Sarah Wentworth Morton

 

Sarah Wentworth Morton, poems, late 1700s

Sarah Wentworth Apthorp Morton was such a popular poetess in her day that she earned the moniker “American Sappho.”  If you have read any Sappho, you will understand the magnitude of that compliment.  As a native Bostonian, Morton’s poems contain distinctly American subject matter.   I read just two of her poems, the epic Ouabi and her most remembered work The African Chief. 

The African Chief is a stridently anit-slavery poem.  Morton laments the death of a captured African chief.

Ouabi is an epic poem in four cantos.  The story is essentially that of the love triangle between Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot  if Lancelot were a strapping young European who abandons society to wander in the North American wilderness and is taken in by a kind, wise and powerful Indian chief.  The Lancelot figure then of course falls in love with the chief’s lovely bride.  Drama ensues.  Morton’s compassionate yet romanticized view of Native Americans is certainly out of date and may be why this poem has been largely forgotten.  However, she writes incredibly beautiful verse.  Her meter and rhyme are impeccable and unlike Freneau, the last poet reviewed on this blog, she achieves lovely style without needing to twist her sentences into Yoda-like syntax.

A Quote from Ouabi:

Her limbs were straighter than the mountain pine,

Her hair far blacker than the raven’s wing;

Beauty had lent her form the waving line,

Her breath gave fragrance to the balmy spring.

You might like the poetry of Sarah Wentworth Morton if:

• you like epic poems.
• you are interested in 18^th century attitudes toward minorities.

You might not like the poetry of Sarah Wentworth Morton if

• you are offended by 18^th century attitudes toward minorities.

Final thoughts: Morton writes beautiful poetry.  Her subject matter is controversial and whether you find her perspective refreshing (she’s obviously in favor of better treatment of minorities) or offensive, her poems are certain to arouse some uncomfortable feelings.

Phillip Freneau

Phillip Freneau, poems, late 1700s

Notable for being:

• the “Poet of the American Revolution.”
• a proto-Romantic.
• an originator of the Gothic genre in poetry.

Phillip Freneau’s epithet, Poet of the American Revolution, makes him sound more exciting than he is.  I think he is more notable for what he wrote about than how well he wrote.  He published anti-British poems, which was a big deal at the time, but they don’t hold much interest now as Americans no longer need to be persuaded against being a British colony.  I’ll tell you about a few of his poems.

The Wild Honey Suckle is your typical Romantic “flowers are pretty, life is fleeting” type of poem.

The Indian Burying Ground romanticizes the Native American method of burying the dead in a seated rather than reclining position.  Freneau is for it, because instead of sending the dead off to eternal rest, one sends them to sit among their friends.  I don’t know. It’s tough to relate to the 18^th century attitude toward Native Americans.  I’m not a fan.

The House of Night is my favorite of the Freneau pieces that I read, but I don’t love it.  The poem consists of 136 quatrains with an ABCB rhyme scheme.  The narrator relates the tale of a spooky adventure that befell him when he was out walking one night.  He wanders into a garden and then into a house where Death himself lays dying.  Our narrator speaks with Death for a while, who fears his approaching demise as he is worried that he won’t get into heaven.  Really.  The poem ends with a description of Death’s funeral and all the spooks that attend.  It’s not the best poem I have ever read in terms of style, but I like the supernatural subject matter.  The narrator views the death of Death as a good thing, but I’m not sure it wouldn’t result in zombie apocalypse.  Freneau is the first truly American author on this list, which is pleasant because when our narrator describes the trilling of a bird it is a North American bird and he mentions the Chesapeake, which is a body of water that I know.  Feels nice.

Quote:

Dim burnt the lamp, and now the phantom Death

Gave his last groans in horror and despair —

“All hell demands me hence,” — he said, and threw

The red lamp hissing through the midnight air.

You have to admit “All hell demands me hence,” is a pretty great thing to say.

You might like the poetry of Phillip Freneau if:

• you read all of Wordsworth and are looking for yet further poems about flowers.
• you like ghost stories.

You might not like the poetry of Phillip Freneau if:

• you are offended by the “Noble Savage” attitude.
• you are offended by mediocre poetry.

Final thoughts: No, I did not completely mess up the carpals and metacarpals!  Death has abnormal anatomy specialized for clutching the soul from your body.  Duh.

Robert Burns

Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect, Robert Burns, 1786

Bobbie Burns is notable for:

• being the most beloved Scottish person ever.
• writing Auld Lang Syne, the song you mumble through on New Years Eve.
• writing in Scots dialect.
• living hard and dying young.
• influencing the Romantic poets.
• being a farmer rather than an  aristocrat, which was uncommon for poets at the time.

Robert Burns is a big deal, a cultural icon.  He was voted “Greatest Scot” over William Wallace in a poll conducted by a TV network.  People love this guy, myself included.  The crazy part about his enduring popularity is that his poems are not very accessible.  18^th Century Scots dialect is hard to read.  Here’s the first stanza of “Tam o’Shanter”:

When chapmen billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors meet,
As market days are wearing late,
An’ folk begin to tak the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
And getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame.
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

Not only is that difficult to understand, but it’s hard to imagine what it’s supposed to sound like.  I’ve been reading Burns aloud to myself in the best Scottish accent I can muster.  It’s not perfect, but damn is he ever an amazing poet!  Even if you’re not sure what he’s talking about you can’t miss the life-affirming vitality of his poems.  They are so full of energy they make me want to jump up and accomplish stuff.

Just listen to this:

You feel happier now, right?  Poems like this are why I am obsessed with literature.  He’s apologizing to a mouse for wrecking her house with his plough!  How wonderful is that?  And it sounds glorious.  When I read literature of this quality I feel that maybe the world is a wonderful place full of beauty after all.  Seriously, Robert Burns makes me excited about life.

I feel weird about the Romantics claiming Burns as an influence.  I see very little resemblance between Burns’ vigorous and sincere odes to farm living and Wordsworth/Coleridge/Keats’ effete lamentations about the lives of the rich and useless.  Sidebar: I love Coleridge anyway.  The Romantics admired Burns, but they never pulled off his style or subject matter.  It’s like when Lady Gaga claims David Bowie as a musical influence.  You can’t just paint a lightening stripe on your face and pretend that your music bears any relation to David Bowie’s music!

Anyway, back to Burns.  My recommendations:

• The Twa Dogs—a dialogue between a fancy, well-bred dog and a lower class farm dog about whether the rich or the poor have better lives.
• To A Mouse—OMG, possibly the best poem ever.  Also the origin of the title “Of Mice and Men.”  This poem will break your heart and build you a better heart.
• Tam o’Shanter—a delightful, mystical cautionary tale warning husbands of the dangers of staying out too late drinking.  Yay.
• The Auld Farmer’s New-Year-Morning Salutation to His Auld Mare Maggie—an ode to his horse.

You might like the poetry of Robert Burns if:

• you like things that are good.

You might not like the poetry of Robert Burns if:

• you can’t be bothered reading Scots dialect.  It’s not exactly easy.

Final thoughts: If you’ve read this far, I think you know how I feel about Robert Burns.  He’s a champion.