The Problem With Language in Avison's "Butterfly Bones"

From the onset of “Butterfly Bones,” Margaret Avison likens the act of writing a sonnet to that of capturing a butterfly, and both of these she marks, further, as destructive processes: "The cyanide jar seals life, as sonnets move/towards final stiffness" (1-2). This association between sonnet-writing and death is carried through to the end. The poem is indeed a “sonnet against sonnets.”

                Avison's criticism of the sonnet stems, in part, because it is a fixed form. By comparing sonnet-writing to the capturing, killing, and mounting of butterflies for display in museums, she indicates that the art of sonnets is a science, requiring "skill,...patience,...learning,...[and] precision" (5-8). The writing of a sonnet, that is, depends necessarily on rationality, as opposed, perhaps, to the free-flow of emotions that has been lauded in art since at least the Romantic era, during which time Wordsworth wrote, "Poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings" (273). The primary concern of the sonneteer is form, order, and structure - a methodical concern which Avison criticizes.

                In this light, we come to the concluding couplet which contains the rhetorical question "Might sheened and rigid trophies strike men blind/like Adam's lexicon locked in the mind?" (13-14). One might read this as Avison further denouncing sonnets (those "rigid trophies") in favour of more natural forms of poetic expression ("Adam's lexicon" being the most primitive and untampered human language). The question may then be paraphrased thus: Can sonnets have as much of an effect on their readers as unaltered forms of poetry do? The answer, we are led to believe, is negative; just as "shivery wings" (10) are more real, more engaging, than "museum spectres" (9), so too would a poem not forcefully fixed into a preconceived form have more power than one which is – namely, a sonnet.

                However, Avison's diction in the final line can equally lead to an alternate interpretation. Specifically, that she writes "Adam's lexicon [is] locked in the mind" in a poem which criticizes things being sealed (line 1), "cased" (2), and fixed (line 7) brings to mind the question of whether even the most unsophisticated, unformulated poem is truly any more effective than a sonnet.

                I am reminded of the linguistic concept of the sign, developed by Ferdinand de Saussure. The model is as follows: the sign - or the word - is like a coin; on one side is the signifier - ie. the phonemes which make up the word - and on the other is the signified - ie. the idea that is evoked by the word (Barrie). For example, when one says the word "elephant," the pronunciation of it (as e-luh-fuhnt) is the signifier, and the idea one has in their mind (of a big, gray, four-legged animal) when they hear or speak the word is the signified. What the sign must inevitably exclude is called the referent: the actual object to which the word refers (Barrie). There may very likely be a million things regarding the elephant that a word for it either does not or can not convey. Thus, while language may capture an idea of a thing, it can never, ever convey the entirety of it.

                Avison compares writing a sonnet to capturing a butterfly. However, in capturing a butterfly, one kills it. Even as one looks at a butterfly pinned to a corkbord and thinks to oneself, this is a butterfly, there is that disjunction between what has been captured and what actually was - the creature that lived and existed freely. Similarly, what a sonnet captures is not the truth of that captured thing. In the concluding couplet, Avison seems to suggest that this is not an issue of sonnets in particular, but an issue of language itself.

                Language is one of few things that set homo sapiens apart; it is a biological function "locked in the mind" (14) and deeply interfused with other cognitive capacities which make us unique. We are rational creatures and we will always endeavour to understand and communicate what we see and know of the world - but inevitably, Avison suggests, we are doomed to fail because language cannot possibly convey the truth of that to which it refers, ie. reality. In attempting to capture and observe a butterfly - a thought, or an emotion - we are doomed to be left always with the "bones" - the exoskeleton, a mere shell - and never the essence. 

SOURCES

Avison, Margaret. “Butterfly Bones, or a Sonnet Against Sonnets.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in          English. Eds. Donna Bennett and Russel Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 553. Print.

Barrie, Michael. Introduction Lecture. LIN1310 Introduction to Linguistics I: Words and Utterances. University of Ottawa. Ottawa, 6 January 2010.

Wordsworth, William. “Preface to Lyrical Ballads.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature. Eds. Jack Stillinger and Deidre Shauna Lynch. 8th ed. Vol. D. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006. 263-274. Print. 

Vaguest Gleanings Merely - the dual-voiced persona and its quest for meaning in Reaney's "Starling with a Split Tongue"

As its title suggests, “Starling with a Split Tongue” concerns itself with speech (the figurative tongue) as well as the concept of a single, twofold object (the literal split tongue). Appropriately, then, the speaker that Reaney creates is a dual-voiced persona. One intuits, as one reads the poem, marked shifts in the voice: the first of these arrives shortly after the first stanza, and the second (which re-establishes the voice used in the first stanza) comes shortly before the last stanza. What these separate voices present in and of themselves, and what they symbolize in contrast to and in conjunction with the other, is the topic of this paper.

