POETS Day! The Rape of the Lock

The week’s winding down despite the extra insert day February stuck us with. It’s POETS Day again, time to Piss Off Early, Tomorrow’s Saturday. Sneak out of the nine to five closer to two. Seize the few hours left in the day and get a head start on evening.

There are all manner of things to do and if you’re of the POETS Day bent you’re probably not a free time naif. You know where happy hours are, what ball games are on, and whether or not the pool is open. All noble pursuits, but have you thought about vegging out in front of the TV (television)? Water cooler shows aren’t really a thing anymore; so many viewing choices make it unlikely that any one program will achieve the reach of Seinfeld or other shows of old.

People still talk about TV at work, though. The shared viewing conversation has been replaced by a recommendation marketplace. “You seen anything good lately?” turns everyone within ear shot into Ewan McGregor from Rogue Trader (YouTube – Free, Amazon Prime – $5.99 rental, $11.99 to buy), barking on the Singapore Stock Exchange floor. They may not wear the garish brokerage house team jackets like those worn by the traders in Singapore – unless they work as traders in Singapore – but they’re just as enthusiastic.

“Endeavour! Amazon, series 1-6 free, 6-9 $12.99 per! Best detective show going!” “Saltburn! It’s this crazy… I don’t want to tell you anything about it. Better going in cold. Amazon Prime – Free with Subscription.” “Hulu’s got the old Rockford Files.” “You’ll love The Good Place. Give it five or six episodes before it gets going. It’s worth it. She’s so quirky. Netflix.” “Luther, BritBox.” “I don’t even own a TV.” “Have you seen Ted Lasso? Apple TV.” Everybody chimes in.

And of course, CHORUS: “The Wire is the best TV show ever made.”

If you’re going to hole up and sit in front of the tube, I might as well throw in a recommendation myself. Making a Murderer was a huge hit for Netflix in 2015. It won all the Emmys. A documentary filmed over a decade, it focused on the wrongful conviction of one man and his arrest and conviction for another crime after exoneration. The show was so popular, it sparked a petition, signed by around 500,000, to convince Obama to issue a pardon. Obama being Obama, he weaseled out of doing the peoples will by claiming that the President could not pardon offences against state laws. Typical politician.

Don’t watch Making a Murderer. Just know it exists. Two years after that show debuted, American Vandal was released, also on Netflix. American Vandal was to ride the popularity of Making a Murderer. True crime was all the talk. The time was right for a spoof.

In the same probing manner, American Vandal delved into a crime, following leads as they popped up. The difference was that it was a work of fiction and rather than inquire about murder, the two teenage hosts were out to solve the mystery of who spray painted penises on all the cars in their high school’s faculty parking lot.

It’s hilarious. When the meathead suspect lays out his defense (“It’s funny. If I drew the d—s, I’d say I drew the d—s.”) or interrupts an interview given while he works as a food delivery driver because his girlfriend is eating fries from someone’s order (“If you keep eating from the same bag, they’ll know.”) it’s all played straight.

So happy POETS Day. Go home, grab a bag of chips or a pizza and a pleasant beverage and zone out to some untrue true crime video. Enjoy your weekend jump start.

***

This week’s poem is “The Rape of the Lock.” Like American Vandal, it’s a true crime send up. At some time shortly before 1712, Lord Petre took it upon himself to liberate a lock of hair from the woman he was courting, Arabella Fermor. She wasn’t pleased and it caused a minor stir among enviable social circles. The story was related by John Caryll to his friend Alexander Pope (1688-1744) and Pope, fresh off the successful publications of Pastorals and An Essay on Criticism, ran with it, presenting the social dust up in the epic style.

Pope was very funny. He’d later skewer critics and enemies in The Dunciad and share the pen name Martinus Scriblerus with Jonathan Swift, Thomas Parnell, John Gay, and John Arbuthnot. “The Scriblerus Club,” as they called themselves, would deploy the pseudonym against various targets in high places and against whomever they felt displayed make-funable ignorance. They were the “Second City” of their time.

“The Rape of the Lock” nods at Homer, Virgil, and Milton. I’ll give a quick synopsis with excerpts that struck me.

Arabella Fermor, renamed Belinda for his purposes, is introduced:

Canto I, lns 1-6

What dire offence from am’rous causes springs,
What mighty contests rise from trivial things,
I sing—This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due:
This, ev’n Belinda may vouchsafe to view:
Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,
If she inspire, and he approve my lays.

And her chief sylph, a guardian spirit who conducts the other guardian spirits in their duties:

Canto I, lns 105 – 106

Of these am I, who thy protection claim,
A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.

It’s tough going for Belinda and Ariel. The cad known as The Baron has enlisted Apollo, a celestial heavy hitter. He’s sealed the deal with a pre-sortie sacrifice. There are two locks, and the cad only gets one. My copy of The Poems of Alexander Pope, edited by John Butt, helpfully informs me that the last two lines of the excerpt below echo Dryden’s translation of the Aenead: “Apollo heard, and granting half his Pray’r, / Shuffled in Winds the rest, and toss’d in empty Air.”

Canto II, lns 35 – 46

For this, ere Phoebus rose, he had implor’d
Propitious Heav’n, and ev’ry pow’r ador’d,
But chiefly love—to love an altar built,
Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.
There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;
And all the trophies of his former loves;
With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,
And breathes three am’rous sighs to raise the fire.
Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyes
Soon to obtain, and long possess the prize:
The pow’rs gave ear, and granted half his pray’r,
The rest, the winds dispers’d in empty air.

