Happy Birthday William Wordsworth! — Cultural Digest #5
It's my birthday too and I'll write my heart out if I want to.
I’ve been a fan of William Wordsworth since the late ‘90s whose poems, unlike most of the literary works I was forced to read at high school I actually enjoyed at the time of first reading which is surprising looking back, given that his poems can be pretty florid and lengthy. There’s also something ethereal about them though which I imagine appealed to the curious spiritual in me, they always felt like miniature mystical fables.
I have since consciously gone back to revisit every single piece of writing that we were in the habit of examining on behalf of the ‘National Curriculum’ from that time, and fallen in love with each and every one of them; turns out they are classics for a reason. But why forensically analysing those pieces of work is apparently what you call an education I don’t know. You could have just propped me up in any fusty old corner and I would have happily devoured them and likely got way more out of them. It was something about the way they were presented that was so off-putting, old dead books to be studied like cadavers in a medical institute, peeled open and dissected.
But now, given a second chance beyond the confines of plastic chairs and chipped grey desks, bursting with vitality and life — The Go-Between sensual, heart-thumping, wow. Frankenstein, exhilarating, terrifying. The Return of the Native a sombre, passionate, tragic epic that has become one of my favourite novels of all time. Arcadia another favourite, Stoppard’s timeless, time-jumping masterpiece. The Shakespeare’s at least I had more of a chance with plus an alternative agenda as far as acting was concerned thanks to a brilliant drama teacher, shoutout to Mr Rust-Andrews. But at the time they were mostly completely lost on me, and on my classmates too. Because of inaccessible academia, caught between the trappings of exam technique and critical analysis. It meant nothing to me then. I have retained nothing of it now. And I was one of the students who loved books.
Though it wasn’t only Wordsworth who led the way through the bracken of academic form that allowed me to fall ever deeper in love with words despite the best efforts of a string of other not-so-excellent teachers, a lot of the poets did that for me. As if you couldn’t collapse the playful complexity of a poet’s work, no matter how many horrifyingly clinical metaphors you applied to their verses. Ted Hughes, Sylvia Plath, Thom Gunn, Christina Rossetti. I studied Spanish as well (in which you were encouraged to be incredibly imaginative and express your opinions to help you grasp the language better, who knew, which I think helped me to excel in that particular subject) so I got to hoover up some Lorca and Neruda pretty early on too.
Some part of me consciously realised all this at the time though and I remember staring at a piece of prose during my English Language GCSE exam - it was a stunning piece of writing that wasn’t from a text we had studied and it stirred something deep within me. I don’t remember what it was exactly but it definitely featured goblins - love a goblin - maybe it even had something to do with Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market come to think of it (most likely and which I also now adore) but I found that what I was being asked in relation to the piece was so pointless and reductive that I intentionally threw the question, going against everything I had been taught about being objective and not offering up any personal opinion whatsoever, and wrote my heart out. It was invigorating.
It reminds me of the young boy in Wordsworth’s Nutting, one of my favourite poems ever, not just of his, who mercilessly rages against nature one afternoon ‘Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds’. Oh how I resonated with that ragey little boy. I wanted to go smash some shit up myself, starting with the education system. I, who was genuinely invested in learning and understanding but couldn’t quite wrap my head around exam technique - sometimes wouldn’t do as well as those who either weren’t always that interested or clever but had that ability to exploit the system, to score an extra point by mentioning something which had some illogical but tenuous link to the question. I believe I possess some artistry but the favoured aspect of my brain is undoubtedly its pragmatism and its logic. And nothing enrages me more than things that are not logical.
I was predicted an A* for that particular subject, I got a B in the end. Not that that isn’t a good grade but it still sort of jolts me to this day. I felt betrayed at the time though I don’t regret my rebellion. I think it’s desperately sad that we still only celebrate one form of intelligence — the manipulative, repetitive kind. Not emotional intelligence (which is what my profession demands). Not empathy. Not even physical aptitude. Or even all of the above, along with a multitude of other impossible possibilities that human cognisance might be capable of, that left unmeasured and un-nurtured, renders the majority of the population floundering before they’ve even reached puberty. Imagine a world where we didn’t all learn exactly the same thing, taught as if we all we learn in exactly the same way.
