment.
Morling’s open verse seems very aware,
both of its working parts and its coherent magnetic energy. However the form is
careful not to interfere: there are no self-consciously overwrought line
breaks; meter is rhythmic but not held to an inherited form. Influences
however, not unlike the Japanese poetry of Basho, are evident in its quietude.
It invites the content to descend, travel and eventually ascend—almost
unnoticed—only to return in the way of other “visitors’’ experiences. Gracefully, the narrator in his/her finite
existence doesn’t sway toward suffocation. Largely due to Morling’s imagery,
there is an expansive tone if anything. Visceral, tangible clues of what the
human body is observing, and where it is in relation, define what could be
amorphous: like “shape” (seen in lines one and four), “Standing between,” “near
the,” “inside of…than outside of,” “not more behind than in.”
Similarly, as readers we might also
consider the form itself as merely a vehicle—for what could be more than a
traditional lyric, or hymn. In this reading, this free verse form, its
elemental, almost naked language and its spare punctuation is reminiscent of
perhaps a child’s prayer. Yet Morling conjures a state of seeming human
maturity for this physical body. The voice of the first person is all the
reader is allowed to know. The individual is rendered universal. Visiting is a study of the influences of
human potential. Implicit it seems, is a desire to elevate the self to its
exalted state where even death is overcome.
An example of Celan’s attentiveness,
it’s the attention paid by the human being that transforms: what could be a
somber road is intuited to be a vivid and
contemplative journey. Morling creates both. Closely related is Keats’
conception of Negative Capability: “when a writer is capable of being in
uncertainties, mysteries, doubts without any irritable reaching after fact
& reason.”[5]
Morling’s gift is perhaps her ability to disassemble a moment and offer it back
to the reader in order that we may see it through an unfiltered lens. For example, lines taken out of
context, “like salsa music,” or “as she leaves the wedding,” could have an
unremarkable impact. Even the somewhat interesting prepositional phrase—and
final line—, “outside the wigshop” could
read as unexciting. As Morling ends the poem without flashy, hyperbolic
language or strenuously considered formal structure, the reader is both voyeur
and participant. In total it’s only four sentences, and Morling enables the reader to simultaneously
climb inside the “visiting” human
body on the page and remain simply a
reader. In effect, the reader is able to accomplish what the speaker asserts: “until
I am here and I am not here.”
This is a different duality than that
which is introduced with Berryman’s narrator. His vertical address of a
narrator to “Master” is absent here. And yet, the idea of humility is not. In
fact one reading might be that Visiting is
predicated upon humility. “In the shape of a human body/ I am visiting the
earth.” And then an unrelated juxtaposition, comparing the human body to the
trees, “the trees visit / in the shape of trees.” Similarly, “I inhale whatever
air / the grates breathe in the street.” While there is direct address to a
higher being in Berryman’s Eleven
Addresses to the Lord, 1, in Visiting,
it is an interference. The narrator is a mere visitor. There are no deeds of ownership; or self-actuated creativity, as
with the narrator in Eleven Addresses. Morling’s
narrator beholds the earth with an almost neo-humanistic appreciation of the
living and inanimate world. But the poem stops short of initiating any social
accountability. This is a personal account. One Celan would perhaps define as
“in its natural state of prayer.” Yet enlightenment is agnostic. There are no
secular pronouncements, no doctrinal addresses as often found in the
archetypical meaning of prayer.
In conclusion, through Morling’s
careful construction of line breaks, elemental language and unobtrusive
punctuation, a poem of 25 unrhymed lines is transformed into a modern
metaphysical account of what it means to be human. As one person’s existential
struggle to “be here,” and “not be here” is revealed, the narrator identifies
both the potential of humanity and its fragility. The narrator is almost
convincing him or herself of this mortal reality—through details of a
primordial experience. Morling tackles the ominous question of how a human
being relates to its biological surroundings head-on. She, and the poem as a
compositional framework, free the narrator from too much exposition. Morling
allows the “I” to wander. The natural state of this soul, in its
“attentiveness,” discovers its own identity. It is in this relationship that
its own utterance can be relevant—and heard. The narrator concludes, through a
series of first person declaratives, that they are in fact a “visitor.” Here
the gift of human reason doesn’t limit the narrator’s experience to only that
which is seen.
Conscious of visceral imagery and
textured language, High Windows is
the sacramental gesture of a narrator who holds nothing sacred. Here, the poet
is in search of the unattainable.
