"Autumn" departs this small religiosity and takes a more Tolkein'ish stance--bucolic and agrarian. But God is not absent; He's never far from one of these five poems, in fact, as Hulme seems entirely bent on maintaining an upward gaze, except in "Conversion," later one. But here, God, or the god, present as the face of the moon (and this is the Tolkein, anti-industrialization point of comparison, I think--he and Hulme were contemporaries, after all, and served in the same war), condescends and visits the man walking (Hulme? a poet? mankind?), and shows that He is everywhere--in the stars, the town's citizenry, the growth of crops and the rest of the verdure. Put another way: God is everywhere, and we are welcome to pass through and observe, as He observes us. But why only the nod?
Going back to the previous poem, is the nod on this evening stroll any less respectful or complete than the well-intended though menial tribute of the rose, song, or poem? Maybe this is all the more respectful for the practical realization that any more praise is no more complete--just frilly, as though the prayer were more for the garnered respect of other poets and men, not God.
While readily apparent in the first poem, what significance there is and so easy to recognize for its exotic words, so here is the title so easy to overlook for its blatant mundanity, but a title--at least in the hands of the skilled, or attentive, at least--is never a throwaway, and here, it is the link to the overall theme of beauty unattainable.
Such is the call of any title, and the essence that elevates it from label, which is so often the case for novels. A poem's title, and any artistic piece's title, should be a matting and frame (consider a worn wooden frame versus a lavish gilt one, and what their careful selection can do to the artwork within), indicating significance of colors, direction of eye, intended value, audience, etcetera. But what beauty might this frame add to the poem? "Autumn." I think it taps into the nostalgia of the reader, and the general experience most of the Northern hemisphere has with warmth against the chill of coming winter. More than that, well, how beautiful is a crystal clear autumn night with a great big harvest moon hanging low?
Into the next poem, "Above the Dock," it is this moon, the oculus of God, that carries the torch, though it might be said that the torch is dropped.
There are two ways to look at this entry, and I think they go hand in hand. One is the continued ubiquity of deity, and second is the simple beauty of the image presented. This is another poem written just after the very invention of the new poetic movement and by its inventor after all. Looking at this image and its beauty, it persists in the melancholy of the previous two ("Mana Aboda" is obviously melancholy, but the blue of the second rests in the season, autumn--always at least a little mournful, especially at night). The moon is "tangled," and once looked "so far away." If the moon is again our connection to Heaven, then we lose the benevolence of the ruddy-faced farmer. Now He is far. And when we realize that it isn't the moon at all--God, or his eye--it's just a balloon, which distances Him even farther from us than he was. Notice also that there are no stars this night; they've retreated with their moon, and the stars are a device Hulme uses as frequently and pointedly. These stars, however, make their renewed appearance in the fourth poem, "The Embankment," at least by influence, if not in personal appearance. Here we also get a second mention of the impotence of poetry.
Scanning this poem, there appear a string of allusions and references. An "embankment" is, most simply, a wall of earth; a "fantasia" is not typically used to represent fantasy, but is a free-from musical composition (kind of like Hulme's own free-verse poetry); the literal music of the fantasia goes with the fiddles' and their finesse, though distant they are, in line 1, and no more than a lost glamor in line 2; lines 3 and 4 indicate that futility of poetry--or "poesy," an old way of saying poetry--and itself a potential symbol for the opulence mentioned in 1; and lines 5-8 are a prayer where once again we get the great, unfortunate distance between God and the narrator, and this with the addition of a nice little bit of negative connotation in "star-eaten blanket," like the stars are no more than noisome moths at the woolens.
This poem seems a lot bigger to me than the previous three. Is it imagistic? Yes. The flashes of old riches and earthly comfort are visual and even audible; the prayer has a strong tactile quality to it; the emotion--a sixth sense--is stronger here than in any of the others; and the embankment itself, like an earthy sofa for the homeless--spiritually or literally homeless--against which they may rest their backs, wrapped in a natty blanket. Such a blanket, though, is mere fantasy for this fallen gentleman. He's lost everything, God is too far away--either because that is the nature of this capricious God, or because the man has done something to sacrifice his favor--as is the false poetics of his former life, and there is no blanket. In this desperate moment he prays, but without hope.
So what of beauty? I have to confess a personal preference here: this is my favorite of all of Hulme's poem. It is also his most famous (if famous can describe any of his works). There's a close second in "Town Sky-Line," below, though it lacks the emotional potency of "The Embankment." What it does have is a distinct dark beauty of language; it is despair and ugliness portrayed elegantly, beautifully, which only heightens the emotion of the solitude and emptiness the man feels.
Makes me wonder what he did or what happened to him. Makes me wonder about the possibility of autobiography. It sounds confessional--almost.
Before we move on, look back at the progression so far:
- an abstract look at deity and her disappointment--with unverifiable cause--and the futility of poetry;
- it is night, cold, and there is God, present if unreachable;
- night lingers, God has departed;
- the thrilling nightlife has completed its course and left a casualty, who prays for the simplest comfort but is left without.
The title of the fifth appears to offer reprieve: "conversion," the word, indicates a change from one state to another. Has the gentleman--and is this the same man from the preceding two poems? --turned his life around? Have prayers been answered? Is God not so far after all--drawn near by the man, or the man having drawn himself nearer God? "Conversion" is not, I think, a return to day and a departure to another land where, perhaps, the grass is greener or the flowers more lovely. Given the context from the rest of the suite, I believe this is a dream, which does not remove the dreamer from his physical location and predicament, except for the temporary relief sleep might offer.
This fifth contribution returns us to the abstraction of the first, and, as I mentioned before, is the foil for the mentioned theme from the preface. But beauty here has an almost malevolent presence. Beauty doesn't need the encased protection and offered-immortality of poets' words; beauty, loveliness, is her own eunuch--her own protector. The narrator--the man, Hulme, all of us, whoever--walks into this dream cheerfully, expecting relief, perhaps. And every visual cue indicates such should be the case, but the beauty is suffocating and sweeps him away, wrapping him up bodily, just his little eyes peeking out, to the final river. While I believe that the "peeping Turk" is just for the image of it, and the Bosphorous because it's right there in Turkey, the "final river" is the important metaphor, as there are two eternal destination, each with its own series of rivers, four a piece in fact: Paradise and Hell.
I expect at this point the man awakes, but it's not mentioned. The end is left open. I wonder if beauty is taking her revenge on the poet for such shoddy adulation. Here the poet literally steps into--invades--the beautiful, rather than just attempting to transcribe it, and it is indeed a trespass. He's not permitted, and she defends herself from his uncleanness. Note the return of the explicit female that's been missing since "Mana Aboda," and after her attack, like an immune system, the man is carried away, ignominious as the Joseph he is. (But come on! Is it that insulting to be only a Joseph!?)
And that's it. "The Collected Poetical Works of T.E. Hulme."
So, uh, therefore what? Is there a point? A lesson? Or, being a collection of imagist poetry, is it just something pretty to look and think about?
