The Duties of Adulthood - a Brief Analysis of Wordsworth's "Ode to Duty"

Upon first reading, “Ode to Duty” seems to conflict with the understood views of its author: it is difficult to attribute an appraisal of duty to a man who is well-known for lauding “the spontaneous overflow of emotion” (“Preface” 598) – spontaneity and duty seem at odds. However, upon closer consideration of the poem, one finds that Wordsworth does not necessarily suggest “duty” to be the adherence and conformity to an established religious or societal code, as one might understand the word today. Rather, “duty,” as Wordsworth describes, is a conscious devotion to the very things readers have overtime come to associate with him: childlike hope, joy, and an alignment with the natural world.

            The connection between Duty and nature is clear in the seventh stanza of the poem, where the speaker recognizes Duty's hand in all the natural world about him, from the flowers up to the stars. He connects Duty, furthermore, to divinity, naming her “the Godhead's most benignant grace” (50); the implication is, then, that the ordering of nature, maintained by Duty, is a reflection of God's will and benediction. This view is not unlike the view the child takes of nature, as Wordsworth describes in “Ode (‘There was a time’)”: “The earth.../To me did seem/Apparelled in celestial light” (2-4). In both cases, nature is recognized as infused with divinity. The difference between the child's view of nature, as remembered in “Ode,” and the adult's view, as expressed in “Ode to Duty,” is that, to the child, the world merely “did seem” heavenly. The adult speaker of “Ode to Duty,” on the other hand, recognizes that the natural world is heavenly because it is ordered on a set of natural laws which have their source in “the most Ancient Heavens” (“Duty” 56), which state, for example, that flowers shall bloom and “laugh” (“Duty” 53) or that stars shall be fixed in their positions. In other words, the child, in his interactions with nature, is filled with awe and thus implicitly aware of nature's divine source; the adult explicitly recognizes a government in nature, which he personifies as Duty, the “Daughter of the Voice of God” (“Duty” 1).

            In writing an “Ode to Duty,” then, Wordsworth is in part writing an ode to adulthood and “the philosophic [or, in other words, thoughtful] mind” (“Ode” 189) which consciously takes up what the child unconsciously carries out – that is, duty. In the poem in question, “Ode to Duty,” Wordsworth writes, “Youth/...without reproach or blot/...do thy work, and know it not” (12-14), indicating that Duty is not societal or religious conventionality or conformity – those are not things which children, purely in being children, adhere to. Thus, though he gives himself to Duty's “controul” (“Duty” 35), we may know that Wordsworth has not given up his childhood ideals; rather he has re-committed himself to them. As an adult, however, who can no longer “rely/Upon the genial sense of youth” (“Duty” 11-12), Wordsworth must consciously dedicate himself to Duty “in the quietness of thought” (“Duty” 36); that is, he must employ the “philosophic mind” (“Ode” 189) of his adulthood to dedicate himself, again, to the duties of his childhood years.

            Then, of course, the final question is that of his exact duties: what are they? What is a child's duty but to be carefree? As it turns out, this is precisely what Duty provides: freedom from “strife and from despair” (8). The poem suggests that children are free of “despair” because they are hopeful by nature:  they are the “blessed” (21) who “entertain” (22) a belief that “Serene will be our days and bright/And happy will our nature be” (17-18) – that is, a belief in a pleasant future. Because they have no doubts of “love” (23) or “joy” (24), children may “live in the spirit” (23) of faith. Adults, on the other hand, because they are aware that things “press/ Upon...present happiness” (29-30), must consciously “find that other strength” (24). That is, they must wilfully take up the duty to be faithful and thus free from “strife and despair” (8).

            As I have said, the duty to be hopeful and happy, which adults must undertake, is unconsciously performed by children. That is not to say, however, that the poet is unaware of duties particular to adulthood. In the middle of the poem, he at length discusses the concept of will in accepting one's duties; it is important to Wordsworth to clarify that he “still [acts] according to the voice/Of [his] own wish” (42-43). Thus the poem indicates that, as an adult consciously aware of him or herself, one has the duty to reconcile one's actions with one's desires and needs – that is, to be true to one's self. Again, children are, by nature, true to themselves; it is as they grow slowly into adults and take up, as Wordsworth writes in “Ode,” the “vocation/[of] endless imitation” (106-107), that it becomes a conscious duty to maintain individuality and free will. Thus, even in consciously exercising free will as an adult, one is merely continuing the work of the child.