                The poem begins on a negative note, with a description of a cruel act: boys capturing and cutting the tongue of a bird, and then cooping him in a “cage” (5). The tone employed by the speaker  is matter-of-fact, as though the bird is resigned to his bleak fate and apparent lack of agency as represented in the fact that he merely repeats what “passersby taught” (8). By the end of the stanza, this negativity and resignation has intensified as the speaker settles on the thought of the utter emptiness of his speech: “Though I pray I do not pray/Though I curse I do not curse/Though I talk I do not talk” (10-12). The repetitive structure of these lines gives the voice, as it speaks of the meaninglessness of the things it says, the ring of conclusive certainty. Yet even as the persona within the poem resolves himself to the idea that his words are meaningless, the poet unexpectedly establishes a hope: that one can “talk [but]... not talk...[is] 'kinda nice'” (12-13).

                This hopeful transition leads into the second voice - a voice which, following the first voice's accedence to a belief in hollow utterances – speaks with a resulting abandon of language altogether. This second voice is hardly coherent: it speaks openly in a double voice, as suggested by the structuring of the poem upon the page; it verbalizes nouns (18), and nominalizes articles (15) and prepositions (24); it establishes unlikely comparisons such as “As still as infinitives were the Stones” (28). I am tempted to say that this voice says nothing meaningful at all – and yet I am (and I suspect this was Reaney's objective) engaged by this voice which at first glance defies logical language; that is, my creativity is engaged, and sometimes succeeds, in establishing meaning in the apparent meaninglessness. For example, as unusual as the metaphor of line 28 is, the reader can perceive meaning: infinitives are indeed “still”; the action of an infinitive (i.e. untensed) verb is not done; therefore, no motion takes place.

                Meaning is, however, incontestably vague in the third, fifth, and sixth stanza - perhaps that is both the point and beside the point. The voice which speaks in these passages is not at all concerned with making sense since the speaker, in the first stanza, has already resolved himself to the idea that speech is meaningless. Thus the vagueness is the point of these stanzas: the poet has purposefully established it as resulting from the speaker's abandon of language. Having abandoned the conception of meaning in speech, however, the speaker has liberated himself. He is no longer trapped “in a phrenological cage/...[saying]/The cracklewords passersby taught” (5-7), but creating utterly new, unconventional expressions. He is playing with language and, fascinatingly, the readers are compelled to play with it as well – that is, to engage creatively in interpreting the text. The vagueness in meaning of these stanzas is thus beside the point: what is of more interest is the process of pure creativity within the mind of the speaker/writer as well as the interpreter.

                Now, that is a rather positive observance for a poem to make, but Reaney does not choose to end his piece there, but shifts back into the persona of the speaker's first voice, which has now turned to questioning higher powers about why tongues, and hands, and hearts are split. (We can be sure that this is, indeed, the first voice: the mention of jackknives recalls the poem's introduction; furthermore, the poem is physically structured such that it no longer suggests the double-voice embraced in the middle stanzas; the most obvious indicator, of course, is that the speaker is coherent again!).

                By thus reminding his readers of that first voice, Reaney suggests the split nature of his speaker: he is the creature trapped within the “cage” (5) of things he is taught, yearning for meaning but perceiving naught but lies in both “mask” and “face” (40-41), attempting to resign himself to a stoic belief in meaninglessness but ever “restless” (43) and questioning “Giant Jackknife in the sky” (39); at other times, he is a being at liberty, freed from the constraints of language because he expects nothing of it, and thus freed, able to create fresh meaning. These are, of course, contradictory personas: the one yearns for meaning in speech and does not find it; the other does not seek meaning but inadvertently creates it through language. At the same time, the two personas are deeply fused, for it is the starling's initial abandonment of language that allows him to spring into his free, creative alter-ego; that creative alter-ego would not exist without the ego which is ever giving up on finding meaning in language.

                “Starling with a Split Tongue” is a fascinating but obscure poem that stubbornly resists interpretation. It is, to summarize as briefly as possible, about the condition of being a split entity. Furthermore, it regards the question of how to make language meaningful. At the core of this poem (figuratively and literally), Reaney presents the notions of creation and interpretation of creation, both of which are playful and imaginative, fundamentally alike. By the end, when the starling asks “In the larger garage.../Do they not croak as I?” (46-47), there is, then, a hint that the “larger garage” refers to the world outside the poem, that “they” refers to us (the readers), and that we – starling/poet and the readers – are all a part of this croaking, this deep desire for meaning. But of course, by the last lines, we are, literally and figuratively, away from the heart of the poem where freshest meaning is created. Thus, meaning is elusive; as we attempt to grasp it, it evades us, and when it comes, it comes in vaguest gleanings merely – much like understanding of this poem.



SOURCE

Reaney, James. “Starling with a Split Tongue.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Eds. Donna Bennet and Russel Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 626-627. Print. 

Dennis Lee's Self-reflexive Examination of Language and the State of Existence in "Worldly"

The preposition “in” proposes two entities (one thing is in another); “only,” which can be broken up into the morphemes 'one' and '-ly' proposes one entity; the affix “un,” signifying negation, suggests no entities. As such, Dennis Lee's poem “Wordly” begins - “If inly, if only, if unly” (1-2) - as a countdown. That, and the fact that, towards its end, Lee brings up the concept of the reckoning (punning with “rekenning,” found in the ninth line of the poem), gives the poem an apocalyptic feel. Following this intuition, one may interpret the poem as Lee's examination of the ultimate state of the world; he envisions it as fragmentary and somewhat absurd, but among these qualities he highlights the possibility for creativity and happiness. His envisioning of the world as such is done through a self-reflexive examination of something intrinsic to the human world: language.