Just earlier, we witness the religious ceremony afforded Belinda’s tragic hair; she as high priestess to the goddess image in the mirror.

Canto I, lns 125 – 148

A heav’nly image in the glass appears,
To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;
Th’ inferior priestess, at her altar’s side,
Trembling, begins the sacred rites of pride.
Unnumber’d treasures ope at once, and here
The various off’rings of the world appear;
From each she nicely culls with curious toil,
And decks the goddess with the glitt’ring spoil.
This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks,
And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.
The tortoise here and elephant unite,
Transform’d to combs, the speckled and the white.
Here files of pins extend their shining rows,
Puffs, powders, patches, bibles, billet-doux.
Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;
The fair each moment rises in her charms,
Repairs her smiles, awakens ev’ry grace,
And calls forth all the wonders of her face;
Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,
And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.
The busy Sylphs surround their darling care;
These set the head, and those divide the hair,
Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;
And Betty’s prais’d for labours not her own.

Both sides having paid service to piety, they carry their blessings into battle across the sea – in this case down the Thames – to Hampton Court.

The poem is full of ominous warnings, but I’m highlighting this one in because I’ve got true crime documentaries on my mind and I read these lines, particularly the last two, in Robert Stack’s, host of Unsolved Mysteries, voice and I haven’t been able to read them with a straight face since.

Canto II, lns 101 – 104

This Day, black Omens Threat the brightest Fair
That e’er deserv’d a watchful Spirit’s Care;
Some dire Disaster, or by Force, or Slight,
But what, or where, the Fates have wrapt in Night.

In Homeric style, Pope gives us skirmishes before grand battles, here played out by cards in ombre, a trick-based card game popular at the time. It’s kings and diamonds killing naves and clubs.

Canto III, lns 65 – 68

Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;
Now to the baron fate inclines the field.
His warlike Amazon her host invades,
Th’ imperial consort of the crown of Spades.

After the game and a heroic feast, the Baron moves among the assembled with scissors obtained from the treacherous Clarissa. He acts.

Canto III, lns 147 – 154

The peer now spreads the glitt’ring forfex wide,
T’ inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide.
Ev’n then, before the fatal engine clos’d,
A wretched Sylph too fondly interpos’d;
Fate urg’d the shears, and cut the Sylph in twain,
(But airy substance soon unites again).
The meeting points the sacred hair dissever
From the fair head, for ever, and for ever!

Belinda’s reaction gives us what I think is the funniest part of the poem. She chews up scenery like Montalban about to fire up the Genesis device. Pope’s subtitle call this work “Heroi-comical.” I think this is the most heroi-comical bit.

Canto IV, lns 168 – 176

A Sylph too warn’d me of the threats of fate,
In mystic visions, now believ’d too late!
See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!
My hands shall rend what ev’n thy rapine spares:
These, in two sable ringlets taught to break,
Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck.
The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,
And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own;
Uncurl’d it hangs, the fatal shears demands,
And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.
Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seize
Hairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!”

A battle ensues, fought with dirty looks and mean words. It’s Achilles in a snit.

Canto V, lns 67 – 74

When bold Sir Plume had drawn Clarissa down,
Chloe stepp’d in, and kill’d him with a frown;
She smil’d to see the doughty hero slain,
But at her smile, the beau reviv’d again.

Now Jove suspends his golden scales in air,
Weighs the men’s wits against the lady’s hair;
The doubtful beam long nods from side to side;
At length the wits mount up, the hairs subside.

Finally, and I should say “SPOILERS,” the battle subsides, but the precious Lock was lost in the fog of war, no where to be found – “toss’d in empty Air.”

Canto V, lns 145 – 150

For, after all the murders of your eye,
When, after millions slain, yourself shall die:
When those fair suns shall set, as set they must,
And all those tresses shall be laid in dust,
This lock, the Muse shall consecrate to fame
And ‘midst the stars inscribe Belinda’s name.

It’s long; 794 lines in five cantos. Poetry Foundation has the whole, though divided across five pages. You can read it here, here, here, here, and here. It’ll take you less time to read than it will to watch the whole of American Vandal, though.

Pope’s kind of a hero of mine. His health was terrible. A form of tuberculosis that attacks the spine left him a four-foot six-inch-tall hunchback. Later satires got him in trouble. Threats of physical recrimination were such that he, not a fighting specimen, took to wearing a pair of pistols when walking his dog. He didn’t back down though. He was pointed and fearless. “The Rape of the Lock” is more playful than his later humorous work, but the wit, the detachment, is brutal. Give it a shot.

I’m including one more poem; not a part of the heroi-comic epic but related. It’s titled “Impromptu,” and though I’m sure he took time with it, I like to think he quickly dashed this bit of nastiness off.

Impromptu, To Lady Winchelsea
Occasioned by four Satirical Verses on Women Wits,
In The Rape of the Lock

In vain you boast poetic names of yore,
And cite those Sapphos we admire no more:
Fate doomed the fall of every female wit;
But doomed it then, when first Ardelia writ.
Of all examples by the world confessed,
I knew Ardelia could not quote the best;
Who, like her mistress on Britannia’s throne,
Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own.
To write their praise you but in vain essay;
Even while you write, you take that praise away.
Light to the stars the sun does thus restore,
But shines himself till they are seen no more.