            “Ode to Duty,” then, is not discordant with Wordsworth's ideals. Of course, as one might expect, duty is linked to adulthood; in the main, this poem is about the duty of being an adult, of taking responsibility through “the quietness of thought” (36). However, the responsibilities which Wordsworth outlines are essentially synonymous with the duties of a child; like the child, the adult has a duty to be free of “strife and from despair” (8), to live in hope, and to be true to one's self. However, while the child could carry out these duties and “know it not” (14), the adult is inevitably aware of himself and his actions. This does not much change things. Ultimately the adult's true duty is to consciously, thoughtfully, and wilfully do that which he had done unconsciously since birth and as a child. 

SOURCES

Wordsworth, William. “Ode (‘There was a time’).” The Major Works. Oxford: World’s Classics, 2000. 297-302. Print.

---. “Ode to Duty.” The Major Works. Oxford: World’s Classics, 2000. 295-297. Print.

---. “Preface to Lyrical Ballads.” The Major Works. Oxford: World’s Classics, 200. 595-615. 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.

Modernist Anxiety as Depicted in Yeats' "The Second Coming" and Beckett's Endgame

The "catchphrase" of the twentieth century, derived from W. H. Auden's 1947 poem which bore the term as its title, is the "Age of Anxiety" (“anxiety” Def. 5). It is not just present-day scholars who have used the tag, but writers and thinkers within that era itself; for example, a 1953 publication of the Economist refers in one article to the “Age of anxiety;” it comes up again, also, in a 1958 edition of The Times (“anxiety” Def. 5). In light of this lasting label, then, used not only retrospectively by those studying an historical period but also by contemporaries of that period, we may be quite sure that the twentieth century was, indeed, a time in which anxiety was so pervasive and profound that it defined that time both from within and without. Having settled upon this, a host of questions arise, enclosed in this one: What is the nature of modernist anxiety?

Comparative analysis of “The Second Coming” by W. B. Yeats and Endgame by Samuel Beckett yields a comprehensive answer to this question, demonstrating a variety of elements that contribute to the characteristic super-anxiety of the modern era. These texts indicate that the modernist anxiety is at least threefold. Most basically, the anxiety arose from current affairs which were, as most would agree, worrisome. However, the modernists were also preoccupied with the past, the ideals and values from which, precisely because of current affairs, they felt alienated. This disconnection with past ideas and structures meant that the modernists experienced things in a void: suddenly without any faith in the support of a set of values against which to measure the world, the modernists could not value the world at all; to them, it became unknowable and insignificant. A comparison of “The Second Coming” and Endgame thus indicates that the anxiety which understandably arose from the present condition of the world expanded, ultimately, to an extreme anxiety over the futility of all past, present, and future existence – a threefold, all-encompassing, utterly hopeless anxiety.

In this interpretation, the modernist anxiety emerges most basically from current events of the early- to mid-1900s. One sees this clearly in the beginning lines of “The Second Coming,” wherein the poet depicts a dark, uneasy present world. Among the things he notes about the contemporary world is a trend of violence. The image of the falcon, for example, no longer under the control of a falconer as it flies ever higher, indicates (as the falcon is a bird of prey) a steady increase in brute violence. Elsewhere, the poet refers to “the blood-dimmed tide” (5), the mention of “blood” again suggesting violence that has “dimmed” the world. The editors of the anthology wherein this poem may be found note that it “was written...in the aftermath of World War I and the Russian Revolution and on the eve of the Anglo-Irish War” (Yeats fn.2). Undeniably, this was a turbulent time in which to live, a time of “passionate intensity” (8). The famous opening lines of “The Second Coming” demonstrate that the violence perceived during the era contributed to the troubled, anxious modernist outlook of the world.

