you've not read this: the poetry of algernon swinburne

Happy poetry month, dear followers! I've decided to do a twice-monthly feature thing of works and authors you probably have not read, and where better to start than with a poet?

Since I never go anywhere without a book and strike up conversations with strangers reading in public places, I often get and give recommendations and revel in discussing what we're reading, even if it's on a superficial level. The one comment I get the most is, “You like poetry?! I can’t get into it. What do you like?” I always mention Swinburne, among others. I don't believe anyone so far has known who he was, and truthfully, I didn’t know who he was until, after vowing to give Victorian poetry another chance, I randomly picked his name from a list of Victorian poets, went to the library in search of whatever poet I ended up with, and fell in literary love (good luck, by the way, finding Swinburne in a non-university library).  Of course, you've probably read and studied Swinburne if you're a Victorianist, but otherwise he seems to be neglected. It’s a bit sad, seeing as how Swinburne was once considered one of the giants of the age, along with Tennyson and Browning.

Admittedly, it’s somewhat understandable that Swinburne’s work has long been out of favour because it’s verbose, old (sadly, a common deterrent for the average reader), isn’t typical of anyone but Swinburne, and, as far as I know, has no imitators; basically, I’m inclined to agree with Laurence Binyon on Swinburne. Swinburne did, however, popularise the roundel. And even though I am a poet and I like him, I’ve never been inspired to write anything after him, with the exception of borrowing his metre to compose stupid verse about Romantic poets shooting nacho cheese out their noses. He gets tiresome and derivative of himself when you are no longer in the throes of worshiping him as a poetic god, if you’re inclined to worship him at all, and often he’s just tiresome because he’s Swinburne and he likes to recycle images and ideas over and over until you want to slap him. There’s nothing to add to Swinburne’s brilliant, cyclical pessimism, so it’s not hard to see why one can’t easily improve on or respond to him.

Despite that, for some legitimate reasons, his work has been neglected, his poetry is enjoyable and so lovely at times to the point of squealing over how lovely it is. It takes me forever to read Swinburne because I have to put the book down, sigh, mope, squee, and take time to love the poems. In his own weird way, Swinburne triumphs. And really, who can argue with this?

O lips full of lust and of laughter,
Curled snakes that are fed from my breast,
Bite hard, lest remembrance come after
And press with new lips where you pressed.
For my heart too springs up at the pressure,
Mine eyelids too moisten and burn;
Ah, feed me and fill me with pleasure,
Ere pain come in turn.

(Dolores [Notre Dame de Sept Douleurs])

…So on and so forth in over 500 lines of glorious, frustrated, stunning poetry that reads like a bitter yet longed-for consummation.

And who could argue with these, either?

Sick dreams and sad of a dull delight;
For what shall it profit when men are dead
To have dreamed, to have loved with the whole soul's might,
To have looked for day when the day was fled?
Let come what will, there is one thing worth,
To have had fair love in the life upon earth:
To have held love safe till the day grew night,
While skies had colour and lips were red.

(The Triumph of Time)

From too much love of living,
From hope and fear set free,
We thank with brief thanksgiving
Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;
That dead men rise up never;
That even the weariest river
Winds somewhere safe to sea.

(The Garden of Proserpine)

I’ve not encountered any other poet like Swinburne, and I can’t adequately explain why I like him as much as I do—enough to collect first editions of his works, as well as collections and anthologies, and enough to read and reread his poetry until I sicken of it. Part of me has a girlish crush on him, sure, but in the literary sense, his poetry thrills my morose, decadent heart. While Swinburne’s poetry can be all song and little fresh content, as the usual criticism goes, my love of it refuses to wane in the shadow of criticism. Swinburne’s metre is so lyrical that one gets lost in it. His poetry bursts with death and life in the same way fruits and corpses swell with rot and water. It’s vital and natural and gross and perfect and beautiful and begetting and dying and barrenness all at once. This is the stupidest, most overblown and poorly written analogy ever, but the point stands. So much in Swinburne’s poetry “hurts and is desired,” to steal from Shakespeare, and for that reason I adore it.

If you like Poe, Baudelaire, and Wilde, give Swinburne a try. You might not like him as much as I do, but he is worth reading for the ease of his lyricism, at least, though you really don't need to read everything the man wrote; actually, that might lead you to loathe him. Here are my favourites, if you’d like a sample:

Ave Atque Vale; The Forsaken Garden; Notre Dame de Sept Douleurs (Dolores); The Triumph of Time; To a Seamew; The Garden of Proserpine; Hymn to Proserpine; A Baby’s Death; A Match; Faustine