What any reader is likely to immediately notice about the poem is that it defies comprehension, mainly because the poet breaks language down, playing with the “emes” (4) – the sounds and bits of words – in an attempt to forcefully create new meaning. For example, Lee constructs the adjective “cripcryptic” (7). When first reading through the poem and coming upon this, one might exasperatedly think that the poem itself is cryptic. In fact, I think Lee is here speaking about the poem, or, more broadly, about language – alluding to the idea that words are signs which try to capture and convey some truth; that is, words are cryptic. However, the addition of “crip,” a word, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, derived from “cripple,” indicates, also, that the crypticness of language is crippling, confusing, so that to speak is merely to stutter - “cripcryp-.” This goes to explaining the sense of incomprehensibility in this poem and, I think, in many postmodernist works, generally: postmodernists believe that language is incapable of conveying truth. Language presents a deconstructed version of truth.

Despite the fragmentariness one finds in language, one also finds “ec-/statisyllabic largesse” (7-8). That is, within the “emes,” the syllables, one finds lavishness, an abundance of something. Perhaps this something is meaning; this is suggested in the word “heart-/iculates” (2-3). “Heart-/iculates” replaces the “art” in “articulate” with “heart” - denoting perhaps the insertion of the heart into language's articulations. At the same time, the only difference between “heart” and “art” is the addition of the phoneme /h/. It is a very minimal addition; phonologically, the sound /h/ is merely an unobstructed exhalation of air. This indicates the close association between art – language – and the heart. As such, Lee suggests that language is an intrinsic part of human nature.

That said, there is still the element of the absurd in language, as evidenced by the ending of Lee's poem: “rekenning, rekeening, re-/meaning our worldly demesne.” With “rekenning, rekeening, re-/meaning,” Lee encapsulates his notion of language. A kenning is a compound metaphor; as such, it represents putting things together – literally, putting words, or free morphemes, together. To keen is to wail, according to the Oxford English Dictionary, particularly over someone's death – and as such, the use of this word signifies things falling apart. “Remeaning,” again, entails putting things together, restructuring after things have fallen apart. Lee's repetition of the prefix “re-” indicates that this happens again and again; furthermore, that he uses the gerundive forms of these verbs indicates that this repetitive process is ongoing, neverending. Finally, the poem ends with Lee referring to our “worldly demesne,” suggesting that there is no possibility of transcendence. In fact, as the entire poem can be seen as a self-reflexive examination of the nature of language, Lee might possibly be suggesting that our “demesne,” our only true possession we have to work with, is language.

In Lee's vision, humanity is like a child with a single set of building blocks – a set of “emes.” The only thing he or she can do is structure and restructure those blocks into various forms, various words, various meanings. This is both a hopeless, resigned view of existence, yet also absurdly hopeful, for as a child plays, he or she derives happiness and employs limitless creativity, as, I believe, Lee did in writing this poem.

SOURCE

Lee, Dennis. “Worldly.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Eds. Donna Bennet and Russel Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 868-869.

The Cyclicality of Creativity as Depicted in Mackay's “Twinflower”

The speaker/poet in Don Mackay's “Twinflower” is “working on the same old problem,/how to be both/knife and spoon” (32-34). This is, admittedly, a vague, metaphorical statement – what does it mean to be a knife or a spoon, anyway? – but what it does certainly suggest is a sense of duality, a motif which continually comes up in the poem (even found in the title). Mackay sets up a number of paralellisms to explore this duality. Through these, he ultimately indicates that poets – and humans on the whole – have a duty to be both assertive and passive in turn, specifically in the act of naming, because creativity is a cyclical process.

One of the intriguing comparisons Mackay establishes in this poem is between Carolus Linnaeus and God. Linnaeus is a creator, said to have “devised” a “system” (51). Like the Word of God found in the Bible, Linnaeus' words are also found in a book – “the field guide” (39) – which evidently has authority, for others, like the speaker, turn to it. Significantly, the system Linnaeus has created is one of words – “binomial Latin names” as the editors note under the poem. Other writers (Layton in his poem “The Fertile Muck,” for example) have made the association between the human creation of a system of words (a poem, a story, etc.) and divine creation. To broadly employ a term popularized through Tolkien's “On Fairy Stories,” Linnaeus is a “sub-creator;” in “Twinflower,” he is depicted taking a Godlike role in creating (or sub-creating) an authoritative system.

If Linnaeus is associated with God, then the twinflower takes the role of humankind. Like the human race, which, according to the Bible, is created in God's “image” (Authorized King James Version, Genesis 1:26), the twinflower joins Linnaeus “in his portrait” (54), thus partaking in its creator's image. The flower is also given Linnaeus' name, just as God gives man his likeness. The speaker writes that, linked by a name shared with its creator, the flower “rises in [its] tininess” (55). Similarly, throughout history, a connection with God has given men and women, communally and individually, a sense of greatness. For example, the early notion of the divine right of kings based the supreme authority of monarchs on their supposed divinity. More generally, one can argue that religious faith gives people a sense of their own immortal importance in the face of chaos and death.

