Collected Poems of Oscar Wilde

I know, I'm breaking my rules on not writing about poetry because it makes me uncomfortable but those were never explicit rules per se and if you really think I'd pass up an excuse to talk about Oscar Wilde, well, you may want to buy a hat.

Oscar Wilde's poetry is... Well, he's not my favorite. There are a few I think a lovely and beautiful and many that seem hackneyed. Some of it I have trouble focusing on--which may be partially because of the general style of the era, I'm more of a Beat Ferlinghetti-Ginsberg-Corso sort of person. Actually, another reason why I decided to write about this is because this book actually had information regarding Wilde's 'discovery' and charges being brought to him and I wanted an excuse to share it. You see, the story is that he was handed a card by Lord Alfred Douglas's father that read "To Oscar Wilde posing as a sodomite" (only badly spelled, like 'sodumyte' or something equally atrocious)... And then it always skips to the trials, like, oh, suddenly everyone magically knew? Like, Wilde didn't just rip it up or eat it or something? This reveals that he actually attempting to sue for libel, lost the case, and then of course the charges for homosexuality were brought upon him. Talk about a spit in the eye, you know? Anyway, that's the only part of the introduction I really paid attention to, other than a small bit citing the poems written in memoriam of his sister and father.

Oh, and a note on the edition in question: it's Wordsworth, but not the famed 'Second Edition' which apparently is the best version ever. I believe this contains every example of his poetry however, so suck on that second edition users! Plus, instead of the cover being the ocean, it's a close-up version of this picture--the circled is Oscar Wilde: Also, support that site I stole the picture from because they were the only folks around who had a decent picture of it. It's actually kind of strange to see him dressed as a natural man of the era... but I guess, believe it or not, he was human too.






From 'Libertatis Sacra Fames' (The Sacred Hunger for Liberty [French]: "Arts, Culture, Reverence, Honour, all things fade, / Save Treason and the dagger of her trade, / Or Murder with his silent bloody feet." (9). Infamy will always live on longer than... Well, the other things Wilde names.


In his poem 'The Garden of Eros', Wilde lists a good many Norse epic/saga heroes, such as Sigurd and Gudrun and Grettir. He prefaces it with "We know them all" (14). By what 'we' exactly are you referring to? You and JRR Tolkien? You, JRR Tolkien, and my brother? Yeah, that sounds about right. (Thomas is going to be mad that he was lumped into the same group as JRR Tolkien...)


One of my favorite poems, though not my most is 'Requiescat' ('May She Rest' [Latin]). It was written for his sister after her death; Wilde kept a lock of her hair to the end of his days. I've not much to say for it, but might I provide a link to it for you: http://www.poetry-archive.com/w/requiescat.html

A few of his poems beg for the beauty of the ancients of Greece and Rome to return by way of letting "the dull world grow young" (35). At the same time he seems to be aware of the paganism and impurity of that (my example is currently 'The Burden of Itys') as he talks about Ashtaroth (a demon, which apparently... teaches math and science? What?) and how he loves the "morning-star of Tuscany/More than the perfect sun of Raphael" (35). In that case, though, it seems he is unaware as of yet, still intoxicated by the glorious sights he is beholding, or imagining he will be beholding... Well, my point of bringing that second quote up is that perhaps I'm reading too far into it, but remember, Lucifer is the "Morning-star of evil" and Raphael is an archangel... And it appears before the Ashtaroth thing, so... Yeah? Could work?


In the same poem he admits that he wants to remain intoxicated with life and that fantasy and avoid "the Gorgon eyes of Truth" (37) and reality, and begs those fantasies to grow stronger because he still beholds Christ who he has attempted to desert even though he admits he had loved him, held his hands, kissed his lips and that he now is aware of Christ weeping, and he admits that it may be for him, the lost sheep. Again, he attempts to pull away, but through the rest he eventually works his way back to Christ; the conclusion comes with the ringing of the church bell which he goes back to, knowing he "must not wait" (40).


