Poetry as a mode of thought: the Protean encounter

In the fourth book of the Greek epic the Odyssey, Homer tells the following strange tale. After the war at Troy, Menelaus wanted very much to get home but was held up in Egypt for want of a wind because, as he later told Telemachus, he had not sacrificed enough to the gods. “Ever jealous the Gods are,” he said, “that we men mind their dues.” But because the gods work both ways, it was on the advice of a goddess, Eidothea, that Menelaus went to consult Proteus, the old one of the sea, as one might consult a travel agency.

Proteus was not easy to consult. He was herding seals, and the seals stank even through the ambrosia Eidothea had provided. And when Menelaus crept up close, disguised as a seal, and grabbed him, Proteus turned into a lion, a dragon, a leopard, a boar, a film of water, and a high-branched tree. But Menelaus managed to hang on until Proteus gave up and was himself again, whereupon Menelaus asked him the one great question: how do I get home? And Proteus told him: you had better go back to Egypt and sacrifice to the gods some more.

This story may be taken as a parable about poetry. A man has an urgent question about his way in the world. He already knows the answer, but it fails to satisfy him. So at great inconvenience, hardship, and even peril, he consults a powerful and refractory spirit who tries to evade his question by turning into anything in the world. Then, when the spirit sees he cannot get free of the man, and only then, he answers the man’s question, not simply with a commonplace but with the same commonplace the man had been dissatisfied with before. Satisfied or not, however, the man now obeys the advice given him.

A foolish story? All the same, it is to be observed that Menelaus did get home. And it was a heroic thing to have hung on to Proteus through those terrifying changes and compelled him to be himself and answer up. Nor does it matter in the least to the story that Menelaus personally may have been a disagreeable old fool as well as a cuckold.

A poet also has one great and simple question, simple though it may take many forms indeed. English poet Geoffrey Chaucer put it as well as anyone could, and in three lines at that:

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What is this world? what asketh men to have?
Now with his love, now in his colde grave,
Allone, with-outen any companye.

And the poet gets the simple answer he might expect, the one the world grudgingly gives to anyone who asks such a question: the world is this way, not that way, and you ask for more than you will be given, which the poet, being scarcely more fool than his fellowmen, knew already. But on the path from question to answer, hanging on to the slippery disguiser and shape-shifter Proteus, he will see many marvels; he will follow the metamorphoses of things in the metamorphoses of their phrases, and he will be so elated and ecstatic in this realm of wonders that the voice in which he speaks these things, down even to the stupid, obvious, and commonplace answer, will be to his hearers a solace and a happiness in the midst of sorrows:

When I do count the clock that tells the time,
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;
When I behold the violet past prime,
And sable curls, all silver’d o’er with white;
When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,
Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,
And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves,
Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,
Then of thy beauty do I question make,
That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties must themselves forsake
And die as fast as they see others grow;
And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence
Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

Like Menelaus, the poet asks a simple question, to which, moreover, he already knows the unsatisfying answer. Question and answer, one might say, have to be present, although of themselves they seem to do nothing much, but they assert the limits of a journey to be taken. They are the necessary but not sufficient conditions of what really seems to matter here, the Protean encounter itself, the grasping and hanging on to the powerful and refractory spirit in its slippery transformations of a single force flowing through clock, day, violet, graying hair, trees dropping their leaves, the harvest in which, by a peculiarly ceremonial transmutation, the grain man lives by is seen without contradiction as the corpse he comes to. As for the answer to the question, it is not surprising nor meant to be surprising; it is only just.

On this point—that the answer comes as no surprise—poets show an agreement that quite transcends the differences of periods and schools. English poet Alexander Pope’s formula, “What oft was thought, but ne’er so well expresst,” sometimes considered as the epitome of a shallow and parochial decorum, is not in essence other than this offered by English Romantic poet John Keats:

I think Poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by Singularity—it should strike the Reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a Remembrance. (Letter to John Taylor, 1818)

In the 20th century Robert Frost was strikingly in agreement:

A word about recognition: In literature it is our business to give people the thing that will make them say, “Oh yes I know what you mean.” It is never to tell them something they [don’t] know, but something they know and [hadn’t] thought of saying. It must be something they recognize. (Letter to John Bartlett, in Modern Poetics, ed. James Scully, 1965)

And the American poet and critic John Crowe Ransom gives the thought a cryptically and characteristically elegant variation: “Poetry is the kind of knowledge by which we must know that we have arranged that we shall not know otherwise.” Perhaps this point about recognition might be carried further, to the extreme at which it would be seen to pose the problem of how poetry, which at its highest has always carried, at least implicitly, a kind of Platonism and claimed to give, if not knowledge itself, what was more important, a “form” to knowledge, can survive the triumph of scientific materialism and a positivism minded to skepticism about everything in the world except its own self (where it turns credulous, extremely). The poet’s adjustment, over two or three centuries, to a Newtonian cosmos, Kantian criticism, and the spectral universe portrayed by physics has conspicuously not been a happy one and has led alternately or simultaneously to the extremes of rejection of reason and speaking in tongues on the one hand and the claim that poetry will save the world on the other. But of this let the Protean parable speak as it will.

