[NOTE: I decided not to be as politics-intensive as usual today.]
I consider the poems of Jesuit priest Gerard Manley Hopkins to be among the greatest, and I’m going to highlight a single line from his poem entitled—well, the poem has no title, so I’ll just give you the line:
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame…
If you’d like to have some visual images to go with the word images, here are photos of a kingfisher and a dragonfly:
Here’s the entire poem:
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves – goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices;
Kéeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is –
Christ – for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
No one ever said Hopkins was an easy poet. His work was almost entirely unknown during his lifetime, except to a few friends and colleagues, and only some of those select few even liked it. It was so very ahead of its time – Hopkins’ lifespan of 1844-1889 – that it was mostly considered just plain odd by those who did read it back then. And sometimes I think it’s even ahead of our time.
Nevertheless, at least a few of the people to whom Hopkins sent his poetry must have considered it worth something because, although Hopkins burned most of it when he entered the priesthood, he knew that some of his friends had copies, and at least one of them – Robert Bridges (future poet laureate of the UK) – preserved them. Although Bridges failed to convey much praise to his friend for his poetry during Hopkins’ lifetime, Bridges thought enough of it later on (1918) to publish it, long after Hopkins’ premature death.
In one of those ironies of which fate seems fond, Bridges’ poetry is pretty much forgotten these days, and he is remembered mostly for his role in preserving Hopkins’ work. It is Hopkins himself who is acknowledged (much like Emily Dickinson, another hidden poet) as one of the greatest poets the English language has ever known.
But that’s all background—it’s that first line I’m after:
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame
It is arresting on first reading it. But why? Well, it’s unusual, like almost all of Hopkins’ poetry. The imagery is lush and intense, emotional and sensual.
But it’s mostly the music of the language that gives it unusual force. That music is over-the-top too, although at the same time some of it is so subtle that the casual reader affected by it may never notice what Hopkins is actually up to. Some of the alliteration is obvious but some is partly hidden and done syllablically: the word “kingfishers” contains the “k” and then the “f” sound, followed by the words “catch” and “fire,” which start with those same sounds as well. Then Hopkins does the same thing with the “d” and “f” in “dragonflies” followed by “draw” and “flame.” You may not notice it, but you may respond to it, perhaps even without knowing to what you’re responding. And somehow, despite the extremity of the device, it’s saved from seeming contrived or sing-songy, because the words and images are so lovely and unexpected.
This celebratory poem (“and it was good”) was found among Hopkins’ papers after he died. It’s one of the few that was not sent to his friends, although it’s not clear why. Did he think it was one of his more inferior works? If so, the world has disagreed with him.