Aside from the notion of violence, the major characteristic Yeats attributes to the modern world in “The Second Coming” is disorder. The violence itself is a result of this disorderliness: the poet envisions violence as something that has been restrained – that is, managed within an order - and, in the current times, “loosed” (5). The “falcon [who] cannot hear the falconer” (2) is another image of disorderliness: literally, the falcon no longer takes orders from its master. Yeats, then, sees the time in which he lives as one disintegrated into chaos. The images of “mere anarchy” (4) which Yeats uses to begin his poem establish the dire, discomfitting tone of the piece. Thus the poem suggests that comprised within modernist anxiety is a perception of a chaotic modern world.

One can find the motif of order and the chaotic ruin waiting beyond order also in Beckket's Endgame, in the characters of Hamm and Clov who form a pair, as physically manifest in their matching red faces. The two are engaged in a “vexed relationship...[of] master... [and] servant” (Stallworthy and Ramazani 2394). They are similar, then, to the falcon and the falconer of Yeats' poem. However, whereas Yeats mainly focuses on the chaos that erupts when hierarchical order “cannot hold” (3), Beckett examines the tension felt within an ordered situation of dominance and submission. Clearly, the hierarchical relationship between Hamm and Clov is not ideal for either party, as evidenced in the dialogue:

HAMM:...Why do you stay with me?

CLOV: Why do you keep me?

HAMM: There's no one else.

CLOV: There's nowhere else. (2396)

The situation is one of resentful “co-dependency” (Pearson 215). Clov and Hamm depend on one another because they are both, in some way, crippled, not fully competent: Hamm needs Clov to move him about and act as his eyes; Clov needs Hamm to give him food. Numerous times, Clov voices a desire to leave. However, as Hamm remarks, “Outside of here it's death” (2397). Thus, Beckket demonstrates that order is established to ward off the destructive, “outside” forces. In other words, order is set up to assuage the anxiety over threatening forces – death, in Beckett's work; chaotic violence in Yeats. However, as Beckett demonstrates, even within order, there is oppression, unhappiness, tension, and therefore anxiety resulting from a strained desire to escape order, as we find in Clov.

As aforementioned, the anxiety regarding disorder is rooted in current conflicts such as the First World War and the Russian Revolution which gave modernists a glimpse of the chaos and violence that erupted when various groups attempted to break out of an established order. However, the anxiety caused by the desire to escape an established order (even as disorder caused equal anxiety) is also rooted in contemporary affairs. For instance, as Nels Pearson contends in his essay subtitled “Codependency and the Ghosts of Decolonization,” the hierarchical relationship between Hamm and Clov can be interpreted as a parallel of the postcolonial relationship between colonizer and colony within the context of Irish history. As Pearson suggests, the strained, anxious relationship between the protagonists of Endgame derives from anxiety regarding the established order present in society (for example, the oppressive postcolonial relationship between Ireland and England).

To add to this point that modernist anxiety, as depicted in the two works in consideration, derived primarily from the present condition of the world is the observation made by some critics, such as Raymond Federman, that the setting of Endgame “reveals itself to be...a human skull...the two windows on the backdrop representing the eyes” (160). In this light, the tenants of the house or shelter – Hamm, Clov, Nell, and Nagg – are separate voices or thoughts within the skull; the mind depicted on stage is thus split-personalitied: it houses four people. Fascinatingly, modernists at the time “believed that Europe had a mind” (Brooker 12). Most notably in consideration of the split mind depicted by Beckett, T.S. Eliot maintained that the European mind is “schizophrenic” (Brooker 13). According to Eliot's The Use of Poetry and the Use of Criticism, Europe had undergone “'a splitting up of personality'” (Brooker 13). It can be argued, then, about Endgame that the play represents a single human mind conflicted within the structure of its own mind, but in the same vein, it can be argued that the setting represents the collective, “schizophrenic” (Brooker 13) mind of present-day Europe, with its tense conflicts. After all, according to Jewel Brooker, modern “philosophers and social scientists accepted the idea that the mind of the individual, the society, the culture, and the human race developed in parallel stages” (11). Thus, as suggested by the possible dual interpretation of the Endgame stage as both an individual and collective mind, the anxiety that modernists felt regarding order and disorder is a direct reflection of the anxiety and current tension in Europe at large. Paradoxical as it seems, then, the condition in Europe was both ordered and disordered, and, furthermore, both order and disorder caused tension on the continent and, in parallel fashion, in the minds of modernists. One must note, also, that, because the modernists felt uneasy with both order and disorder, they perceived themselves as trapped, like the characters in Beckett's play, with no where comfortable to stand.

