Poetry Review: “Under Ben Bulben” by W.B. Yeats

In honor of National Poetry Month, MontanaWriter is featuring poems about poets, poetry, and writing poetry. 

For April we have featured poems by Wendell Berry, Carl Sandburg, Billy Collins, James Wright, Archibald MacLeish, and a poem by W.H. Auden about W.B. Yeats. It is only fitting for National Poetry Month that we include at least one  poem by Yeats himself… the greatest poet of the 20th Century and one of the a handful of poets that can be considered truly essential.

“Under Ben Bulben” is, of course, one of Yeats’ most famous poems.  It is also the perfect poem for National Poetry Month because its subject is ultimately poetry and poets, a subject Yeats knew more about than any man since… Shelley?

As I have said often here at MontanaWriter, poetry should be read aloud. This is particularly true of Yeats. It is only when you read him aloud that you can fully appreciate his genius.

This poem was one of the last poems Yeats wrote. In his 20s, he was already one of the best poets in the world… yet he only got better. Of what other artist can that be said? More than 50 years of continual artistic growth stopped only by his death. Remarkable!

Enjoy!

 

Under Ben Bulben
I
Swear by what the sages spoke
Round the Mareotic Lake
That the Witch of Atlas knew,
Spoke and set the cocks a-crow.

Swear by those horsemen, by those women
Complexion and form prove superhuman,
That pale, long-visaged company
That air in immortality
Completeness of their passions won;
Now they ride the wintry dawn
Where Ben Bulben sets the scene.

Here’s the gist of what they mean.

II
Many times man lives and dies
Between his two eternities,
That of race and that of soul,
And ancient Ireland knew it all.
Whether man die in his bed
Or the rifle knocks him dead,
A brief parting from those dear
Is the worst man has to fear.
Though grave-digger’s toil is long,
Sharp their spades, their muscles strong,
They but thrust their buried men
Back in the human mind again.

III
You that Mitchel’s prayer have heard,
“Send war in our time, O Lord!”
Know that when all words are said
And a man is fighting mad,
Something drops from eyes long blind,
He completes his partial mind,
For an instant stands at ease,
Laughs aloud, his heart at peace.
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate.

IV
Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did,
Bring the soul of man to God,
Make him fill the cradles right.

Measurement began our might:
Forms a stark Egyptian thought,
Forms that gentler Phidias wrought,
Michael Angelo left a proof
On the Sistine Chapel roof,
Where but half-awakened Adam
Can disturb globe-trotting Madam
Till her bowels are in heat,
Proof that there’s a purpose set
Before the secret working mind:
Profane perfection of mankind.

Quattrocento put in paint
On backgrounds for a God or Saint
Gardens where a soul’s at ease;
Where everything that meets the eye,
Flowers and grass and cloudless sky,
Resemble forms that are or seem
When sleepers wake and yet still dream,
And when it’s vanished still declare,
With only bed and bedstead there,
That heavens had opened.

Gyres run on;
When that greater dream had gone
Calvert and Wilson, Blake and Claude,
Prepared a rest for the people of God,
Palmer’s phrase, but after that
Confusion fell upon our thought.

V
Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds.
Sing the peasantry, and then
Hard-riding country gentlemen,
The holiness of monks, and after
Porter-drinkers’ randy laughter;
Sing the lords and ladies gay
That were beaten into clay
Through seven heroic centuries;
Cast your mind on other days
That we in coming days may be
Still the indomitable Irishry.

VI
Under bare Ben Bulben’s head
In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid.
An ancestor was rector there
Long years ago, a church stands near,
By the road an ancient cross.
No marble, no conventional phrase;
On limestone quarried near the spot
By his command these words are cut:

Cast a cold eye
On life, on death.
Horseman, pass by!

 

Listening with a pencil and my ear, these are the lines I marked:

Poet and sculptor, do the work,
Nor let the modish painter shirk
What his great forefathers did,
Bring the soul of man to God…

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Irish poets, learn your trade,
Sing whatever is well made,
Scorn the sort now growing up
All out of shape from toe to top,
Their unremembering hearts and heads
Base-born products of base beds…

 

In this poem there are so many fine lines that catch your ear and eye… such as the famous final stanza, of course. But for National Poetry Month, these lines about the responsibilities of the poet stand out. Read out loud you notice what Yeats does with alliterative word-pairing and echoing, “toe to top,” “heart and heads,” and finally “base-born products of base beds.”

 

 

Comments are closed.