High Windows
When I see a couple of kids
And guess he’s fucking her and she’s
Taking pills or wearing a diaphragm,
I
know this is paradise (4)
Everyone
old has dreamed of all their lives—
Bonds
and gestures pushed to one side
Like
an outdated combine harvester,
And
everyone young going down the long slide
(8)
To
happiness, endlessly. I wonder if
Anyone
looked at me, forty years back,
And
thought, That’ll be the life;
No God any more, or
sweating in the dark (12)
About hell and that, or having to hide
What you think of the
priest. He
And his lot will all go
down the long slide
Like free bloody birds. And
immediately (16)
Rather
than words comes the thought of high windows:
The
sun-comprehending glass,
And
beyond it, the deep blue air, that shows
Nothing,
and is nowhere, and is endless. (20)
Larkin’s tight lines, end-rhymes and
accomplished semi-rhymes ascend for the speaker in lieu of life experience
itself. This is a man (as line 14 suggests) who is isolated, hyper-observant
and longing for rest—from his own desire, for his mortal yet ever-sentient
being. There is a sense of urgency as the bold tone suggests. Underlying the
anger, a tenderness begins to emerge as the mingling of base, foul—and
imagistic—language, eventually gives way to images of surrender. For example,
“…a couple of kids / And guess he’s fucking her and she’s / Taking pills or
wearing a diaphragm,” leads to “Like an outdated combing harvester, / And everyone
young going down the long slide / To happiness,”. Each stanza, like panes of a
stained glass window, tells a story while holding them up to a universal
light—of human boredom, deep existential grief. Then significantly, “Rather
than words,” the speaker beholds a glimpse into human frailty. It is this
compassion for, this understanding of one illuminating element—“the
sun-comprehending glass”—relative to another fragile being, wherein the
speaker’s own identity finds meaning. Ironically, skepticism gives way to
possibility in the literal light of what seems to be “unspeakable” for the
narrator. This “unspeakable” allows the speaker to witness his own
endless-ness. In High Windows, the
narrator holds sacred that which is im-possible to attain. “Rather than words
comes the thought of high windows: / The sun-comprehending glass, / And beyond
it, the deep blue air, that shows / Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.”
Throughout High Windows, spatial and temporal clues are characters in and of
themselves. The first line, “When I see a couple of kids” establishes youth.
The second line implies a specific time of youth, albeit ambiguous. Active,
present-tense verbs continue, like “Taking” or “wearing” and tell the reader
that the shock value of the aforementioned foul language is really happening.
Then there is a temporal and spatial shift to “paradise.” And the first break
between verses occurs. Perhaps Larkin is creating a graphic metaphor. A schism
exists between “paradise” and “Everyone old.” The enjambed line continues, and
doesn’t resolve until the beginning of the third stanza, with end punctuation:
“Everyone old has dreamed of all their lives—/ Bonds and gestures pushed to one
side / Like an outdated combine harvester, / And everyone young going down the
long slide // To happiness, endlessly. I
wonder if / Anyone looked at me, forty years back, / And thought, That’ll be the life; / No God any more, or
sweating in the dark.”
If Larkin is providing visual cues for
his reader, the heart of the poem is telling. The dead-center line of the poem
reads, “To happiness, endlessly. I wonder if”/. If the reader were to only
glance upon the middle of the page, is Larkin revealing the ultimate quandary
of the poem? I wonder if. In any
case, the series of enjambments still continues. There is no one line that
finds its own resolve. There are endstops. Eight of the 20 lines are
punctuated, yet it isn’t until the final line—of which some may feel
deserving—that Larkin gives us a finite ending. Yet he turns even this into a
“search” and semiotic riddle. The ending as “endless.” Take a look at, “About hell and that, or having to hide /
What you think of the priest. He / And his lot will all go down the long slide
/ Like free bloody birds. And immediately // Rather than words comes the thought of high
windows: / …Nothing, and is nowhere, and is endless.” What began as bitterness,
opens out to light and air. The “sun-comprehending glass” perhaps a metaphor
for the narrator’s own filtered frustration.
Contrary to the somewhat ambiguous
subject matter of High Windows,
Larkin’s composition of five tightly woven quatrains suggest a certain ironic
element of control. Image, sound, and meaning all slide “down the long slide”
with Larkin’s mastery. He also manages to avoid ambiguity with language.