Thus far I have argued that modernist anxiety stems primarily from the order and lack of order that the modernists witnessed immediately about them. However, as well as deriving from the present world, the anxiety felt by the modernists was intensified by their consideration of the past. Of course, the modernists' situation in, and preoccupation with, the present greatly influenced their view of the past; after all, when one considers an established order, he or she is inevitably considering an order that has been created in the past based on the past's ideals. So, for example, when Yeats writes, about the present, that “things fall apart” (3), he is recognizing that the old values which shaped the world no longer have the power to keep “things” together, that “the centre cannot hold” (3). Beckett also realizes this: in depicting Nell and Nagg (the older, parental generation) as with colourless faces, by placing them in trash cans, and by portraying the death of one of the two on stage, the play strongly indicates that the old ways are fading. Marc Hewson, in speaking of modernism, has called it an “age of awkwardness,” stating that the awkwardness – the “lack of ease” (“awkwardness” Def.3) akin to anxiety's “uneasiness” (“anxiety” Def.1) - comes from the modernists' recognition that they had lost the ability to use their parents' and grandparents' “tools.“ Thus, modernist anxiety, as well as coming from the present state of the world, was intensified through consideration of the past.

This leads us to the question, 'What constitutes “the centre” (3) of which Yeats speaks?' The first representative image presented in “The Second Coming,” that of a falconer at the centre of the “widening gyre” (1) of a flying falcon, provides some suggestions as to the “centre [that] cannot hold” (3). Glancing into the history of falconry, one finds that

Falconry...was the sport of kings in the Middle Ages...Social position not only

allowed time for the sport, but also dictated what species of bird could be used.

The technique and vocabulary of falconry was ritualized. (Jackson 21)

As falconry was a sport of the nobility, one might interpret Yeats' reference to it as indicating that “the centre” is – or was (since it no longer has any power) - traditional social hierarchy. Considering that Yeats disliked “the moneygrubbing and prudery of the middle classes...[and] looked for his ideal characters...to the aristocracy...[which had its] own traditions and lived according to them” (Stallworthy and Ramazani 2021), it is plausible that in the initial image of “The Second Coming,” he is expressing some regret for the loss of an ordered past in which the aristocracy stood at the controlling centre of things.

If the falconer is taken as an image of nobility, perhaps understood to be a king, he may also be taken as a representation of Christianity. The ordering of medieval society was based upon a desire to mimic the perfect, divine order, with the spousal relationship being a reiteration of the relationship of the king to his subjects, which itself was a reflection of the relationship between God and all of humanity – this is the reasoning that underlies, for instance, medieval concepts of petty and high treason (Plucknett 443), crimes which were seen as blasphemous acts against “the world order willed by God” (Carozzi 1365). Thus, if it is a noble falconer at the centre of the gyre which no longer holds, the image suggests that not only aristocracy but Christianity, as well, once held the world together. This interpretation is validated in the reference to “the ceremony of innocence [now] drowned” (6), a phrase one might take as denoting baptism, the Christian ceremony undergone by children. This view, that Yeats is suggesting Christiantiy to be one of the old structures that ordered society but no longer can, has been taken by many critics, including Brooker who writes “The center of which Yeats writes is Christianity, which for two thousand years held things together” (239).