Thus, Mackay draws a parallel between the relationship between God and humanity and the relationship between Linnaeus and the twinflower. However, this set-up is significantly blurred for a number of reasons. Firstly, although we could say the twinflower represents humanity, Linnaeus is also, literally, a human; though he creates a system of words, this is a human act. Furthermore, just as one may argue that Linnaeus, in Godlike fashion, names and defines the flower, one could also argue that the flower defines Linnaeus: after all, the poet remembers Linnaeus through his interaction with the flower; it is because of the flower that Linnaeus exists in the poem at all (this argument runs similarly to the argument that it was not God who created us in his likeness, but we who created God). As such, one cannot set up a system of parallel representation in which Linnaeus is clearly God. Rather, I think, both Linnaeus and the flower may be seen as representative of humankind; supportive of this idea is the fact that the two share a name and are found in the same portraits, indicating that their identities are intertwined. Following this line of interpretation, Linnaeus represents the assertiveness of humankind – that quality which leads to demarcation, systemization, imposition of some authority over nature – while the twinflower represents receptiveness (in the sense that the flower is receptive to the name it is given).

Let me turn, here, to consideration of one final parallel which Mackay establishes: that between Adam and the poet. Mackay indicates the association between the two by having both engaged in the same activity: looking at the twinflower. One might note that God, in the passage about Adam, takes the voice of an editor, demanding words in a hurry, drawing Adam away from his idleness (similar to how “Murry demands more cantos” in P. K. Page's “Kaleidoscope”). Adam is, in a sense, the first poet, the first to use human speech. What Mackay highlights in this passage about him, however, is not his giving of names, creating words, but his receptivity – things “came into his head” (21) – suggesting that creativity is linked to passivity. This is suggested again in the highly imaginative description of the twinflower the speaker/poet gives when he accidentally – that is, passively – comes upon it: “a shy/hoister of flags, a tiny lamp to read by” (35-36). Thus, creativity depends on a person's ability to receive words, just as the twinflower receives its name.

If poetry requires receptivity, it also certainly requires assertiveness in the way of naming and creating a system of words which demarcates reality. However, like many postmodernists, Mackay notes the limits that this requirment places on poets/humans. The flower in the poem is given the name Linnaea Borealis “to live by in the system [Linnaeus] devised” (51) – bringing to mind the question of what that flower is out of that system. Similarly, what is the flower beyond its metaphoric definition as “a tiny lamp?” (36). As a solution to the issue of the inherent imprecision of language, Mackay indicates the necessity of the constant revision of words – of recognizing that, despite the “note of certainty” (43), the assignment of a word to something does not constitute “the end” (44) of its naming. In fact, the poem begins with an instance of such revision, with the poet reconsidering and rejecting a word, “spirit” (2), which has been given a definition as “the muscle we long with” (2).

By beginning his poem as such, Mackay demonstrates that poetry and creativity require reconsideration of established words. To this end, receptivity – the pause Adam makes before he gives a name – “matters” (25). Language, however, is assertive by nature. Words demarcate reality – in deed, this is precisely the reason reconsideration is constantly necessary. In other words, creativity is a cyclical processs in which one fluctuates between being a receptive spoon – a “hollowed” instrument (“spoon”) – and an assertive, inevitably deconstructive knife.

Works Cited

Authorized King James Version Bible. Ed. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1997. Google Books. Web.

Mackay, Don. “Twinflower.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in Englih. Eds. Donna Bennett and Russell Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 907-908.

Page, P.K. “Kaleidoscope.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Eds. Donna Bennett and Russell Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 529-531.

"spoon, n.". OED Online. March 2012. Oxford University Press. 3 April 2012

The "All-Inclusive Metaphor" of P.K. Page's "Kaleidoscope"

The end of P.K. Page's poem, "Kaleidoscope," reads like an invitation as she impels us to reconsider the analogy she has drawn: "Through [the kaleidoscope] – see/...the perfect, all-inclusive metaphor" (71-73). What is the metaphor she has lain out? What is it that the speaker sees through the "celestial kaliedoscope" (28)? To be quite frank, she sees everything – the world, its people, and, generally, the state of things.

At a literal level, through the kaleidescope, the speaker views the world of objects and, significantly, it is entirely transformed. “Pots and pans [become]...leaves and flowers” (51-52); a leaking faucet drips “diamonds [and] stars” (54); even “square roots” (49) come alive. In brief, the mundane becomes marvellous. People are also seen differently through the kaleidoscope. In the first section of the poem, Byron sees his lover's palms as “sand dollars” (6) and then “petalled stars” (9); her mouth transforms into flowers, her naval into “shells and pearls” (17), and so on.

