Quaint and inconsistent, but oh, so good when good.
I decided to do a spotlight instead of a journal entry for our good ol' Wordsworth dude here, because I think he got a rather lukewarm reception in class, and he does not feature in many memes, while the second generation romantics have kept rising as the original rebel sexy twinks. And fair enough, second gen romantics did have a live-fast-die-young dandy-esque ethos that I adore, but I think it's time to take a look at the father of English romanticism.
So Wordsworth was born in 1770 and only seventeen years later he was publishing his first poem, a sonnet. After graduating from Cambridge, he went on his grand tour and visited France, where he fell in love with republicanism and a French woman named Annette Vallon. His romance with both Revolutionary France and Vallon would be short lived, however, for he became disenchanted with the Reign of Terror that followed the revolution and armed hostilities between Britain and France meant he had to leave Vallon and their daughter, Caroline. (Although he would later marry Mary Hutchinson, at least he did take financial care of Caroline... so, you know, decent father for the times). A relevant detail about Wordsworth is that unlike his romantic successors, he actually got to age (he died in 1850, at 80!), which meant that his revolutionary and innovative kick passed with his years as the pendulum of his political thought swung towards more conservative pastures.
Still, he was a badass poet, who was searching for new elements in Poetry, based on "ordinary" language (or, y'know, as ordinary as a Cambridge-educated fellow could conceive) and everyday common subjects. All of this was inconceivable to 18th century sensibilities.
Nowadays romantic poetry is largely seen as the standard for poetry (we sometimes neglect to mention what came earlier still, or, if acknowledged, we place medieval and classical works at the epic intersection of poetry and narrative), meaning old and difficult. His nature poems are often deemed too quaint, nice but ultimately uninteresting. This was mentioned in class, as the poems we analyzed did not seem to stir a lot of emotion. It would appear they have lost their rebellious zest.
But, alas, I disagree (oh, the shock).
I do agree that not all of his poems are the greatest pieces of literature ever written, but I refuse to swipe all of his work under the "boring old man" rug. As someone interested in aesthetics and observation, I deeply admire Wordsworth's definition of poetry as "the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquility" (taken from the "Preface to the Lyrical Ballads"), as well as his focus on nature and poetry as a craft. Thematically, he not only shifted poetry from the grand to the personal (or rather, combined the two), but also found beauty in landscape and structure, in a way that might seem to naïve to contemporary sensibilities but I think worth to rediscover.
He was also deeply interested in rhythm and sound, as pointed out by Emma Mason in chapter 3 of The Cambridge Introduction to William Wordsworth; "Wordsworth thought a lot about how and why he wrote poetry. These ideas, or his poetics, center on the notion that our entire experience and perception of the world is shaped through the medium of word (...) Words take on even more significance for him when located within a poem: they are transfigured by diferent kinds of form, meter and rhythm that recast their meaning through sounds and patterns". He wanted his language to gran pleasure to his reader, and, okay yes, a moral reaction (which, fair, might not resonate too well with us in 2019), but the emotional factor is there. The quality of his words, his sounds, his images, is there, and for me that is what poetry is all about.
Let's look at one of his poems, this lovely sonnet from the professor's selection that really took me by surprise:
To me, this is almost an impressionist painting, which diffusely yet accurate captures light and feeling. It helps, of course, that I have had the luck to be upon Westminster Bridge, but I think it's not necessary to be able to imagine the "splendor" of the "river", the "ships, towers, domes, theaters and temples" and the "smokeless air". There're also key verses that, to me, conjure up crackling light and peaceful dawn, such as "A sight so touching in its majesty", "This City now doth, like a garment, wear / The beauty of the morning: silent, bare", "Never sun more beautifully sleep", "The river glideth at his own sweet will". Yes, he's abstractly personifying, but in a way that crafts clear concrete images (can't you see the water, calm yet slightly in motion? can't you feel the reverence for the sight?). Even the sudden outburst of emotion ("Dear God!) seems to reinforce the wandered amidst the calm (the very houses seem asleep; / And all that mighty heart is lying still!). The rhythm is low-key musical, with a straight-forward rhyme scheme (abba abba cdcdcd, though we must excuse the "majesty" line which has not aged well) that comes off as natural, almost anecdotal. A skillful story-teller recounting one spiritually momentous yet otherwise uneventful stroll through the town.
This has definitely become one of my favorite sonnets of all time, so accomplished and plain beautiful I think it is. No obscurity, only clarity, a perfect demonstration of Wordsworth aim to make poetry about feeling and plain language.
So, if you're into poetry (or nature writing, or even aesthetics as a philosophical discipline), give good ol' Wordsworth a try.
If you think Wordsworth has it bad, however, then let's not even get into Coleridge, whose The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is virtually not read by anyone unless mandated by a school or college syllabus (me included, as I have yet to read it). My ignorance of Coleridge is furthered as I know nothing other than he was Wordsworth's bestie and co-edited the Lyrical Ballads with him, only to then fall out with Wordsworth (I think to never make up, but don't quote me on that). If you're interested in knowing more about this friends-to-fiends story, I can point you to The Friendship, a promising joint biography I own but have not yet read. It might not be much, but it's the best I can do.
Now, go wander some fields and read some Wordsworth.
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