Speaking on the subject of ‘Writing Outdoors’, at the
Writers’ Toolkit, Birmingham in November, I took as my texts extracts from two
poems, as examples of guiding wisdom:
many
a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up
the rhyme
When he had better far have
stretched his limbs
Beside a brook in mossy
forest-dell
By sun or moonlight, to the
influxes
Of shapes and sounds and
shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit,
of his song
And of his fame forgetful!
S.T. Coleridge, ‘The
Nightingale’ (1798)
The eye it cannot chuse but see,
We cannot bid the ear be still;
Our bodies feel, where’er they
be,
Against or with our will.
Nor less I deem that there are
powers
Which of themselves our minds
impress,
That we can feed this mind of
ours
In a wise passiveness.
Think you, ’mid all this mighty
sum
Of things for ever speaking,
That nothing of itself will
come,
But we must still be seeking?
William Wordsworth,
‘Expostulation and Reply’ (1798)
Going into a wood, spending time by a lake, or walking
through country, quietly dislocates the social norms and habituated patterns of
urban or suburban domesticity. You don’t necessarily have to go far for this – as
Marvell wrote, in that impeccable line, a garden may yield ‘a green thought in
a green shade’. It doesn’t require a wilderness for world enough and time to
activate the latent senses, and stretch them into a state of wakefulness: watching,
listening and alert, open to the constant surprise of other life-forms – a
conducive state of mind in which to gather invisibly the matter of a poem.
Crucially, the ‘wise passiveness’ Wordsworth describes isn’t
entirely passive. It is ‘wise’ rather than random because it involves an active exposure to the influences of things
which are not human, but are no less alive. That mingling of presence, in
ourselves, of what is human with what is other than human, is the living
mystery of our being in the natural world: the conundrum, at the very root of
our consciousness, of our connectedness and differentiation at one and the same
time. Because its influences are infinitely more various and subtle than we can
know analytically, direct experience of nature – the world we have not made –
is irreplaceable; its comprehensiveness cannot be artificially reproduced. (The
brain can only be tricked by ‘virtual reality’ – how dated that term already
appears! – at the expense of authentic experience.) In the metaphysics of
presence that I am sketching, to expose the self to the natural world is to
invite encounter with the unknown. And it is in these conditions that my own poetic
imagination thrives.
None of this is to deny the genius loci that the built
environment can conjure up, of course – but that encounter with other
life-forms, beyond the human, is especially important to me.
Given Wordsworth’s observation in the first of his stanzas I
quote above, it follows that we should be careful, and sometimes deliberate,
about the influences we expose ourselves to – especially writers and artists,
who are usually unusually impressionable. It seems so obvious – and yet this is
rarely explicitly acknowledged as the key educational principle it is. ‘We can
feed this mind of ours’ – and we should take charge, as a matter of course, of
what it feeds upon.
There is a qualitative difference between the influences to
which we might be exposed, or expose ourselves. Taken out of its context in the
poem, opening oneself up to ‘things forever speaking’ might presently suggest surrendering
the sources of our behaviour to a consumerist delirium led by remote-access
media – and let’s face it, we don’t have to look far to see the threat of something
like that. But Wordsworth, of course, was writing about the world we have not made – the world of non-human life
to which the human belongs, and of which, for all our science, for all its
everyday, familiar proximity, we know next to nothing. And that world is the
very opposite of remote-access media delirium. It’s a truism that too much time
in front of any screen risks rendering mind and body genuinely passive, by subduing
(and obscuring) aspects of its own, inner activity. The ‘wise passiveness’ of Wordsworth’s
poem – opening the self to the presence of the non-human life with which we
share the earth – tends to activate mind
and body: to feed, nourish and arouse their powers.
For me, that order of wakefulness and alertness is akin to the
inward silence in which poems rise, and the real thinking gets done. It is a fusion
of excitement and concentration, at once urgent and peculiarly relaxing, where
the flow of the mind lifts the pulse and the whole body becomes an organ of
intensity.
So – and this, really, is my point – that immersive attentiveness
to non-human life is analogous to the writing of poems, for me. Composing a
poem involves listening with language for what is waking, within us and for us,
as something there: invoking unrealised influences and intuitive affinities,
giving them sound and shape through the warp and tact of words, achieving the
cold fusion of which only the imagination is capable: certitude in mystery – an
experiential knowledge, radiant with the enigma of living presence.