The destabilization of these two centers of control – religion, and the traditional social system – was a long and gradual process and is a topic considered extensively in other works. For the purpose of understanding the modernist anxiety, however, we should note that this destablization was considerably hastened during the early twentieth century with publications of anthropological studies, among them James Frazer's Golden Bough, which “decentered” Western religion by placing it “in a comparative context as one of numerous related mythologies,” and philosophical writings such as those of Nietszche “who declared the death of God” (Stallworthy and Ramazani 1829). Furthermore, the World Wars of the twentieth century were a considerable blow on the modernists' faith not only in traditional social and religious structures but also in the methods – or “tools” (Hewson) - that had once created and perpetuated those structures, namely “conviction” (Yeats 7) – that is, firm “opinion or belief” (“conviction” Def. 7) as established through reason - and “passionate intensity” (Yeats 8) – that is, emotion. During the First World War, modernists witnessed many of the innovations which had been heralded as marks of human progress (for example, manned flight, first accomplished in 1903) turned to atrocious purposes (Hewson). According to Dr. Hewson, the “awkwardness” (or anxiety) of modernism arose from having to face the apparent fact that humanity was not what it had imagined itself to be. Thus, modernist anxiety, rooted in current events, intensified in consideration of the past, with the recognition that the “falcon cannot hear the falconer” (Yeats 2) - that is, that modernity was disconnected from its origins, from the structures and ideas that had once provided order and stability (a place to perch, if we extend Yeats' falcon/falconer comparison).

Twentieth century anxiety thus arose from what the modernists knew immediately (ie. the order and disorder of contemporary life) and that which they knew retrospectively (ie. the inadequacy and failure of past structures and modes of thought). However, as “The Second Coming” and Endgame show, the modernist anxiety was further heightened by the perception of a looming presence which had yet to be experienced or fully known. In “The Second Coming,” this is the “shape with the lion body and the head of a man,/...[slouching] towards Bethlehem to be born” (14-22). The creature, though by its particular hybridity recognizable as a sphinx, is meant to be ambiguous. It is a “shape,” merely – Yeats does not specify its species; furthermore, it is located in the unspecific setting of “somewhere” (13). Yeats concludes the poem, finally, asking “what rough beast” (21). Thus the description of this creature yet to be born is deliberately vague. This vagueness contributes to the sinister aura which accompanies this creature; its “gaze blank” (15) – a gaze unreadable, unknowable – creates uneasiness in the poet, troubling his “sight” (13) as well as ours, indicating that there is anxiety in not knowing.

This, of course is very troubling for the modernists. Because they now seriously doubted and had renounced old systems of thought and methods of knowing, the only thing the modernists could use to establish knowledge was individual perception, which they recognized as subjective and therefore not capable of ascertaining objective, absolute truth. This dilemma is captured in the setting of Beckett's play, which, as aforementioned is a depiction of a skull. The mind within the skull (ie. the four characters) has only two windows, two eyes, with which to see the outer world – aside from those, the mind is self-enclosed. Thus, as Beckett demonstrates, modernists recognized that the subjective perception which was now their only mode of perception was, by nature, limited and inadequate in ascertaining truth. This, coupled with the fact that there is uneasiness in vague, incomplete knowledge, indicates that the anxiety the modernists felt over not knowing was inescapable.