Notably in this first section, Page continually mentions the number four: Byron's lover's mouth becomes “four hearts...to kiss and kiss and kiss/and kiss a fourth time” (10-14); shortly after, “her naval...[quadruples] for him” (16-18). The number immediately evokes a variety of things – theseasons, the elements, the bodily humours, et al. – which are deemed to be in a state of constant change (for example, the seasons cycle; the proportion of humours within a body are unfixed). It is possible, then, that Page is suggesting that people, like “multiple Terese” (31), are ever-going through motions of “shift and flux and flow” (36). Perhaps this is why Page chose to allude to the Romantic poet, Lord Byron: he was known to be a temperamental man (Stillinger 611).

Through the kaleidoscope, then, one sees a changed view of the ordinary world - it becomes extraordinary. One sees also the multiplicity and mutability of others. In the final stanza, the speaker mentions a final aspect of what the kaleidoscope reveals: "each single thing is other-/all-ways joined/to every other thing" (62-64). The kaleidoscope presents her with a vision, that is, of the interconnectedness of things about her, the abstract blending of entities.

If the shifting, beautiful, interweaving shapes it shows represent the world, human nature, and interconnected humanity, what could the kaleidoscope itself metaphorically signify? One might see the kaleidoscope, as it involves seeing, as a symbol of perception. I venture further, however, that the kaleidoscope symbolizes a particular kind of perception - one which lets the perceiver see the world about him or her as the kaleidoscope does, as beautiful, changing, and interconnected.

I venture that the kaleidoscope is a symbol of poetic perception. This explains the allusion to Lord Byron, the "arch Romantic" responsible for the creation of the Byronic hero (Stillinger 610) - responsible, that is, for popularizing a character that is defined neither by good nor evil but an interplay of both; it is as though Byron had a kaleidoscopic vision of human nature which recognized its multiplicity.

Later in Page's poem, she writes,

My eye falls headlong
down this slender tube,
its eyebeam glued
to shift and flux and flow. (34-37)

By writing thus in first person and present tense, Page creates the effect that what she is relaying is happening immediately. Of course, we are prone to read this passage as though the "slender tube" denotes the kaleidoscope (and it certainly does, at some level), but, literally, what is she doing in the moment of writing those words but writing? Thus the "slender tube," the "cylinder" (39) with which she is "interdependent/paired in serious play" (42-43) just as plausibly refers to a writing utensil - a pen or pencil - and the things which happen - the transformation of her surroundings into beauty and the realization she gains that "nothing is what it seems" (60) - are a result of her poetic/kaleidoscopic perception of the world.

In conclusion then, Page's poem is, indeed, an "all-inclusive metaphor!" The kaleidoscope and what is seen through it not only metaphorically convey a vision of the world and humanity as changeable, beautiful, and interconnected, but also a vision of vision itself, of how to view the world, and a vision of the poet as visionary.

WORKS CITED

Page, P.K. "Kaleidoscope." An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Eds. Donna Bennet and Russel Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 512. Print.

Stillinger, Jack and Deidre Shauna Lynch. "George Gordon, Lord Byron." The Norton Anthology of English Literature. 8th ed.Vol. D. Eds. Jack Stillinger and Deidre Shauna Lynch. New York: Norton, 2006. 607-611. Print.

The Butterfly and the God - Artistry in Layton's "The Fertile Muck" and "Butterfly on Rock"

Irving Layton's “Butterfly on Rock” and “The Fertile Muck” concern themselves primarily with the same issue. In “The Fertile Muck,” the speaker asks “How to dominate reality?” (25); in “Butterfly on Rock,” the poet contemplates the “desire/to be a thing alive” (7-8). In both pieces, that is, Layton ponders how to bring significance to mere existence. He explicitly provides two answers - “Love is one way;/imagination another” (25-26) – and the latter of these he brings to the forefront and focus of each of these poems.

In “Butterfly on Rock,” Layton explores the concept of the creative artist through the metaphor of a butterfly which settles on a rock, thereby making “manifest” (8) the lifeless object's yearning. He employs this metaphor, as well, in “The Fertile Muck,” where he describes insects as having a poet's “crafty eyes” (8). The image of the butterfly is evocative. Butterflies connote beauty and fancifulness – qualities which may be attributed to the artist or his craft – but, above all, they represent transformation. Layton suggests, then, that imagination is transformative; it has the power to “extend...rooms...without cost” (“The Fertile Muck” 19) – to transform, and transcend, what is.

Layton is, however, not content with settling on this earthy, delicate representation of the poet. In “The Fertile Muck,” for example, though “the winged insects...wear [his] crafty eyes” (7-8), they are no “better off” (7) than the empty wind. Perhaps butterflies are simply too common for Layton, too much a part of the “bleak forest” (“Butterfly on Rock” 10) he desires to escape. Layton does not see the butterfly as the ideal image of the poet because it is fragile; it can be destroyed or confined in “moth-proofed cupboards” (“Fertile” 17), its “irregular footprint” (“Fertile” 22) erased.

Being thus discontent with the fragility connoted by the butterfly, Layton elevates the poet further, to the status of a god. For instance, in “Butterfly on Rock,” it is not until the speaker most epically brings his “hand down on the butterfly” (14) that the rock actually comes alive, so to speak; it is the poet's hand which achieves the miraculous. In “The Fertile Muck,” Layton writes,

There are brightest apples on those trees
but until I, fabulist, have spoken
they do not know their significance
or what other legends are hung...
on their black boughs. (1-5)

The image of the tree and its legendary fruit is allusive: it brings to mind, for instance, the golden apples of Greek mythology, or the forbidden fruit in the Garden of Eden. By putting his speaker in the position of the “fabulist” (2) then, Layton not only conveys that a poet is a mythmaker in a dual sense. The poet is a creator, an artist, drawing from the “fertile muck” of his mind and surroundings, and, like the religious Creator, he makes life meaningful.

