Poetic Form and Calligraphic Form

Devon Abts

Among the pieces selected for this virtual exhibition, viewers will find two contemporary calligraphic interpretations of well-known poetical works by the Victorian Jesuit priest Gerard Manley Hopkins. These two works of art invite the viewer to reflect upon the diverse modes of artistic expression which help us to better understand both the aural and the visual forms of human language.

While the poet and the calligrapher find common inspiration in the beauty of words, the relationship between these two artistic practices is more ambiguous than one might initially assume. Poetry is an ancient art form with roots that extend back far beyond the advent of writing. It evolves from a rich oral tradition and is therefore first and foremost an aural mode of expression, constituted in and through the formal patterning of rhythm, rhyme, alliteration, and other auditory aspects of language. Compared to the oral poetry which predates writing, calligraphy—and here I should note that this essay focuses exclusively on the western calligraphic tradition—is a comparatively recent form of creative expression which derives its name from the Greek roots kallos (“beauty”) and graphein (“writing”). As “the art of beautiful writing,” calligraphy foregrounds the visual beauty of letterforms and their arrangement on a writing surface.

How, then, are we to understand the relationship between poetic and calligraphic form? What do these two artistic traditions have in common? And how might the modern calligrapher help us to see the work of a poet such as Hopkins in a new light? This essay will consider these questions in light of works by Sheila Waters and Diane von Arx. Yet before we examine their particular contributions to this exhibition, it is worth exploring some of Hopkins’s own idiosyncratic understanding of the artistic forms he created.

Though his poetic genius was known only to a few in his own lifetime, today Hopkins is widely regarded as one of the most daring and inventive writers in the history of English poetry. Yet at first glance, his work may seem like an odd choice of source material for the modern calligrapher. For one, his writings are notoriously dense and difficult, written in a style so novel and peculiar that even his closest friends—including those who admired his ingenuity—repeatedly complained that his verse was impenetrable. And indeed, readers of Hopkins know that he delights in pressing the boundaries of poetic form to the uttermost limits. From his complex syntactic formulations to his demanding rhythmic innovations, the poet refused to be bound by what his friend and posthumous editor Robert Bridges described as “continuous literary decorum.”

Yet the Jesuit writer did not reject all poetic conventions in his quest for an authentic, original voice. Trained in classics, Hopkins maintained an abiding appreciation for literary tradition, and above all for the ancient practices of oral composition and performance, throughout his life. In a revealing letter to his brother Everard, he traces the evolution of this oral tradition in the wake of print, noting in particular how the shift away from performance impacts the art itself. Poetry, Hopkins explains, was “originally meant for singing or reciting,” and as such it was composed with a view towards oral performance. Once written records could be kept, poets began to compose for readers as well as hearers. The shift from oral to written composition was greatly accelerated by the invention of the printing press, and over time it became customary for people to read poetry “with the eyes only.” According to Hopkins, “This is not the true nature of poetry, the darling child of speech, of lips and spoken utterance: it must be spoken; till it is spoken it is not performed, it does not perform, it is not itself.”

Hopkins’s observations here should not be taken as an invective against writing itself. Like all modern poets, he constructs his verses according to visual as well as aural principles. The sonnet, one of his preferred forms, could not exist without the poetic line (a measurement of sound as well as sight). Rather, his concern is for the loss of expressive vitality in poetic forms which are wholly severed from living speech. “For it seems to me,” Hopkins famously declares in a letter to Robert Bridges, “that the poetical language of an age ought to be the current language heightened.” Crucially, the Victorian poet saw this as the key to understanding his own writing. Thus, he was remarkably consistent in his response to those who found his verse impenetrable: read the work aloud, he instructed, and the meaning will come clear. More than any other poet of his era, Hopkins insisted that his verse was written for the ear rather than the eye.

This rich acoustic quality of Hopkins’s writing is at its finest in the octet of “The Windhover,” one of two poems by the Jesuit writer featured in the artworks chosen for this exhibition. In this modified Petrarchan sonnet, the poet utilizes the volta or rhetorical shift between lines 8 and 9 to register a contemplative move from the sensuous beauty of a falcon to the spiritual beauty of Christ. Yet in his first eight lines, Hopkins simply recalls his memorable encounter with the elegant kestrel in flight, describing the bird’s graceful movements with remarkable verbal precision:

I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
   dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
   Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstacy! Then off, off forth on swing,
   As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
   Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Hopkins’s sensuous description in these lines is entirely in earnest with its subject as he draws on patterns of sound to mimetically register the kestrel’s characteristic patterns of flight. Where the falcon hovers on currents of air, the poet adds extrametrical syllables to his line, creating a sense of buoyancy and lightness befitting the bird’s elegance. A further layer of smoothness is created through patterns of alliteration (“morning’s minion,” “daylight’s dauphin,” “wimpling wing,” etc) and internal rhyme (for example, in the verbal echoes of “minion,” “dauphin,” and “falcon”). When the bird takes off in a new direction at line 5, the poet captures this moment through an abruption of the rhythm with the sprung phrase, “… off, off forth.” Similarly, the word “Rebuffed” in line 7 thrusts against the “hurl and gliding” of the previous line much as the bird thrusts itself against the “big wind.”

