By: Bijay Kant Dubey
The old order changeth, yielding
place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways,
Lest one good custom should corrupt
the world.
Comfort thyself: what comfort is in
me?
----Alfred Lord Tennyson in Morte d’ Arthur
Before
we read the poem, there grows a desire to know, where does the poet want to go,
where this Byzantium is, why does he wish to be away from here? Has he aged?
What is it in Byzantium? Is it the Brindavan he is dreaming about? Is it not
the spiritual quest taking him there? Perhaps the remnants of Hindu thought and
mysticism have not left him behind. Did he write Meru or Byzantium first? When
did he study the Upanishads? These are but the questions which appear to be
relevant while determining the idea behind the writing of the poem and the
accomplishment of it. Had he been to India, it would have been great, but he
did not nor did the Indians then. A myth-maker, an occultist, a symbolist of
the first order, Yeats is first an Irish poet then an English poet and poetry
comes to him as symbolical versions of poesy so full of depth and sobriety,
myth and myth-making. Written at the age of 60 or 61, the poem was done in 1926
but it appeared in The Tower in 1928. Even in a BBC talk, he referred to the
shaping of his thoughts culminating in the writing of the poem, Sailing to
Byzantium and it is not a poem of going to Byzantium, but to think of a new
order, to dream and repose in the golden past where he with an artistic bent of
mind can think of toning up with undying spirits and poetic vigour. Is it
classicism or the imagery of the golden times he wants to revert back to? Why
does he want to escape to just like the Keats of Ode to a Nightingale? Where
does he like the Wordsworth of Strange Fits of Passion and Lost Love and A
Slumber Did My Spirit Seal? Where from the Ireland of political upheavals and
repercussions, turmoil and tribulation, strife and struggle to? The position is
one of The Ship of Death and Shadows written by D.H.Lawrence.
Sailing
To Byzantium, as a poem of rejuvenation, resurrection and transmigration with
so much vigour and embellishment muted in, transports us into an old world
pervaded by immortality, art and spirit. But what is it immortal? Classicism
too has an end of its own. Such a thing it is in The Scholar Gypsy of Matthew
Arnold.
Starting
with that is no country for the old men, the poet talks of the younger
generation in the thoughts and broodings of their own so deep in sensuality and
pleasure as if were in one another’s arms, birds in the trees while the dying
generations have nothing to say to as the lack lustre itself is picturesque of
all that taking place or happening as the things of dust, clay and mortality
return back to baser stuffs in due course of time which is again but a natural
process. The young have just the sensuality to talk to and repose in
rather than intellectuality, good thought and idea drawing their flavour from
classicism and classical times. What is it that sustains us is intellect. What
it is born, begotten and living will but cease to exist one day when their time
will be over. The present generations lost in the thoughts and ideas of their
own have not time to think about the other men so after marking their
sensuality, so much engrossed in lust, infatuation with and gratification for,
the poet wants to sail and drift to Byzantium where the things age it not and
the times too seemingly to be beyond the clutch of mortality and degeneration.
An
aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick and the mortal
dress is not his own so embroidered with mythology which the soul is wearing on
for so long. So, what can the soul do except taking the name of the Lord and
clapping the hands in His Praise or Glory? It has its own monuments of
magnificence. So, where to repose in, where to gather strength, calm and
composure from this tumult, clamour perturbing the soul and spirit?
Where
the sages standing by the side of the Holy Fire of God? Where do they lie in
watching the ceremony? Why do they consume his heart away sick with the desire
of man?
Out
of sight out of mind, the thing is, once gone from here; never will he be back
to. But the Grecian goldsmiths make the things which appear to be everlasting
and perennial, never appear to be corroding as such is their artistic beauty,
craftsmanship, goldsmithery and casting.
Sailing
To Byzantium
I
That is no country for old men. The
young
In one another's arms, birds in the
trees,
—Those dying generations—at their
song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded
seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all
summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all
neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
II
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and
louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but
studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas
and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
III
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a
gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my
soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with
desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
IV
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural
thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths
make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to
come.