While Layton, then, associates himself as an artist with the butterfly, evidently he is not satisfied with a purely natural symbol. In both of the poems in question, he chooses to represent his poetic expression as Godlike. He shows staunch - indeed, almost arrogant - conviction in the power of the creative artist - but perhaps Layton in his time, unlike the Romantic poets in theirs, though he is inspired by it, simply feels no complete reassurance in or by nature. Nature is death, “shattered porcupines...in [a] bleak forest” (“Butterfly” 9-10). To feel secure in his vocation - to bring significance to his art and thereby his own existence - Layton must, as he does, envision the poet - himself - as indestructible, Godlike.

WORKS CITED

Layton, Irving. “Butterfly on Rock.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Eds. Donna Bennet and Russel Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 512. Print.

---. “The Fertile Muck.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Eds. Donna Bennet and Russel Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 508-509. Print.

Tension in Crawford's "Canada to England"

Isabelle Crawford’s “Canada to England” is, in a word, tense. Crawford continuously attempts to reconcile two divergent concepts: while she writes positively of Canada’s progress, she also develops a fairly Romantic view of an ideal past. At once, then, Crawford looks favourably towards the past as well as the future.

The clearest manifestation of this tension is in the poem’s nature imagery. Although Crawford writes that “Nature’s self/Is led, glad captive...And our... God...smiles on the deed” (21-25), earlier in the poem she likens nature to “Samson yet unshorn” (7). These metaphors conflict: God would not “smile” at Samson’s hair (symbolic of his spiritual devotion) being cut. Furthermore, the author depicts nature as sublime: she speaks of the “wild roar” (4) and the “solitary might” (8) of the Canadian wilderness. By describing nature thus as frightful or awe-inspiring, Crawford further associates nature with God, and therefore complicates our understanding of the poem’s positive view of progress upon which God supposedly “smiles.”
Crawford continues to develop the tension of the past-future dichotomy through her references to spirituality and culture. Allusions to old, “uncivilized” spiritualities are frequently and rather erratically blended with Biblical references; the first stanza, for instance, refers to Samson as well as “Ambrosial-breathing furies” (15). Even England – the pinnacle of progress in the poem – is referred to as the “Warrior of the Seas” (1), a tribal title. The various, seemingly haphazard cultural and religious allusions further create tension within the poem between the past (as represented in older cultures/spiritualities) and the civilized future (as signified by Christianity).

The title of the poem, “Canada to England” can be read in at least three ways. Literally, the poem is a direct message from Canada to England. At another level, the poem outlines Canada’s progress as a nation towards becoming a cultivated and civilized land, the exemplary of which is England – that is, the poem describes the transformation of “Canada to England.” It is interesting to note, also, that, although Canada’s growth into a country like England is progress or movement forward, in emulating England, Canada is also looking backwards at its roots. The tension of the poem, reflective of the tension and awkwardness of a growing nation as it is simultaneously pulled in various directions, works with each of these interpretations.

SOURCE

Crawford, Isabella Valancy. “Canada to England.” An Anthology of Canadian Literature in English. Ed. Donna Bennett and Russell Brown. Don Mills: Oxford University Press, 2010. 188-90. Print.

Thoughts on Some Works of Canadian Literature

A comparison of Canadian wolf-stories

Both Ernest Thompson Seton and Farley Mowat wrote within a trend of literary environmentalism which stressed the relationship between man and beast and exalted the environment as a place of harmony and morality. Thus their respective works, “Lobo King of the Currumpaw” and Never Cry Wolf, share these elements, as well as the general purpose of advocating justice for animals. “They surely have their rights” (12), says Seton in his “Note to the Reader,” similarly Mowat in his “Preface” states that the wolf is a “fellow creature which has at least an equal right to life” as humans.

To reinforce the notion that animals are akin to humans and therefore deserve the same rights, both writers personify their wolves. Lobo is first referred to as a “king” (15). His story is laid out like that of an outlaw of the Old West - “well-known to the cowboys” (17), wreaking havoc throughout the land with his “remarkable pack” (15) and dodging all who go after his “royal scalp” (23). He is intelligent enough to outsmart all but one man; the story progresses as a battle of wits between Lobo and the narrator as he tries to kill the wolf. At the end of the story, as a “lion shorn of his strength, an eagle robbed of his freedom or a dove bereft of his mate” (43), Lobo is said to die “of a broken heart” (43) Interestingly, while these similes compare the wolf to various other animals, the sentiments expressed therein – hopelessness, apathy, love, and despair – are human emotions. Thus Seton implies that these qualities, conventionally considered exclusively human, are inherent across the animal kingdom.