There is another part to the story of Menelaus and Proteus, for Menelaus asked another question: what happened to my friends who were with me at Troy? Proteus replies, “Son of Atreus, why enquire too closely of me on this? To know or learn what I know about it is not your need: I warn you that when you hear all the truth your tears will not be far behind….” But he tells him all the same, “Of those others many went under; many came through….” And Menelaus does indeed respond with tears of despair, until Proteus advises him to stop crying and get started on the journey home. So it sometimes happens in poetry, too: the sorrowful contemplation of what is, consoles, in the end, and heals, but only after the contemplative process has been gone through and articulated in the detail of its change:

When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste;
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,
And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o’er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor’d and sorrows end.

This poem, acknowledged to be a masterpiece by so many generations of readers, may stand as an epitome and emblem for the art altogether, about which it raises a question that must be put, although it cannot be satisfactorily and unequivocally answered: the question of whether poetry is a sacrament, or a confidence game, or both, or neither. To reply firmly that poetry is not religion and must not promise what religion does is to preserve a useful distinction; nevertheless, the religions of the world, if they have nothing else in common, seem to be based on collections of sacred poems. Nor, at the other extreme, can any guarantee that poetry is not a confidence game be found in the often-heard appeal to the poet’s “sincerity.” One will never know whether Shakespeare wept all over the page while writing the 30th sonnet, though one inclines to doubt it, nor would it be to his credit if he did, nor to readers that they should know it or care to know it.

For one thing, the sonnet is obviously artful—that is, full of artifice—and even the artifice degenerates here and there into being artsy. “Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow.” Surely that is poesy itself, at or near its worst, where the literal and the conventional, whatever their relations may have been for Shakespeare and the first reader of these sugared sonnets among his friends, now live very uncomfortably together (Ben Jonson’s “Drink to me only with thine eyes” is a like example of this bathetic crossing of levels), though perhaps it has merely become unattractive as a result of changing fashions in diction.

Moreover, while the whole poem is uniquely Shakespearean, the bits and pieces are many of them common property of the age, what one writer called “joint stock company poetry.” And the tricks are terribly visible, too; art is not being used to conceal art in such goings-on as “grieve at grievances” and “fore-bemoaned moan.” “He who thus grieves will excite no sympathy,” as English critic Samuel Johnson sternly wrote of English poet John Milton’s style in the elegy “Lycidas,” “he who thus praises will confer no honour.”

Nor is that the worst of it. This man who so powerfully works on the reader’s sympathies by lamenting what is past contrives to do so by thinking obsessively about litigation and, of all things, money; his hand is ever at his wallet, bidding adieu. He cannot merely “think” sweet silent thoughts about the past; no, he has to turn them into a court in “session,” whereto he “summons” the probable culprit “remembrance”; when he “grieves,” it is at a “grievance”—in the hands of the law again. Finally, as with the sinners in Italian poet Dante’s Divine Comedy, his avarice and prodigality occupy two halves of the one circle: he bemoans his expenses while paying double the asking price.

And still, for all that, the poem remains beautiful; it continues to move both the young who come to it still innocent of their dear time’s waste and the old who have sorrows to match its sorrows. As between confidence game and sacrament there may be no need to decide, as well as no possibility of deciding: elements of play and artifice, elements of true feeling, elements of convention both in the writing and in one’s response to it, all combine to veil the answer. But the poem remains.

If it could be plainly demonstrated by the partisans either of unaided reason or revealed religion that poetry was metaphorical, mythological, and a delusion, while science, say, or religion or politics were real and true, then one might throw poetry away and live honestly though poorly on what was left. But, for better or worse, that is not the condition of human life in the world. And perhaps people care for poetry so much—if they care at all—because, at last, it is the only one of many mythologies to be aware, and to make us aware, that it, and the others, are indeed mythological. The English literary critic I.A. Richards, in a deep and searching consideration of this matter, concludes, “It is the privilege of poetry to preserve us from mistaking our notions either for things or for ourselves. Poetry is the completest mode of utterance.”

The last thing Proteus says to Menelaus is strange indeed:

You are not to die in Argos of the fair horse-pastures, not there to encounter death: rather will the Deathless Ones carry you to the Elysian plain, the place beyond the world….There you will have Helen to yourself and will be deemed of the household of Zeus.

So the greatest of our poets have said, or not so much said, perhaps, as indicated by their fables, though nowadays people mostly sing a different tune. To be as the gods, to be rejoined with the beloved, the world forgotten—sacrament or con game? Homer, of course, is only telling an old story and promises humankind nothing, that is left to the priests to do, and in that respect poetry, as one critic puts it, must always be “a ship that is wrecked on entering the harbor.” And yet the greatest poetry sings always, at the end, of transcendence; while seeing clearly and saying plainly the wickedness and terror and beauty of the world, it is at the same time humming to itself, so that one overhears rather than hears: All will be well.