Sailing to Byzantium as a poem is so much
symbolical, artistic, mythical and spiritual at the same time we read and go
through it as it corroborates the personal and individual thoughts and ideas,
images and views of the poet laced with a strong symbolist approach adding
depth, meaning and poetic verve to the poem and he wishing to be away from
Ireland, from his bodily presence, somewhat shaken in body and strength to an
artistic kingdom where death maligns it not, where the golden and classical
things hold their sway over and get it not marooned for moral, spiritual and
psychic restoration just like as the Hindus think of Vrindavan and the golden
bird that was India in the past and so his Byzantium, the Byzantine emperors
and the mosaic palaces of it and the immortal artisans, craftsmen, builders
building and decorating it. The poem has a mythic base of it, historical,
personal and legendary enough to sway the readers to a make-believe story to
escape from the harsh realities of life and the world and here lies the
distinction between the world of art and dreams and the gap in between the two
when contrasted with the realities grounding in elsewhere.
Sailing to Byzantium from Yeats’ The
Tower and The Ship of Death from Lawrence’s Last Poems tell a comparative tale
to be taken into contrast as the idea is almost the same a shift from the
present scenario, a drift from to sail away from here, but Tennyson explains it
best by saying it that change is the law of Nature and the things change it
here and if they not, as Arthur says it, things will not appear to be congenial.
Let us take into consideration the pensive mood of Lawrence here in this poem
entitled The Ship of Death where he coaxes to build the ship and to be ready
for the journey to undertake. The same escapism it is there in Keats’ Ode to a
Nightingale.
I
Now it is autumn and the falling
fruit
and the long journey towards
oblivion.
The apples falling like great drops
of dew
to bruise themselves an exit from
themselves.
And it is time to go, to bid farewell
to one’s own self, and find an exit
from the fallen self.
II
Have you built your ship of death, O
have you?
O build your ship of death, for you
will need it.
The grim frost is at hand, when the
apples will fall
thick, almost thundrous, on the
hardened earth.
And death is on the air like a smell
of ashes!
Ah! can’t you smell it?
And in the bruised body, the
frightened soul
finds itself shrinking, wincing from
the cold
that blows upon it through the
orifices.
----
D.H.Lawrence in The Ship of Death
Where Byzantium? Where the emperors
with palaces and mansions, where the golden birds chirping? Where the scholars
holding parleys? Where Brindavan? Where Krishna flirting? Where the Vedic,
Upanishadic sages chanting? Where Eliot chanting the santih mantras?
An
aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick and the mortal
dress needs to be changed. This can happen only if the soul can sing the song
of the Lord, singing and rejoicing in His Glory. Nothing can happen without His
Mercy and Grace. Here the impact of the Bhagavadgita and Adi Shankaracharya can
be felt in, the immortality of the soul as discussed in the former while
eternal birth and eternal death, the cycle of it in Bhajagovindam of the
latter. The imagery is beautiful in the sense it is picturesque of an old man
with a torn coat lying on a stick.
The
holy fires of God and the sages standing and praying to, keeping them as the witness
of and invoking the Celestial Spirit and the Celestial Fire he says it all. The
Mystical Flames of the Mystical Fire can ordain and purge it all what it ails
human flesh and spirit if sought from. But how to lift to higher domains and realms?
How to be Shelleyian in spiritual illumination? If they turn into the singing
masters of his soul, what it to worry?
What
does the poet mean to say it here? Why does he say to, ‘That is no country for
the old men.’? The poet W.B.Yeats, though sick of ageing, times in flux with
the order of things, thinks of replacement, regaining of lost vigour and
strength after shifting the scenery to Byzantium and its old classical times
full of myth and art symbols so golden and undying in spirit. The young in the arms holding one another’s
arms, flanking each other are submerged into the thoughts of their own. Birds
in the trees, fish into the waters, all those have their heyday for some time.
What it is bodily, physical and material will not last it here. None can escape
the dying generations.
That is no country for old men. The
young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees,
—Those dying generations—at their
song,
Whatever else see we, be that the
salmon, the mackerel or anything else is but subject to meet its end. The
things which beget and the animals which are born are but destined to meet
their ends. The mackerel is a greenish blue sea fish while the salmon too is a
ray-finned fish.