Mowat also emphasizes the humanness of the wolves he studies. In “Good Old Uncle Albert,” he describes the “individual personalities” of the wolves: the father wolf, “conscientious…thoughtful…and affectionate,” reminds him of a man he once worked for; the mother is described as nurturing, despite being “devilish.” The pups play familiar games such as tag. There is one essential factor, however, in the way Mowat describes George, Angelina, Albert and the pups that is lacking in Seton’s narrative – he actually describes them as better. George is the “idealized image” of a father that might appear in human stories “but whose real prototype has seldom paced the earth upon two legs;” Angelina is “the epitome of motherhood” and, “unlike dogs, who have adopted many of the habits of their human owners,” faithful to her mate, as is her nature. Thus, Mowat’s rendition of the wild is much more exalting than Seton’s. Seton conveys that wolves are as intelligent, heroic, and unique as humans, but not necessarily better.

Therefore, although the motivation of both works is the advocacy of animal rights, the theme of “Lobo” is the kinship between man and wolf, while the central concept of Never Cry Wolf, realized at the very end of the novel, is the “alien role” of humans who have exiled themselves from a world naturally more peaceful and ethical than their own.


Romance and Romanticism in Anne of Green Gables

Romance and Romanticism are motifs which run through L.M. Montgomery’s beloved tale Anne of Green Gables. Countless times, the protagonist herself brings up romance, often praising or denouncing a thing for how romantic (or unromantic) it is. Thus, in understanding Anne of Green Gables, one must explore the role played by these motifs within the novel.

Romanticism provides an encompassing tone and prospect for the novel. The glorification of nature, a defining aspect of Romanticism, is evident in the novel in the many positive descriptions of nature given by both the narrator and the protagonist. Anne herself is particularly depicted as having a very close connection to nature: she names and speaks to the tree outside her window, ponders the feelings of geraniums, and has a deep appreciation for the surrounding environment. In general, Romanticism honoured the child. The movement grew, in part, in reaction to rationalism, and therefore the child, being uncorrupted by the reason of adults, was seen as innocent and pure (Cooper). Above all, the Romantic movement had a preoccupation with a simpler past, “an idyllic time” (Cooper) – and this too is a component of Anne of Green Gables. Written in the early 1900s but placed in a setting some fifty years prior, the novel has always had the nostalgic quality that has greatly influenced its popularity (Fiamengo).

The romance that Anne exalts draws its primary inspiration from the Arthurian legends (Fiamengo). These medieval stories speak of heroes and quests, passionate loyalty, and perhaps above all, self-sacrifice and the trials that love could endure (Fiamengo). Anne’s infatuation with this melodramatic genre, however, leads her to insensible worries and continuous trouble: she detests her name and yearns for a more extravagant title such as “the Lady Cordelia Fitzgerald” (64); she dyes her hair (with disastrous results) in hopes of acquiring “beautiful raven black” (201) locks and later laments that she should lose her hair in such a non-noble fashion. As these events show, romance, in the medieval sense of the word, though “probably easy enough in towered Camelot hundreds of years ago” (211), was unrealistic in a place like Avonlea. Realizing this, Anne chooses to renounce romance.

Though there is no doubt that Anne does greatly relinquish her desire for romance, Montgomery returns to the motif at the end of the novel when Anne chooses to sacrifice her intended plans of going to Redmond in order to save Green Gables and keep Marilla company. In this act, we see the loyalty, love and noble self-sacrifice which are of utmost value in medieval romances (Fiamengo). Thus Montgomery conveys the possibility of romance in the real world, and implies, further, that Anne’s romantic tendencies have not diminished – merely ripened.


Tom Wilson and Brian the Still-Hunter

In her introduction to Roughing It in the Bush, Susanna Moodie explains that the aim of her book is to describe “what the Backwoods of Canada are…to the refined and accomplished gentleman” (5). The various sketches she presents throughout of characters such as Tom Wilson and Brian the Still-Hunter conform to this purpose, offering an unappealing portrayal of a land that is unfit for the gentry.

In “Tom Wilson’s Emigration,” the eccentric Mr. Wilson tells Mr. Moodie that he believed their “qualifications” for prospering in Canada were “pretty equal” (66). This invites readers to consider the possible similarities between the two, and whether or not, in fact, Mr. Moodie isn’t quite as “helpless [and] whimsical” (64) as Mr. Wilson. The author explains that Mr. Wilson comes from an “old but impoverished” (1) family which, despite its financial circumstances, still “held a certain rank and standing” (59) – this is identical to the background of any gentlemen who chose to immigrate to Canada, as outlined in the Introduction. He is portrayed as “dressed with…neatness and care” (61), having a “slight, elegant” (59) figure, and often seen bowing to “pretty girls” (59) or going hunting “with a brown spaniel dodging at his heels” (59). At the same time, he is excessively distracted and impractical. Therefore Wilson is both the portrait of an average Englishman and a device of humour. Thus, while leading her readers to laugh at Wilson and his hopeless “scheme” (66) to immigrate, Susanna Moodie implies that Mr. Moodie will be just as unsuccessful in the New World, being from precisely the same sort of background. She uses Wilson’s speech in “Tom Wilson’s Emigration” to both highlight her feelings of apprehension and foreshadow imminent failure: “’Gentlemen can’t work like labourers…,” says Mr. Wilson to the Moodies, “you will find that out” (66).

