Harold Morland: The Matter of Britain (1984)
[Image source: http://snapshotgirls.org/gallery/graveyards-and-chapels/]
Harold Morland, born in 1908, was already well into his
retirement when he wrote a long poem that found its way into print. It is cast
in a narrative mode and the stories are taken from the Arthurian corpus.
The poem, which is in a dozen sections or so, is written in
syllabic stanzas of the form 5-7-5. But whatever part the haiku may have
played in originating this form, these stanzas bear no resemblance to haikus
and are best judged as an alternative to other traditional vehicles for
narrative poetry in English, chiefly the pentameter. This now seemed a
hopeless medium for any modern poetry because the smooth flow of the
stress-pattern is immediately antipathetic to the sounds that now come into our
heads. In some way not instantly easy to define, the way it sounds isn’t right
for a modern sensibility*. I’d guess that the invention of recorded speech
(especially in movies) is the key factor in our new way of hearing and forming
vividness. We like effects that (in the now-archaic terms of prosody) depend on
clashing stresses; on speech-rhythms and prose-rhythms and on almost anything
but what the accentual iamb imposes on us, a regular lilt.
If you consider each of Morland’s stanzas as a single narrative
pulse, you can see its potential for releasing those irregular effects. For
example, the seven-syllable bit can seem both to match and not match the
five-syllable bit, as in the first two lines here:
Even light armour
under the
heat of summer
rubbed
him to soreness.
The matching, emphasized by rhyme, expresses a momentum, in
this case of riding. The non-matching, the skitter of extra syllables,
expresses a resistance to that momentum, a sense that our environment is always
too obdurate to fit our efforts exactly but instead carries on with its own
agenda, in this case being hot and buzzing with flies.
A book with such a dependable bedrock is inevitably
readable, but it seems to me that several things prevent The Matter of
Britain being as enthralling as it ought to be. The author writes episodes,
not concerned with completing stories that he (perhaps rightly) assumes every
one of his readers will already know. This makes us doubt the the nature of the
author’s commitment to narration, so we don’t really give ourselves up to the
story. Elaine is taken no further than her night with Lancelot. Perceval is
carried forward with some purpose but breaks off after the curse. These are two
of the best sections, but how deeply can we involve ourselves in segments that
seem to exist for the author’s gratification and not ours?
As a narrator, Morland has evident powers. Thus, describing
the evening with Lancelot,
First in the darkness
golden globes of candle-light
on delicate hands;
We believe in the way that Elaine falls in love under the
spell of this evening, even though she knows it’s being stage-managed by her
father.
Or when Perceval sees the Grail procession:
First came a young man,
his hair radiant as fine gold
in leaping fire-light,
bearing a white lance
that seemed too pure for the use
of dusty battle;
but from its steel head
a drop of slow blood dripped down
to the young man’s hand.
Morland suggests the image of a ceremonial spear such as I
remember seeing in Anglican churches of my youth. It makes that drop of blood
shocking in a new kind of way.
The pleasure of narrative is hard to kill. If the story is
chugging along it’s no real problem putting up with long stretches of dull writing
and – what’s worse – fine writing that shows its age (“Voles haunted his feet”)
in return for occasional refreshments such as these.
But it’s disappointingly apparent that Morland’s interests
don’t extend to tournaments, quests, or the other bread-and-butter motifs of
the Arthurian romances. Instead, he focusses on individuals (e.g. Morgan le
Faye, Merlin, Kay, Palomides) and turns them into seekers of the mind’s
mysteries, figures who evince a worldview. They observe the ways of nature and
Arthur’s court while large thoughts twist briar-like around their brain.
Sometimes this vaguely recalls Browning and sometimes the poetry of the 1940s.
[In Morland’s template scene of the young Perceval meeting
the knights from Arthur’s court, he – like Perceval – problematizes the
knights. This more or less reverses the perspective of Chrétien and Wolfram,
who present the scene as being all about how bizarre Perceval’s performance is;
knights are (or at least are tactfully assumed to be) a commonplace of the audience’s
daily life.]
The last section is good. It tells the folktale of the
shepherd who in after-times disturbs a cave where Arthur sleeps out the
centuries with his knights and hounds. Morland’s shepherd is heavy-handed, he
stumbles, his body weighs 14 stone like a real body, and he makes an eloquent
contrast with that shadowy, ceremonial other-world that can’t exist in the same
kind of way as ours, yet constantly haunts us with the promise of contact. This
is how it ends:
The shepherd awoke.
A rubble of
moss-greened stones,
and
there at his feet
the clew of gray wool.
A lark
overhead singing
in
delirium.
A little laughter
of wind in
the grass. Silence.
And a
gaping mind.
The green hills asleep,
with sun
and shadow drifting
and life
murmuring.
Across his rough boot
a
thoughtless snail is making
its own
milky way.
*
*Written in 2005. Since I wrote it, the emergence of such various but certainly modern poets as Alistair Noon and Simon Jarvis rather calls into question any simple conclusion about the obsolescence of the iambic pentameter.
Labels: Harold Morland
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home