I’ve titled this note somewhat redundantly; a conceit is
technically an extended metaphor. But a
conceit is a special kind of extended metaphor: it is a torture of language, a
figure placed on the rack and stretched, twisted, compressed, bent and bowed to
the point of breaking, but never permitted to break. At least not in a
successful conceit, anyway. There are
many unsuccessful ones which do break, and there are names to describe them:
Gongorism
Marinism
Euphemism
The unsuccessful conceit usually is clever to a fault, precocious,
showy, facile, obvious and lacking depth or insight beyond the trite or the
clichéd. Here’s a famous example:
I
think that I shall never see
A
poem lovely as a tree.
A
tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against
the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A
tree that looks at God all day,
And
lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A
tree that may in Summer wear
A
nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose
bosom snow has lain;
Who
intimately lives with rain.
Poems
are made by fools like me,
But
only God can make a tree.
We
generally associate the conceit with the metaphysical poets of the 17th
Century—John Donne, George Herbert, Andrew Marvell. In their poetry, metaphors and images are
often far-fetched, verging on the surreal (French Symbolists picked up on this
aspect of conceits in the 19th Century), striking and surprising. But then, Chinese, Japanese and Korean poetry
traffic in the striking and surprising as well.
The difference? The conceit in Western poetic tradition is an extended
treatment of a metaphor or image in which the writer pushes the comparison or
the figure as far as the language permits and for as long as the poem can be
made to maintain structure and meaning.
That is, without devolving into drivel or mere word-play. In this sense,
so-called stream of consciousness writing does not qualify as metaphysical
conceit.
The
idea behind the making of a conceit isn’t just that it’s inventive or clever.
It’s also supposed to be difficult to do and difficult to puzzle out, and
delivers insight or revelation, usually in the form of argument. Which is to say, a good conceit expects more
of its reader than other kinds of writing.
An example:
Redemption
─ George Herbert, 1633
Having
been tenant long to a rich Lord,
Not thriving, I resolvéd to be
bold,
And
make a suit unto Him, to afford
A new small-rented lease, and
cancel th’ old.
In
heaven at His manor I Him sought:
They told me there that He was
lately gone
About
some land which He had dearly bought
Long since on earth, to take
possession.
I
straight returned, and knowing His great birth,
Sought Him accordingly in great resorts—
In cities, theaters, gardens,
parks, and courts:
At
length I heard a raggéd noise and mirth
Of thieves and murderers; there I
Him espied,
Who straight, “Your suit is
granted,” said, and died.
To get this poem, you have to know the language of leases
and legal contracts . . . and THEN you have to be able to interpret the
spiritual message in those terms.
Conceits in 17th Century English poetry (read: Metaphysical
Poetry) ran the gamut from bawdy and erotic to love, Platonic, spiritual and
religious themes. What they shared was
highly wrought language, metaphors sustained throughout the poem, intellect
yoked to passion, and the spiritual together with or expressed via the
material. The best of them were ingenious . . .
The Flea
─ John Donne, 1633
Mark but this flea, and mark in this,
How little that which thou deniest me is;
Me it sucked first, and now sucks thee,
And in this flea our two bloods mingled be;
Thou know’st that this cannot be said
A sin, or shame, or loss of maidenhead,
Yet this
enjoys before it woo,
And
pampered swells with one blood made of two,
And this,
alas, is more than we would do.
This is the first stanza of Donne’s famous love poem. You should read the remaining two to see how
he sustains the metaphor of the flea, flesh, blood, love, and of course
exhorting someone to have sex, throughout the entire poem. But you get the idea in just this first
stanza.
Conceits aren’t restricted to 17th Century
English poets, however. They are common
in modern poetry, especially in America; I suspect because they are a challenge
to write and, when done properly, a satisfying experience for both writer and
reader. Here’s an example from the
1960’s . . .
Love Song: I and Thou
─ Alan Dugan, 1961
Nothing is plumb, level or square:
the studs are bowed, the joists
are shaky by nature, no piece fits
any other
piece without a gap
or pinch, and bent nails
dance all over the surfacing
like maggots. By
Christ
I am no
carpenter. I built
the roof for myself, the walls
for
myself, the floors
for myself, and got
hung up
in it myself. I
danced with a purple thumb
at this
house-warming, drunk
with my prime whiskey:
rage.
Oh I spat
rage’s nails
into the frame-up of my work:
it
held. It settled plumb,
level, solid, square and true
for that
great moment. Then
it screamed and went on through,
skewing
as wrong the other way.
God damned it. This
is hell,
but I
planned it, I sawed it,
I nailed it, and I
will live
in it until it kills me.
I can nail my left palm
to the
left-hand cross-piece but
I can’t do everything myself.
I need a
hand to nail the right,
a help, a love, a you, a wife.
As I said above, writing a good conceit is not easy as the
form can quickly descend into the trivial—in terms of structure, tone, and
meaning—or the unintelligible. E.E. Cummings’ poetry has often been accused of
the latter fault, but you can decide whether this poem is a deft conceit or
merely typographical fun and games . . .
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
─ E. E. Cummings, 1932, 1935
r-p-o-p-h-e-s-s-a-g-r
who
a)s w(e
loo)k
upnowgath
PPEGORHRASS
eringint (o-
aThe) :l
eA
!p:
S a
(r
rIvInG .gRrEaPsPhOs)
to
rea (be)
rran (com)gi(e)ngly
,grasshopper;
I typed this one in a font with serifs so you can get the full
effect of the poem.[1]
And finally, here’s a conceit that I wrote a long time ago, to
celebrate my mother’s 84th birthday (she lived another 14 years!).
There is a precedent for it: George Herbert’s poem “The Blossom,” though I
wasn’t conscious of this connection at the time I wrote the poem . . .
The November Rose
November is a long time into the year
for a rose to bloom, even here,
in a Carolina cul-de-sac
that once sprouted soybean, now HVAC.
But there, as if just for proof,
another bud unfolds, aloof
to the arguments of season and
physics,
governed by some other metaphysics.
Outside this morning, cold rain, sleet
pelt the ground. I turn the heat
up another degree or two.
(It’s Sunday, I haven’t much to do.)
Over every surface a general glaze
forms the carapace of colder days.
Appealing to see, in such raw dawn,
pink heads hanging on,
and blooms spread under the metal sky
like their antecedents of July.
Appealing, too, to think of a power
that suspends the nature of a flower
to bud, bloom, fail, die,
to live briefly. But then, why?
To what end will natural stuff
not be perishable? Nature’s rough
nature is all anyone knows
of the biology of person or rose,
whose rhythm makes a sacred rhyme
to help us mark passing time.
To note, then: November arrived,
another year to be archived.
So. It's conceits and extended metaphors, then. See you on Wednesday.
No comments:
Post a Comment