It must be noted, however, in a comparison of Yeats and Beckett, that in Endgame while there is a depiction of modernist subjectivity, the anxiety over not knowing is not brought into as much focus as in “The Second Coming.” Instead, Endgame foregrounds the knowledge that the characters, self-enclosed within some protective shelter, have of the outer world – that is, it examines what the characters fear to experience. When Clov peers through his telescope on “the without,” he states that he sees “Zero...zero...and zero” (2404). Earlier, Hamm states that “Outside of here it's death” (cite). Thus what the characters fear is death or, more generally, non-existence, the “infinite emptiness [that] will be,” as Hamm says (2406). Beckett associates death with the desert by causing Nell's final word before dying to be “desert.” The image of the desert is a suggestive symbol: it suggests not merely physical lack of life but also spiritual aridity (as in “The Second Coming,” where the dawn of a new era takes its setting in “sands of the desert,” suggesting the spiritual aridity at the end of the preceding, Christian era). Overall, the desert is a symbol of general void. The irony of the situation in Endgame, however, is that, in trying to guard themselves against the void, the emptiness, and the spiritual and physical death which await them, the characters create a stifling, unhappy system and a life for themselves which, self-enclosed, is equally void and empty: a life spent desiring to escape, as Clov does, or like Hamm, recognizing “it's time it ended” but continuing to “hesitate” (2395). As with the anxiety over not knowing, the anxiety caused by a fear of the void of substance (physical, spiritual, etc.) is inescapable, not only because in attempting to protect one's self from the void, one creates another void but also because, specifically, the modernists could no longer rely on older systems to impart meaning upon the void and thus make it meaningful (for example, in the Christian vision, death is merely one step on a the greater journey towards God/heaven). Modernist thought perceives that, within and without social structures (friendship, family, master/servant coordinations, religion, etc.), there is no meaning; thus, even as modernists yearn for structures of meaning, they recognize the futility of such structures, thus creating an inescapable anxiety.

One final observation can be made regarding modernist anxiety over what remained to come: both Beckett and Yeats, in their respective works, depict an anxiety over the repetition of life. The motif of cyclical existence is key in “The Second Coming” wherein Yeats employs his vision of history as two spiraling gyres which alternatingly expand and contract. As one gyre reaches its most expansive point (as during the modernist era), tension mounts, “things fall apart” (3). Thus, Yeats suggests there is anxiety over the cyclical, repetitive nature of history which predicts recurring chaos. In Endgame, similarly, there is tension at the possibility of life repeating. This possibility comes up three times in the play: with the flea, the rat, and the boy. In each case, Hamm and Clov express a desire to destroy life; when confronted with the existence of the flea, for instance, Hamm exclaims “But humanity might start from there all over again! Catch him, for the love of God!” (2405), indicating his tension at the thought of life reproducing. This disagreement with the cycle of life is somewhat perplexing in the case of Hamm and Clov. Considering their fear of the emptiness that awaits them beyond the here-and-now, one wonders why Hamm and Clov aren't elated at the prospect of life flourishing, filling the void - why they do not see the flea, rat, and boy hopefully. Similarly, one might ask why the poet of “The Second Coming” does not see the dawn of a new era as heralded by a “second coming” (even if a “second coming” without religious implications) as a hopeful change, why the image “troubles [the] sight” (13) of the speaker when it suggests a change in the current state of “mere anarchy” which the speaker deplores in the first few lines of the poem.

Both Beckett and Yeats suggest that the problem with hope, when it appears to occur, is that it occurs within a futile, inescapable system of stasis. For instance, the toy dog in Endgame which lacks one leg may be seen as a bizarrely hopeful object: it is a dog that is being put together; supposedly it will be complete – there is potential in the object. However, even if it is completed, even if that hope is fulfilled, it remains still a toy dog, a plaything, a pawn in someone else's game, just as the characters in the play are pawns (as suggested by their red and white pairing). The play ultimately views modern life as a futile “endgame” in which, despite appearances of hope, the final outcome (death, non-existence, emptiness) is unavoidable; the anxiety that arises at the notion of the continuation of life thus is an extension of the anxiety felt at living a futile, empty existence of which there can be no meaningful outcome.

Similarly, while the “Second Coming” in Yeats' poem would certainly mark a change in the direction of the world, it would still be a change within the limits of all possible history, a movement between two alternatives but not a true escape. In Yeat's model of history, it hardly matters what is at the center of the gyre, whether it is the figure of Jesus Christ or the figure of the sphinx, because, whatever it is, history will continue “turning and turning in the widening gyre” (1), continually leading to a point where “things fall apart” (3). Yeats and Beckett both indicate, thus, that the modernist anxiety permitted no sentiment of hope, for life, as the modernists viewed it in view of current catastrophic events and in consideration of the past's structures and ways of thinking which had so utterly failed, was futile, forever fluctuating between various extremes but never truly progressing.