“Brian the Still-Hunter” further conveys the futility of gentlemen immigrating to Canada by presenting a disenchanting portrait of a gentleman immersed in the Canadian wilderness. Brian describes himself as “respectably born and educated” (187). Traces of his background are evident through the chapter: he generously provides milk for the baby, shows an interest in art, runs an errand for Mrs. Moodie, and so on. However, it is very clear that twenty years in Canada has taken its toll on him. Layton, who gives Brian’s history, relates that, over time, Brian became a drunk; he says “when the liquor was in, and the wit was out, [Brian became] as savage and as quarrelsome as a bear” (183). This analogy associates wilderness, as embodied by the bear, with lack of “wit” or reason. After three suicide attempts, Brian gives up drinking and chooses to isolate himself in the forest instead – but as he himself states, hunting is merely a replacement to supply “the stimulant which [he] lost when [he] renounced the cursed whiskey bottle” (188). He makes a fourth attempt at suicide – this time succeeding – proving that the Canadian wilderness is no more a solution than drinking is for a gentleman.

The sketches of Tom Wilson and Brian the Still-Hunter both attest to Susanna Moodie’s ultimate conclusion regarding the backwoods of Canada: “To the poor industrious working man, it provides many advantageous; to the poor gentleman, none!” (538).


Satire in Leacock's Sunshine Sketches

Stephen Leacock’s novel, Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town, mocks small-town life as represented in the fictional town of Mariposa. Leacock exposes the townspeople as petty, hypocritical, and prone to folly. At the same time, however, he leads readers to identify with the characters. Thus his satire is of a gentle sort. While it ridicules the subject of Mariposa, it also sympathizes with it – and ultimately provides a complex, derisive yet nostalgic view of small-town living.

An excellent example of the complex, satiric yet endearing, viewpoint Leacock takes in his narrative is provided through the character of the Rev. Dean Drone. Although a reverend, Drone is described as being just as self-important as the rest of the Mariposans: in order to impress and appear studious, he pretends to read and understand Greek, but as the narrator says, “when Dean Drone said that he simply couldn’t translate it,…he was perfectly sincere” (69). He has a “liking for machinery” (71) (more enthusiastic, perhaps, than his liking for Christianity, as the fact that his best sermon was one on airplanes might indicate), and makes “kites and boats and clockwork steamboats for [children]” (70) – despite never actually letting the children themselves play with the toys. Thus, Dean Drone is initially depicted as a vain and at least partially dishonest (to others and to himself) person. But from the introduction of his aim of twenty-five years to “kindle a Brighter Beacon” (75), Leacock begins to describe Drone from within the character himself, referring to his dreams, worries, and hurts. When someone refers to Drone as a “mugwump” (81), Leacock details the Reverend’s ensuing anxiety, which is both laughable in its portrayal of a cleric looking up “mugwump” in the encyclopedia, and extremely pitiful. Thus, while Dean Drone is portrayed satirically as a man of many faults, Leacock also provides an inside look at the thoughts and feelings of the reverend, thus allowing the readers to see him not merely as a subject of laughter, but as uniquely human.

The narrative voice with which Leacock writes greatly aids him in establishing his dualistic viewpoint which sees characters both from within and without. As he is detailing the events of the story, the narrator is merely a spectator, seeing each character as the outside world would – that is, as objects of ridicule, ripe with folly. However, the narrator himself appears to be just as foolish as the Mariposans. He often speaks with the same pride in Mariposa and their petty lifestyle as the other citizens; for instance, in the first chapter, he defends the Mariposan opinion that the town, with its “dentists and lawyers…ready to work at any minute” (3) and its four (at the most) “sausage machine” (3) workers, is a “perfect hive of activity” (3). Thus, he is an Mariposan insider as well.

Inasmuch as this is true, Leacock also allows his narrator to be a point of satire. He is as naïve, contradictory, and trivial as the inhabitants of Mariposa. In the self-deprecation of the narrator, as well as the intimate involvement of the reader in the details of the characters’ lives, Leacock assuages the hostility of his satire.


Sources

Cooper, Susan. “Children’s Literature: History of the Child.” ENG2110: Children's Literature. University of Ottawa, Ontario, CA. 30 Jan 2010.

Fiamengo, Janice. Class Lectures on Anne of Green Gables. ENG2400B: Canadian Literature. University of Ottawa, Ontario, CA. 2 Nov 2010-9 Nov 2010.

Leacock, Stephen. Sunshine Sketches of a Little Town. Toronto: McClelland & Stewart, 2010.

Montgomery, L.M. Anne of Green Gables & Anne of Avonlea. Hertfordshire: Wordsworth Editions Limited, 2008.

Moodie, Susanna. Roughing It in the Bush. Toronto: McClelland and Steward, 2007.

Moway, Farley. Never Cry Wolf. Toronto: McClelland and Stewart, 1973. eBook.

Seton, Ernest Thompson. Wild Animals I Have Known. New York: Dover Publications, Inc. 7- 44.