Oh Dear, Not Another Sonnet: John Keats

John Keats introduces his “Incipit Altera Sonneta,” originally found in a letter to his brothers, by criticizing other sonnet forms: the Italian or Petrarchan sonnet “does not suit the language over-well,” while the English or Shakespearean “has seldom a pleasing effect” at its end (437). The sonnet’s very title, literally translated “here begins another sonnet,” expresses his boredom and disillusionment with the form. Though he does “not pretend to have succeeded,” further suggesting that he thinks the sonnet—indeed, perhaps even the English poetic tradition itself—is irreparably poor at expression. However, Keats is a man who made his living out of words: a man who, by the very nature of his life and profession, has placed implicated trust in the systems of poetry and the English language. Thus, he speaks not only about the futility of the language itself, but largely about the inability of poets and supposed masters of English to use it well.

Keats acknowledges in his first line that perhaps “English must be chain’d,” never to be set free. Her captors are “dull rhymes” (line 1), representing equally dull poets. Not only is she chained, however; Keats intensifies the fate of English in the next line, referring to it as Andromeda, who was tied down only to be continuously ravaged by a monster. Not only do poets routinely chain English, tragically not allowing her to reach her full poetic potential, but they torture her. Almost as quickly as Keats fashions this horrific image of the poor personified language, he leaves it. Instead of resolving to rescue English, Keats resigns himself to finding “[s]andals more interwoven & complete / To fit the naked foot of Poesy” (lines 6-7). Poor poetry is tied to a rock and raped, and Keats offers to find her better shoes. This image echoes his introduction to his poem, where he claims not to have succeeded in writing a better sonnet. Using their genius, he seems to imply, poets like him could free the poor Andromeda-like beauty, yet they continually fail, and must be content with finding her sandals and, later, better garlands.

Keats’ view of the poet’s relationship to the poem is much like the intended relationship between a man and a woman. The language is poor, helpless, dependent upon the poet to unlock it before it can become anything; even when it is unlocked, it belongs to the poet in question: in that sense, it could never really be free. The poet, on the other hand, has responsibility of the language and mastery over it, just as a husband has over his wife. The Muse of language, then, does not really inspire the poet. Instead, he owns her. Keats depicts poets uncaring of the plight of language, garlanding and dressing her for their own purposes instead of loving her. I think Keats implicates himself, as well: he concludes that “if we may not let the Muse be free, / She will be bound with Garlands” (lines 13-14). His use of “we” includes himself among the list of poets that systematically own the Muse.

These masters, he knows, are not always kind or generous ones. He calls poets “Misers of sound & syllable,” hoarding their possessions and only dispensing of them extremely meticulously (line 10). They are grudging of their literary possessions “no less / Than Midas of his coinage,” referring to the famous legend of King Midas, who hoarded gold until it became his downfall (lines 10-11). Midas was so tightfisted with his gold despite having an abundance of wealth, and so are the poets: every English poet has all the words of the language available to him, yet he pinches them like Midas his pennies. Ultimately, Midas’ fate was sealed when he got the one wish of his dreams: to have everything he touched turn to gold. He could not eat, for his every morsel turned to inedible gold before his eyes. His downfall came from his initial assumption that gold was his to possess, to manipulate, and to idolize. This assumption fits with the way Keats has described the poet’s relationship to language: they put her up on a pedestal, both to idolize her and so that she cannot escape.

Keats implores his fellow poets: “let us be / Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath Crown” (lines 11-12). These leaves, representing poetic achievement, are the desire of all poets. However, the leaves themselves are not the misers of language that Keats has just described; on the contrary, they inspire men to countless sounds and syllables and always have more to spare. They keep men writing and effectively produce more poetic words than imaginable. Keats cannot imagine a totally free Muse, he freely admits, suggesting that perhaps a far greater poet than he could be up to the task. Yet as long as he must possess poor English, he may as well bind her with garlands that she finds pleasing, so that she will bless him with her gift.