Written on a page, there is nothing especially remarkable about this poem. Yet the exclamation at the end of the octet—“the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!”—is as much a commentary on the poet’s aural mimesis as it is a descriptor of the kestrel’s grace. To read this poem “with the eyes only” is to miss the calculated acoustic effects which are the lifeblood of the poet’s art. Ultimately, Hopkins’s poetic genius cannot be understood apart from his conviction that poetry is neither more nor less than “the current language heightened.” More than any other poet in his time, he sought to harness the vital expressive power of living speech, and so to enhance the listener’s appreciation for the richness of language in ordinary circumstances. Yet while Hopkins pursues this goal through an aural art, the modern calligrapher may be said to do the same in a visual form.

In re-presenting poetic works with an attention to the specific beauty of letter forms, the artists in this exhibit invite viewers to discover what it looks like when calligraphers translate the “current language” of a poem into a “heightened” visual form. Both of these artworks are based on Petrarchan sonnets written by Hopkins, with Diane von Arx drawing inspiration from “The Windhover” and Sheila Waters taking her cue from “God’s Grandeur.” Beyond this, each of the artists follows her own interpretive path.

In her artistic rendering of “The Windhover,” von Arx seeks to capture the dynamic expressiveness of the poet’s aural art through a single script which admits a high degree of pattern and variation. The most striking feature of this work is its sweeping italic script, a letter form which permits a high degree of variation and is thus ideally suited to the dynamic turns of thought in Hopkins’s poetic descriptions of the kestrel. The decorative flourishes which adorn her letters evoke the kestrel’s airy flight, and the slanted lettering enhances the sense of movement and vitality which runs throughout the poet’s work.

Unlike von Arx’s simple yet elegant italics, Waters’s work features no less than six distinct scripts, including richly decorated insular capitals which form the visual heart of the piece. Four of the six scripts are found in the poem’s opening quatrain, which celebrates the diverse manifestations of God’s grandeur within creation. The various scripts therefore provide a fitting visual analogue for the poem’s content. Each hand has been carefully chosen for its expressive mimetic quality: from the irregular, flame-like letters resembling the “shook foil” of line 2, to the compressed uncials representing “the ooze of oil / crushed” (line 3). As Hopkins turns his attention to the horrors of industrialization (lines 5–8), Waters marks this shift by transitioning to a harsh Gothic script. And in the final movement, as the speaker returns his thoughts to the promise of new life in the Spirit, the artist again registers the shift in mood by rendering the sestet in rounded uncials. Again, each of these letter forms is carefully selected to heighten the expressive meaning of the poet’s words; script becomes enfolded into the poet’s efforts to present his reader with “the current language heightened.”

A further point of contrast between the two artworks lies in the way that each artist handles the constraints of poetic form. In her reproduction of “The Windhover” von Arx retains the sonnet structure, taking pains even to reproduce the indentations and stress marks recorded in Hopkins’s original manuscripts. In contrast, the layout of Waters’s artwork bears little resemblance to a sonnet, which traditionally turns on the volta or break between the octet and the sestet. Yet in making this move, Waters transforms the volta into a vertical column separating the Gothic quatrain (justified right) from the uncial sestet (justified left). Thus, her reconfiguration ultimately sets the contrast between human destruction and divine regeneration into even sharper relief. In reshaping Hopkins’ poem from its formal metrical structure into a visual structure based on its ideas, perhaps Waters is echoing Hopkins’ own dictum that “the poetical language of an age ought to be the current language heightened.” After all, since Hopkins’ death in 1889, over a century of English-language poets have rebelled against and pushed the conventions of traditional poetic forms.

In sum, the performance of calligraphy, its ability to inscribe orality onto the mute page, offers a new way to engage Hopkins’ poetry. Like any oral interpreter of a poem, the calligraphic interpreter must both respond to the poet’s vision and add their unique take. Both the poet and the calligrapher form language with their own tools, and both have much to learn from the other.

Dr. Devon Abts is Visiting Assistant Professor and Assistant Director at the Luce Center at Wesley Theological Seminary. She holds a PhD in Theology from King’s College London, and an MA from Yale Divinity School. Dr. Abts’ research and teaching is situated at the intersections of contemporary theology, Christian ethics, and the arts, with particular expertise in literature. She is currently preparing a manuscript on theology and modern poetry for publication. She has taught on both sides of the Atlantic, and previously served as an editor for The Encyclopedia of the Bible and Its Reception. Dr. Abts is co-chair of the theology and arts seminar at the Society for the Study of Theology (UK), and serves on the board of directors for EcoTheo Collective.

Further reading:

Robert Bridges’s quote can be found in Bridges, “Editor’s Notes: Preface,” in Poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins (London: Humphrey Milford, 1918), 97.

The two quotes from Hopkins on poetry are found, respectively, in Hopkins, Further Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins, Including His Correspondence with Coventry Patmore, ed. Claude Colleer Abbott, 2nd ed. (London: Oxford University Press, 1956), 2:749; Hopkins, Letters of Gerard Manley Hopkins to Robert Bridges, ed. Claude Colleer Abbott (London: Oxford University Press, 1935), 1:218 (emphasis added).