February 22, 2004
John Keats & The Classical Greek Obsession
"On First Looking into Chapman's Homer"
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise--
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.
"On Seeing the Elgin Marbles"
Weighs heavily on me like unwilling sleep,
And each imagined pinnacle and steep
Of godlike hardship tells me I must die
Like a sick eagle looking at the sky.
Yet 'tis a gentle luxury to weep,
That I have not the cloudy winds to keep
Fresh for the opening of the morning's eye.
Such dim-conceived glories of the brain
Bring round the heart an indescribable feud;
So do these wonders a most dizzy pain,
That mingles Grecian grandeur with the rude
Wasting of old Time -with a billowy main,
A sun, a shadow of a magnitude.
“On First Looking into Chapman’s Homer” gives us the author’s impressions of a particularly good translation of the epics of Homer. And it makes him very happy. You don't hear this kind of orgasmic eloquence very often (if you'll pardon the word in this instance . . . I really couldn't think of a better one). I am reminded, specifically, of Moore contemplating a donut which he holds in his hand, turning it every which way so that it catches the light and expounding at great length on the beauty of the thing. Keats produces two very vivid metaphors to communicate to us the fact that he has a beautiful new world opened up and spread out before him. He has been there and done that, he tells us, but he’s never experienced anything quite like this.
“On Seeing the Elgin Marbles,” quite the opposite of the other, seems very conflicted in its impressions. Unlike Cortez, staring out over a new discovery “with eagle eyes,” Keats is now “like a sick eagle looking at the sky”. Clearly, the sky is where he belongs, where he must be in order to witness these grand vistas, but he is sick and unable to reach the necessary height. He is pained by the marked contrast between the magnificence of the artwork, and the damage and the fading that time and weather have caused to them. The Marbles are but a shadow of their former selves, and he grieves for what is lost. Again, I am reminded of Moore . . . after he has eaten his last cookie and is gazing sadly at the crumbs left behind.
Both of these poems are expressions of an intense overflow of emotion from reading a great piece of literature or viewing a (formerly) great work of art for the first time. Keats got excited about all things Classical and Greek, it would seem, and he didn’t like to see the beauty or glory of it fade. He could probably learn a few lessons from Shelley when it comes to such matters, but that is unimportant. He apparently wasn’t very particular about detail (he said Cortez . . . he meant Balboa) but he makes up for it with his enthusiasm for the subject.
I know people who feel this way about any number of things. I've already mentioned Moore and his food twice, for instance. I get this excited myself about many things. The knee-jerk reaction with Keats’ (or anyone's) expressions of high emotion over the things he is particularly enamored of is one of ridicule. You laugh at him because he is so happy about inky squiggles on a page, or because he is saddened about some shaped lumps of rock, but the fact is, we all have something (or, more likely, somethings . . . even Moore has computers . . . and Sharon, I suppose) that we get excited about which probably seems just as silly and insignificant to someone else. I can certainly remember showing this kind of passion, even, for poems as short as these on occasion . . . not to mention much longer works . . . movies . . . songs . . . paintings . . . just to name a few of the more reasonable ones. I don’t begrudge Keats his obsessions, just as I hope no one begrudges me mine, but, just as others do with me, I still reserve the right to be amused by them.
Posted by Jared at February 22, 2004 11:59 PM | TrackBack