Rose, I'm glad you're introducing Swinburne to this forum, because I've always enjoyed his stuff (in smalllish doses)-- mostly due to the incredibly musical effects of his rhythms and his sounds. In fact, I have to admit that these elements have a considerably greater effect on me than the actual content of his poems, most of the time-- with the notable exception of "Hymn to Proserpine", which I honestly think is one of the most heartbreaking poems in the language.
Swinburne's work often comes up in discussions of prosody; he really was masterful with internal rhyme, dipodic rhythms, etc., which is another reason I turn to him occasionally. A third reason is that he was actually capable of laughing at himself a little. Here was a guy-- unllike many contemporary poets-- who was cheerfully aware of his own quirks and idiosyncricies, and you probably know that he wrote a very funny self-parody-- a poem called "Nephelidia" that starts like this:
"FROM the depth of the dreamy decline of the dawn through a notable nimbus of nebulous noonshine,
Pallid and pink as the palm of the flag-flower that flickers with fear of the flies as they float. . . " --etc.!
Can you see the poets of our own generation doing something like that-- Sam Gwynn notwithstanding?? Well, maybe there are a couple more, but I'm still impressed with what I can only call Swinburne's comparative humility. Thanks again for bringing him back.
Marilyn
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