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In fact, it is only in the writing of this piece that it occurs to me if my own detour during that exam is what has kept me from writing all this time. I genuinely haven’t dared to in this way until now. Not for anyone else to see at least. For fear of tripping up again maybe? Of not doing so well as I was expected to? Of being punished for not playing by the rules and conforming? Oof. It’s making me a little emotional writing this down which tells me that that’s probably true. Like some seemingly innocuous exercise from Julia Cameron’s excellent guidebook for creatives The Artist’s Way where the past suddenly rises up to meet you. That that detour was actually a shortcut, to get me back on track, to remind me of who I really am. Who I’ve always been. More often than not, feeling completely at odds with the general status quo and desperately wanting to free myself from its claustrophobic clutches.
It’s also reminding me of the petty disagreement I skated close by with my sister last night too, about my overwhelming desire to Tell The Truth. A compulsion to express myself. To live grounded in the integrity of my authentic self. Substack is providing a space for it that’s for sure. And I’m starting to realise, giving me the courage to live by those principles more than ever before. Radical acceptance? I guess, but it feels more like a radical emergence perhaps. The transition is surely uncomfortable but with any luck the end result will be a unique thing of magnificent natural beauty.
And so, on the almost eve of my birthday that I share with the epically aptonymic William Wordsworth - someone whose name is particularly well-suited to their profession - I would like to offer up my thanks to all the poets. Those wordy revolutionaries who prevented me from ever straying too far from my nascent truth, inspiring and encouraging me to sally forth and map out my own journey — it’s far more interesting that way, for therein lies the true path of self-enquiry and discovery.
Nutting
by William Wordsworth
—It seems a day (I speak of one from many singled out) One of those heavenly days that cannot die; When, in the eagerness of boyish hope, I left our cottage-threshold, sallying forth With a huge wallet o'er my shoulders slung, A nutting-crook in hand; and turned my steps Tow'rd some far-distant wood, a Figure quaint, Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds Which for that service had been husbanded, By exhortation of my frugal Dame— Motley accoutrement, of power to smile At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth, More ragged than need was! O'er pathless rocks, Through beds of matted fern, and tangled thickets, Forcing my way, I came to one dear nook Unvisited, where not a broken bough Drooped with its withered leaves, ungracious sign Of devastation; but the hazels rose Tall and erect, with tempting clusters hung, A virgin scene!—A little while I stood, Breathing with such suppression of the heart As joy delights in; and, with wise restraint Voluptuous, fearless of a rival, eyed The banquet;—or beneath the trees I sate Among the flowers, and with the flowers I played; A temper known to those, who, after long And weary expectation, have been blest With sudden happiness beyond all hope. Perhaps it was a bower beneath whose leaves The violets of five seasons re-appear And fade, unseen by any human eye; Where fairy water-breaks do murmur on For ever; and I saw the sparkling foam, And—with my cheek on one of those green stones That, fleeced with moss, under the shady trees, Lay round me, scattered like a flock of sheep— I heard the murmur, and the murmuring sound, In that sweet mood when pleasure loves to pay Tribute to ease; and, of its joy secure, The heart luxuriates with indifferent things, Wasting its kindliness on stocks and stones, And on the vacant air. Then up I rose, And dragged to earth both branch and bough, with crash And merciless ravage: and the shady nook Of hazels, and the green and mossy bower, Deformed and sullied, patiently gave up Their quiet being: and, unless I now Confound my present feelings with the past; Ere from the mutilated bower I turned Exulting, rich beyond the wealth of kings, I felt a sense of pain when I beheld The silent trees, and saw the intruding sky.— Then, dearest Maiden, move along these shades In gentleness of heart; with gentle hand Touch—for there is a spirit in the woods.
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Do you have a favourite poem or piece of prose, or even poet? I would love to celebrate my birthday (and William’s!) by hearing about any you felt called to share below <3
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