#7 Everyman Pocket Poets...

Gerald Manley Hopkins.



It's possible you might expect John Milton to be turning up about now. But although my sympathies are far more Miltonic (Puritan, thrived under the Protectorate, disliked by Charles II) than Hopkins (introspective Jesuit priest), my desert island criteria lead me to choose him over Milton. Or rather his selected poems (in this rather lovely pocket edition from Everyman). If it was a case of 'complete works' I'd probably go for Milton - but in terms of the 'best of', it would be this volume.

When I first read GMH I wondered what I had come across, as it didn't sound like English. Which it wasn't really. I mean, the poems were made up of English words, but frequently the rules of grammar and syntax had vanished. Now, in some modern stuff I think this is just pretension. But with Hopkins I discovered there was reason to it. It's his 'in-scape' thing, which shows best in his nature poems - that (if I have this right) all created things have this inner dynamism, this self-existential energy, life and beauty - and in bringing this out in poems, normal language-rules take a back seat. But it's not a tumbling of words together that emerges; rather, the words must have been painstakingly selected, because not only do they reflect the inner sense and feeling of what he sees, the words also slot together, or blend, or build cumulative force - and almost it seems he is making the words 'taste' of the thing described.

Or possibly I have been eating too many herbal throat tablets. But I think I'm right.

For example:

I CAUGHT this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon (The Windhover)

which would get you marked down in class, but makes me almost taste a morning when one sees a hawk flying in dawn's light.

Or what I would think of as GMH's finest hour, God's Grandeur, which also (in lines 9&10) gives a tiny explanation of his 'in-scape' thinking:

THE world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs --

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Read it and weep - no one, I think, could ever write anything quite like that. As someone once told me, "That's the best 'ah!' in English literature".