Apparently Keats had a poem entitled 'Endymion', or a poem in which he was the main character (Endymion was beloved of the moon and given eternal sleep and youth for her to view) and Wilde has a poem of the same name. I have never read the first, but Keats was Wilde's hero, so I can only assume that Wilde's was written as a response. Seems logical, no? One thing that bothers me about Wilde's poem is that the second stanza opens with "The turtle now has ceased to call" (46). What? I imagine they make noises, but... what? There were no better animals that could have been used or one that actually comes to mind as a 'calling' animal? The poem itself is kind of sad, for its about Endymion's human lover, who was told but the day before by himself that he loved her... And now she waits for him sad and disheartened, begging the moon to find him and help him find his way--though of course she already has found him; she has just claimed him for her own.


Wilde, unsurprisingly, also made a visit--although as he would probably be more apt to call it, a pilgrimage--to the grave of Keats. According to this book, he prostrated himself upon the grave... And later wrote a poem about the grave and in honour of Keats. I mention it because it is one of my favorites and for the fact that again, our heroes had heroes too and were, believe it or not, human. (In a later poem Wilde talks of a dream he has or had of meeting Keats.) And, let it be known--I acted similarly on Wilde's grave.

'In the Gold Room: A Harmony' is also a great poem. It is a sort of love poem, but I like the opening lines to each stanza--"Her ivory hands on the ivory keys", "Her gold hair fell on the wall of gold", "And her sweet red lips on these lips of mine" (72)--the best. Each stanza continues to describe whatever has been first touched upon.

In 'Fabien dei Frenchi' Wilde makes a quote which one at first would think a reference to Dracula--in fact, I thought it was until I just looked up the poem's date, which was 1881. Dracula wasn't written until 1897, so no go there. Oh, before I go on I guess I should make you privy to the line in question: "The dead that travel fast" (80). The line in Dracula is "For the dead travel fast" (Chapter one). This however is a reference to a ballad called 'Lenora' (Or 'Lenore') written by Gottfried August Burger in 1773. (The things I know, huh?) Depending on the translation, you actually get that exact line. So... to cut a long story short, Oscar Wilde is referring to a ballad that's largely unknown these days. (I myself have yet to read the whole of it.)


'Panthea' is a great poem of passion and greater passion, of living to the fullest and wildest in such, while ignoring things like philosophy and wisdom for they are "dead" and of "childless heritage" (83) respectively. If I could share a few choice lines with you: "Nay, let us walk from fire unto fire,/From passionate pain to deadlier delight, --/I am too young to live without desire,/Too young art thou to waste this summer night"(83). Wasting it on asking questions that have been asked to the oracles and seers centuries before where no answers had or could be given--because "to feel is better than to know" (83). To love is better to be immersed in the philosophy and too much knowledge.

"Hearken [the gods] now to either good or ill,/But send their rain upon the just and the unjust at will" (83). / "'It rains on the just and unjust alike... Except in California'"--Alan Moore, Watchmen.

"O we are wearied of this guilt,/Wearied of pleasure's paramour despair/Wearied of every temple we have built,/Wearied of every right, unanswered prayer,/For man is weak; God sleeps: and heaven is high:/One fiery-coloured moment: one great love; and lo! we die." (85). "All things live in Death's despite." (86).

"We [lovers] shall be notes in that great Symphony/Whose cadence circles through the rhythmic spheres,/And all the live World's throbbing heart shall be/One with our heart; the stealthy creeping years/Have lost their terrors now, we shall not die,/The Universe itself will be our Immortality." (88). Because he argues that if not for love between people, the rest of nature would not work as it should--the bee would not pollinate, flowers would not bloom, leaves would not bud, and so on.


