[Carl Copeland]

N., I remember you saying that if you couldn’t rival Shakespeare, you should give up writing. If all writers felt that way, English literature would have ended with Shakespeare—or Chaucer—or the Beowulf poet. Virgil would have put his stylus away after reading Homer.

In the Middle Ages, some thought of it this way:

“Who sees further a dwarf or a giant? Surely a giant for his eyes are situated at a higher level than those of the dwarf. But if the dwarf is placed on the shoulders of the giant who sees further? ... So too we are dwarfs astride the shoulders of giants. We master their wisdom and move beyond it.”

To Nemo’s advice, let me add that most people born 400 years ago had very limited horizons. Judging from my family tree, I probably would have been an illiterate farmer with no room in my head for anything poetic. Be glad that you live in a time when you can grow in so many directions—including back to Elizabethan poetry.

[Roger Slater]

Carl, I think the "on the shoulders of giants" metaphor is usually attributed to Isaac Newton. At any rate, he wrote in a letter to Robert Hooke in 1675: “If I have seen further it is by standing on the shoulders of Giants”.

Years ago I read a book that explored the origin of this phrase/metaphor, though I've forgotten much that I learned. I do recall that it was a fabulous book that I enjoyed quite a bit. This is it.

Stephen Hawking and Umberto Echo also wrote books with the same title.

[Carl Copeland]

Roger, the quote I cited is from Isaiah di Trani (c. 1180–c. 1250), but Wikipedia traces the metaphor back to at least 1123. I’d never heard of the Merton book. Thanks for that!

[Jim Moonan]

.
N — My only thought on the subject is wether or not a reader from back in the time would detect something askew about it; sense something they couldn't put their finger on; be unable to match up the indelible yet changeable fingerprint of language in the context of evolution. That's really my only thought. As a rule, I don't enjoy a poem I can't connect with on a linguistic level.

I'm curious, though — do you ever write poetry in a more contemporary tongue? I'd like to read it. It's obvious you have a poet's soul.

Welcome N!

.

[Mark McDonnell]

Hi N,

You are clearly sincere in your attachment to the verse and voice of the past, so it seems pointless and churlish, I suppose, to keep telling you that you are misguided. A person likes what they like. I wonder, though, if your poems have to be quite so stuck in the past to the point where your word choices are so archaic, and sometimes incorrect as has been pointed out, that the result sounds like bad pastiche. I had a quick go at modernising some of the language here. The result is still very old-fashioned sounding but, to my ear, it sounds at least more sincere. I couldn't help but get rid of those initial caps too. As Jim says, you are not lacking in some talent. It seems a shame, to me, to be quite so chained to the language of several centuries ago. I feel like I'm staging an intervention ha.


If I were born to years before my own,
and nursed on accents before the vulgar now,
when y'all was sounded ye, and you was thou,
and ancient stars, their fledgling lustre shone

upon the solemn tongues of the English voice,
I’d count myself amongst my kith and kin;
but Time arrested, before I might begin,
and destiny denied me every choice.

Those selfsame stars, once bright with blinding beams,
have waned and faded, faint with feeble fire
like embers of enraptured lights that fade.

Now infant wailings turn to bygone screams
and youthful bliss concedes to withered ire
where all these transient things are dust and shade.

original

Were but I born to years before mine own,
Been nursed on accents ere this vulgar plea,
When you wert thou, and y’all were reckoned ye,
And antique stars, their fledgling lustre shone

Upon the mewling tongues of th’ English voice,
I’d count myself amongst my kith and kin;
Yet Time brought endings ere I might begin,
And destiny denies me ev’ry choice.

Those selfsame stars, once bright with lusty beams,
Hath waned and welked till faint with feeble fire
As th’ embers of those raptured lights did fade.

Now infant wailings turn to bygone screams,
And youthful bliss concedes to withered ire,
Where all these transient things are dust and shade.

[N. Matheson]

And yet, the broad consensus I have found among scholars and historians is that in 400 years, no author, however skilled, has surpassed Shakespeare's genius. It does seem to have concluded with him.

[Christine P'legion]

Ok, even accepting that premise as true -- I'm asking this sincerely and with kindness -- why give a shit?

N. Matheson will never write as well as Shakespeare. So what? Aren't you even a little curious about what he can do? Obviously you've got some grit and gumption because I remember having this exact conversation like a year ago and you're still here, you're still writing. There's part of you that's determined to be a poet anyway. Listen to that part of you.

[N. Matheson]

For a simple reason I fear oblivion more than anything else. If I am just another of countless poets, I am more terrified than I can express of being forgotten. Only a select few people ever get remembered, and if I fail to achieve that, I'll consider my life to have amounted to nothing. I would rather have never existed to begin with.

[Mark McDonnell]

Those select few who are remembered are still in oblivion. Blake died penniless and mocked but laughing and clapping his hands at the face of God.

Who cares what the "broad consensus" says! The broad consensus can talk a lot of bollocks sometimes. N, you have the worst case of the anxiety of influence! You don't really seem interested in engaging with what people have to say about your poems. You seem stuck in this Catch 22 of posting archaic sounding poetry, then when people criticise it for sounding archaic you self-pityingly bemoan that you will never be "as good as" Shakespeare. Newsflash! No, you almost certainly won't, so stop trying to compete with him! If you genuinely believe that there is nothing to be learned from anyone post Shakespeare — from Milton, Blake, Keats, Dickinson, Eliot, Plath, Proust, Joyce, Rilke (and on and on) — then yes. Stop.

But if you need to write you will write. And I really believe that you will find it so freeing when you learn to do so in your own voice.

[N. Matheson]

If I can't be as good as him, and I do believe he ended poetry and literature, then I guess I will stop.