The prevalent sentiment of the modernist period, anxiety, was so deep and dire that the period was nicknamed after it as “The Age of Anxiety.” To understand modernity, then, one must attempt to understand modernist anxiety. As I have argued based on analysis of Yeats' “The Second Coming” and Beckett's Endgame, the anxiety felt by the modernists was multifaceted; it derived from a number of aspects, which as in the interpretation of this paper, may be divided into aspects of the past, the present, and the future. The modernists felt anxiety over the lack of meaningful order in their contemporary world. Springing from their view of the immediate world, the modernists were forced to reconsider the past and recognize that the social structures and systems of thinking they had relied on could no longer hold - an understanding of disconnection that increased the modernists' sense of anxiety. Their view of the present and past cast serious doubts on the modernists' outlook of the future and the unknown in general. Stripped of the ability to trust in ordered systems of meaning, the modernists were reduced to an entirely subjective perception of the universe which denied the acquisition of objective, absolute truth – a perception which, in fact, suggested there is no such thing as objective truth. Similarly, the disconnection with and distrust of the past's systems of meaning rendered the modernists incapable of perceiving meaning in their surroundings; they were forced to confront the void, the unknown, the future, without anything stable to provide support, to help them make sense of and find meaning in the emptiness they perceived. As such, the modernist anxiety was all-encompassing and inescapable, creating in the modernist thinker and writer an outlook of all existence as inescapable futility, history as repetitive and barren.

SOURCES

“Anxiety.” Oxford English Dictionary Online. 2012. Web.

“Awkwardness.” Oxford English Dictionary Online. 2012. Web.

Beckett, Samuel. Endgame. The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Twentieth Century and After. Ed. M.H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.

Brooker, Jewel Spears. “The Mind of Europe: Anxiety, Crisis, and Therapy.” Mastery and Escape: T. S. Eliot and the Dialectic of Modernism.University of Massachusetts Press, 1996. 9-16. Google Books.

Carozzi, Claude. “Social Order.” Encyclopedia of the Middle Ages. Ed. Andre Vauchez, et al. Vol: 2. Chicago: Fitzroy Dearborn Publishers, 2000. 1365-1366. Google Books.

“Conviction.” Oxford English Dictionary Online. 2012. Web. 

Federman, Raymond. “The Imaginary Museum of Samuel Beckett.” symploke 10.1 (2002): 153-172. Scholars Portal Journals.University of Ottawa Library. 7 Mar. 2012.

Hewson, Marc. “Class Lecture.” ENG2450: American Literature. University of Ottawa, Ottawa, CA. July 4, 2011.

Jackson, Jerome A. “Birds and Humans.” Grzimek's Animal Life Encyclopedia. Ed. Michael Hutchins, Arthur V. Evans, Jerome A. Jackson, Devra G. Kleiman, James B. Murphy, Dennis A. Thoney, et al. Vol. 8. 2^nd ed. Detroit: Gale, 2004. 19-28. Gale Virtual Reference Library. Ottawa Public Library. 7. Mar. 2012.

Pearson, Nels C. “'Outside of Here is Death': Codependency and the Ghosts of Decolonization in Beckett's Endgame.” English Literary History 68.1 (2001): 215-239. Scholars Portal Journals. University of Ottawa Library. 7 Mar. 2012.

Plucknett, Theodore. “Treason.” A Concise History of the Common Law. Boston: Little Brown and Company, 1956. 443-444.

Stallworthy, Jon and Jahan Ramanazi. “Samuel Beckett.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Twentieth Century and After. Ed. M.H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006. 2393-2394.

---”W. B. Yeats.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Twentieth Century and After. Ed. M.H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006. 2019-2022.

---”Introduction.” The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Twentieth Century and After. Ed. M.H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006. 1827-1847.

---”'The Second Coming' and The Wasteland.” Mastery and Escape: T. S. Eliot and the Dialectic of Modernism. University of Massachusetts Press, 1996. 231-246. Google Books.

Yeats, W.B. "The Second Coming." The Norton Anthology of English Literature: The Twentieth Century and After. Ed. M.H. Abrams and Stephen Greenblatt. New York: W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.

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.