'Taedium Vitae' ('Weariness of Life [Latin]) interests me in its opening line--"To stab my youth with desperate knives" (95). Though this was written nine years before Dorian Gray would be published (And seven to eight years before it was written/conceived, I assume) I can't help but point out its irony with that book in mind. Dorian of course has his portrait that reflects his true age and true vileness--the climactic scene is when he takes a dagger to it and ends up killing himself. But you see? He took a knife to his aged self. (Though arguably in an attempt to destroy the sins which marred his portrait which were obtained during his elongated youth he could have been doing exactly what the opening line entails anyways...) The knife was desperate either way, I'd say as well. He also talks about meshing his soul "within a woman's hair" (95). This could either refer to the Victorian practice of giving loved ones locks of hair and winding jewelry out of hair and stuff (okay, so not everything about that era was great) in terms of a lover or wife, or referring to his by then deceased sister, a lock of whose hair he had in his personal affects until his own death.

The next poem I believe is called 'Bittersweet Love', though I cannot be sure because Wordsworth decided not to give an official translation and the title is in Greek characters (Which I cannot reproduce here). All I can say is, in this particular edition, it begins on page 109. Its first line is "Sweet, I blame you not, for mine the fault was, had I not been made of common clay" (109), that which instantly attracted me. He is apologizing for a romance that did not work out which would if, well, he had not been made of common clay--which is awesome imagery right there. This is the poem he says his dream of meeting Keats in; the love was so great he felt he had attained what Keats had or wrote of and blessed him (Wilde) with this ecstatic love. Wilde goes on for a while talking about how great it was, and had it worked out they would have been the sort of lovers young lovers would read about for time and time to come--but "the crimson flower of our life is eaten by the cankerworm of truth" (110) and eventually they drift away from each other. He speaks of growing old and losing passion and youth and eventually death knocking at his door--but he never says he regrets loving the female the poem is directed to, nay, he is okay with it because it was of his own choice and that to experience that love was great indeed, even if it eventually led to nothing greater.

Going to Keats once more is Wilde's poem 'On Sale by Auction of Keat's Love Letters'. The poem is told in woe because the notes are being bargained and fought for, priced by a merchant and not for what they contain, their true beauty hardly even mentioned or known--the men understand not what they do, treating it as practically a trifle. In the second stanza he compares this act of theirs to the Roman soldiers who played dice for the clothes taken off of Jesus just before his crucifixion.

I've not much to say for 'To L. L', other than provide a link to it--though honestly you can find any of these by googling them. I'd say it's one of the most perfect of the bunch, and if asked I'd be willing to say it's in the top five, if not my absolute favorite of Wilde's poetry (discounting 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'). The only stanza I really feel the need to draw particular attention to (for the rest is far too much to quote) is the final one: "But strange that I was not told/That the brain can hold/In a tiny ivory cell/God's heaven and hell" (124). / "The mind is its own place, and in itself, can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven"--John Milton, Paradise Lost (Book one). This quote refers to Satan's mind and twisted logic (in Paradise Lost) and there's very little doubt that that quote is the one that inspired Oscar Wilde for this stanza, for surely being an educated man he would have read it (no doubt it was required at Oxford). As for if that would be meant to have bearing on Wilde's character at that point in the poem--I cannot say.

And one last note, that pertains to 'The Sphinx'--Wilde writes again of great gods and mythical beasts past--the speaker of the poem is urging the monster to return to her land and her previous lovers and consorts, arguing that those like Thoth and Ashtaroth never died--Jesus is the only god of those named who had in his--for lack of a better word that is in no means meant to offend--legendarium allowed himself to be killed. In the end, as in 'The Burden of Itys', he rejects the Sphinx and what fantasies arise around her and tells her to "leave me to my crucifix" (135) and his God.

So, there you go. I've already done 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol' down in The Collected Oscar Wilde post if you're still interested in his poetry, especially what is probably his most famous. (I don't think I really went over his other poems in that collection...) And checking that post, I can now say with certainty that Barnes & Noble does not give you his complete poetry in that collection. Well, like I said, he's not my favorite poet, but he's certainly no Robert Frost. Ever. Those with a fondness for Victorian poetry will probably enjoy this more than I did; like I said, I prefer those of the Beat poets.



Answer to last post's cryptic song lyrics for Emma: Walk Away by Franz Ferdinand

This post's cryptic song lyrics for Emma: The lovers who have tainted you, they pulled you into the night--They touched your skin with velvet gloves and made you feel alive