Merlin Knew

Lately I've been reading Alfred, Lord Tennyson's Idylls of the King on the train. Generally I think this book, published in volumes over decades in the 1800s, is a better way to read the main narrative of the Arthurian legends than the more often cited Le Morte d'Arthur. Tennyson is just a better poet than Malory--he's also not as repetitive.

To-day I read Merlin and Vivien, the story of the Lady of the Lake (one of several, according to Malory) who seduced and trapped Merlin. In Excalibur, the John Boorman movie, this job is given to Morgana/Morgan le Fay, a nice bit of story-telling economy.

Tennyson's version of the story is quite different to Malory's. Malory describes Merlin as being aware of his doom but being mysteriously unable or unwilling to avoid it.

Also he told King Arthur that he should miss him,—Yet had ye liefer than all your lands to have me again. Ah, said the king, since ye know of your adventure, purvey for it, and put away by your crafts that misadventure. Nay, said Merlin, it will not be; so he departed from the king.

After this, Malory tells us how Merlin took the Lady--called Nimue in this version--on his travels, constantly trying to talk her into losing her virginity with him. In Tennyson's version, Vivien is shamelessly trying to seduce Merlin to get him to teach her a powerful charm.

There lay she all her length and kissed his feet,
As if in deepest reverence and in love.
A twist of gold was round her hair; a robe
Of samite without price, that more exprest
Than hid her, clung about her lissome limbs,
In colour like the satin-shining palm
On sallows in the windy gleams of March

You won't see a description like that in Malory.

It's hinted that Merlin has some dim sense of foreboding but doesn't seem to identify Vivien as the agent of his downfall. He also doesn't seem much convinced by her gratuitous protestations of devotion, especially after she can't resist scornfully repeating every tale of deviance she can remember about Arthur's knights. Merlin's description of her to himself is pretty amazing and I'd say reminiscent of many people on the Internet:

And they, sweet soul, that most impute a crime
Are pronest to it, and impute themselves,
Wanting the mental range; or low desire
Not to feel lowest makes them level all;
Yea, they would pare the mountain to the plain,
To leave an equal baseness; and in this
Are harlots like the crowd, that if they find
Some stain or blemish in a name of note,
Not grieving that their greatest are so small,
Inflate themselves with some insane delight,
And judge all nature from her feet of clay,
Without the will to lift their eyes, and see
Her godlike head crowned with spiritual fire,
And touching other worlds. I am weary of her.

Thank Your Local Goblin Grocer

This was an auspicious day to let the juices of goblin fruit run down your chin. To-day was Christina Rossetti's birthday so I decided to read her most famous poem, 1862's Goblin Market, again. Written by a woman whose piety compelled her to reject a fiance because he converted to Catholicism, Goblin Market is nonetheless best known for being intensely, weirdly sexual. In the years since I first read the poem, my exposure to 19th century poetry has broadened considerably and having also read Tennyson and Keats and Arnold I find the poem even more extraordinarily sexual.

Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She sucked until her lips were sore;

The story of two sisters who encounter goblin men selling fruit it describes how one, Laura, gives into temptation and rapturously devours their wares while the other sister, Lizzie, abstains.

When armchair art critics were recently jeering at Pre-Raphaelite paintings as being examples of the dreaded "Male Gaze", obviously Christina Rossetti was left out despite the fact that her brother, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, was one of those painters and Goblin Market certainly fit in with the philosophy behind Pre-Raphaelite aesthetics. Arguably the conclusion of the poem is a celebration of lesbian love though whether this was Christina Rossetti's intention isn't clear. Some might say it's obvious but, then, people have been arguing for centuries over whether Milton was of the Devil's party or not.

What if Rossetti really didn't mean anything sexual or to allude to lesbianism?

She cried 'Laura,' up the garden,
'Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me:
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.'

How should we interpret the necessity of Lizzie's exposure to goblin men in order to attract Laura? Maybe the metaphor isn't so simple after all. It's hard not to see Laura licking Lizzie as anything but sexual but the fantasy context and attending detail adds a piquancy one can't find in the average lesbian porn. It's effective on a more general psychological level in its narrative of teasing and self-denial. The sensual details are terrific, too, from the bizarre, animalistic forms of the goblins to the litany of fruits. However you look at it, it's a wonderful read.

Twitter Sonnet #1304

In boxes flattened screens appear to glow.
Connected tubes present the life to eyes.
A normal stage deserved a seasoned show.
Contestants quickly eat a thousand pies.
A turtle ran from east to north and west.
The timing turned a Shell to Mobil gas.
The lead determines twelve were running best.
A hundred cars were stuck between the pass.
An awkward paint would clash with ev'ry wall.
The cursor chose a phone beside the beat.
Behold as millions crushed the blackened mall.
A final day revealed a field of peat.
The market stays in goblin lights to-day.
The choicest fruit in weirdest ways decayed.

That Old Emily Dickinson Glamour

Emily Dickinson was famously reclusive, eccentric, and a bit odd. But Apple+'s new series, Dickinson, imagines what it would have been like if Dickinson came off like a well adjusted, charismatic pop singer. Hailee Steinfeld plays a vivacious, brazenly rebellious version of Dickinson for those who want their great, 19th century poets to be a little more like Kim Possible. A series with period costume but modern diction, the show's energetic and many of the actors are cute but comparisons drawn between and now and the 19th century in terms of social and political issues are ham fisted and annoying. The bigger issue is the problem inherent in trying to turn the life of Emily Dickinson into Saved by the Bell. I'm only judging from one episode but so far it's pretty dispiriting.

A part of me does think, maybe this is good. Maybe this is a way to get young people interested in literature or even, god forbid, anything older than fifteen years. But it's not just the past that's obscured and distorted with something like this. The problems a socially awkward person faces go beyond the saturated colours of music video vamping. A young woman who does not like to leave her room is not likely to engage in the kind of lively banter with every hot guy and girl in the neighbourhood in the manner Steinfeld's version demonstrates.

Tell all the Truth but tell it slant —
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth's superb surprise

As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

Is this the girl who responded to her mother with an abrupt, "Bullshit!" at the beginning of the first episode?

Well, so maybe it's not for me, maybe it's not for anyone who one would think would best like a series about Emily Dickinson. But maybe a resulting line of fashion accessories and memes, as a slantwise promotion, would be a net good? I guess I may as well hope so.

Twitter Sonnet #1294

Behind the face moustaches grew awry.
The deepest spine could dine at early dawn.
The organ tube at last could just comply.
A suite of games obscures the grassy lawn.
Assorted salads seem to sock the face.
A lettuce slap imputes the greenest palm.
In tumble stairs the weeds descend a place.
The night remains in shards of scattered calm.
A cheeseless day rewards the tumbled foal.
Barrettes encumber carts in fact'ry steel.
As sculpted soap the golems carry coal.
Condensed bananas hide a fruitless meal.
A tally took of ceiling leaves was fruit.
The flower shrinks to make a tiny suit.