Intricately woven textures coerce hard consonants and long vowel sounds into
end rhymes (“lives,” “side,” “harvester,” “slide,”/ “if,” “life,”/
“back,” “dark,”/ “hide,” “slide,”/ “He,”
“immediately,”/ and “windows,” “shows,”/ “glass,”
“endless”). Fairly consistent iambic trimeters place stress on nouns and
verbs and create a tapestry of sound textures and rhythmic melody. Larkin’s
tone of overarching distress and dissatisfaction resonate perhaps not so subtly
due to his strict use of seven-eleven syllables in each stanza. Any uncertainty
the speaker may have about a meaningful existence is underscored by sonorous
and recurrent syllables. There is only one stanza of five that doesn’t carry
one line of seven syllables, also the shortest lines. The ultimate stanza poses
perhaps the poem’s only ultimate resolve: “the sun-comprehending glass.” Worth
noting also is Larkin’s choice of punctuation here. He creates a compound
adjective with “sun” and “comprehending.” Both of which modify “glass.” It’s
the noun of the phrase that is the most fragile. It’s the fragility of even the
most lucid moment that Larkin perhaps, chooses to stress.
High
Windows and much of Philip Larkin’s work in this collection is unafraid to confront matters of sex, passion and
human contact. In this poem, Larkin’s prayer seems to be one of contemplative
hope—that possibility does in fact exist. Although his narrator speaks of “No
God any more, or sweating in the dark/ About hell and that, or having to hide,”
Larkin accomplishes a respect of the mysterious. There is quiet, if substantial
hope at its end. What may have begun as a superficial portrait of sexual
freedom sweeping England in the 60’s, ends with what could be construed as one
man’s prayer for the possibility of something beyond. As Bruce Meyer states, “These poems show a glimpse
of the heaven that Larkin wants to get to and show people what they’re
missing.”
In conclusion, prayer
may appear in a poem at the most unlikely moments, as in Larkin’s High Windows, or in a most unlikely,
even doubting way, like Berryman’s Eleven
Addresses to the Lord, 1. Or it could perhaps be a prayer that does not
belong to a religious discipline but is more of a report from a spiritual
seeker, as we find in Morling’s Visiting.
Nonetheless, each is an examination; be it of
the self or of one’s surroundings—which ultimately harkens back to the self.
Each is abiding in great detail. It is in this immersion of the detail that
poetry, as our culture perceives, is elevated to prayer. Despite all of the
obvious differences, all seem to contain an element of humane utterance, which
our culture associates with prayer. Regardless of form or tradition, in all
three poems there is a recognition of, and a yearning for, the exalted self.
In all three, humanity yearns to
understand—or communicate with—a higher form. In the face of mortality there is
an understandable, if intrinsic, human desire to want more out of life. As a
rhetorical medium the poem—as prayer—enables the human being’s existential
struggle to be defined in as many ways as there are people. In each there is a
human uttering, without which prayer is incapable. These poems in their very
act of observation—via a formal address to the divine, the lyric, and use of
imagery—become prayer. The necessity of compressed thought and language in
poetry is fitting for a culture’s need to express itself—as praise, in plea or
reflection.
[1] American
Psychological Association (APA):
poem.
(n.d.). Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Retrieved July 01, 2008, from
Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/poem
Chicago
Manual Style (CMS):
poem.
Dictionary.com. Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc.
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/poem (accessed: July 01, 2008).
Modern
Language Association (MLA):
"poem."
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc. 01 Jul. 2008.
<Dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/poem>.
[2] characterized by or expressing
spontaneous, direct feeling.
American
Psychological Association (APA):
lyric.
(n.d.). Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Retrieved September 24, 2008, from
Dictionary.com website: http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/lyric
Chicago
Manual Style (CMS):
lyric.
Dictionary.com. Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc.
http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/lyric (accessed: September 24, 2008).
Modern
Language Association (MLA):
"lyric."
Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1). Random House, Inc. 24 Sep. 2008.
<Dictionary.com http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/lyric>.
[3]
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/archive/poem.html?id=178869
[4] quote from the "Encyclopedia of
Word and Phrase Origins" by Robert Hendrickson, Facts on File, New York,
1997.
[5] The Complete Poetical Works of John
Keats edited by Horace Elisha Scudder, Boston: Riverside Press, 1899. p. 277