The salmon-falls, the
mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all
summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music of bonding, affection, lust,
infatuation, sympathy, relationship story, we all neglect the monuments of
unageing intellect. Lost in attachment,
we forget it the reality waiting for to take us by surprise. What we must
discard we fail to do it and so the younger generations lost in affection and
attachment, amorous thoughts and ideas keeping their minds engaged. But mankind
knows it the pathway end.
Caught in that sensual music all
neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
What is an aged man? To the poet, Yeats, the aged man is but
a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick. The old man not with the stick,
but a tattered coat lying on a stick, basking in the sun as he says in An Acre
of Grass, strike us beautifully. Every tatter too is in mortal dress and the
soul cannot do but sing the songs of his as there is way for redemption. Human
life is also as such that the coat gets changed from time to time, life to
life. The covering is as such, nothing permanent here, everything but short-lived
and transitory. An aged man, a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick, etc.
are but images.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and
louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but
studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
That is why he has made up his mind
to sail for Byzantium and has dawned at:
And therefore I have sailed the seas
and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
But where the pilgrims? Where the Chaurcerian
pilgrims? What about the pilgrim’s progress? Is Byzantium really golden and
classical? Does pain not maroon it the self? Is it free from human worries,
cares and anxieties? Can it really give eternal pleasure?, is the thing of
deliberation.
Here the poet
speaks about the sages standing in God’s holy fire, the gold mosaic of a wall
and the singing-masters of his soul. He invokes them to be his guide, the
singing-masters of his soul. The perne, we mean the whirl in a gyre, the
vortex, the Holy Fire, etc. are add to the phraseology of the poem which are no
doubt Christian, theological and so on.
O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy
fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my
soul.
Here the poet speaks about the heart
sick with desire and fastened to a dying animal as it knows it not what it is,
how the pathway end. So, he invokes the holy sages to give him strength to be
into the artifice of eternity. A man is as long as desire is and when bodily
weak, desire too starts leaving him and even if he desires, he will not be able
to fulfil them.
Consume my heart away; sick with
desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather
me
Into the artifice of eternity.
The artifice of eternity here stands
for something as everlasting, ever beautiful, perennial, immortal and indelible.
Byzantium has been used as a myth, a motif and a symbol and the poet seeks to transport
us into a make-believe artistic world fostered by classicism and golden times.
Art for art’s sake or didactic purpose is the thing under our discussion. If
this be, why does he ask to strike at the root of desire? Why is the heart sick
of desire? If romanticism is a flight of imagination, fancy, dream, colour and
their representation and classicism has always stood for intellectuality,
restraint, discipline, didacticism and moral ethics. But here in it the dreams
of Byzantium symbolize the journey end leading to artistic perfection.
Once out of physical form, never will
one be back in that attire is the accepted truth which but we cannot deny it.
But the Grecian goldsmiths make such a thing that it astonishes in giving
perennial beauty and art form, a source of everlasting pleasure always after
hammering gold and enamelling them.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural
thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths
make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
These are as such which will keep
emperors awake and let them not sleep as for the wonder and splendour to be
seen in craftsmanship bejewelling and decorating. The beauty of the golden bird
is as such so beautifully crafted and made that it would never corrode easily.
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to
come.
Sailing to Byzantium is a journey of
the soul; a spiritual development of the self engrossed in materialistic
pursuits going on a pilgrimage to Byzantium. It is an attempt to escape to
re-invigorate and re-make oneself spiritually, morally and aesthetically; it is
an explanation of immortality at the expanse of morality and to understand what
it lasts for here. The historical background gives a befitting mythical pattern
to the poem which tells of transmigration from here to the old ancient city of
Byzantium. But what glory is extant therein? None knows it. The golden bird of
the golden times singing the golden notes, a source of lasting youth and gaiety,
artistic image and imagery, as cast and moulded and framed by the artists take
us away from the world of mortality and transience for a make-believe shift for
a solace to be thought about temporarily, a Keatsian escape taken with the
nightingale’s song and he hearing the sweet notes just like as Wordsworth and
Shelley heard the skylarks. But here the design is one of craftsmanship and
molten gold cast and embroidered and the palace so full of perennial imagery
and decoration, mechanical and artificial seemingly looking natural with the
extensive miniature work golden and ornamental. Yeats has aged, but his heart
has not, is the thing of deliberation, as an artist never gets old.
