“No worst there is none.” Gerard Manley Hopkins. How to Deconstruct Hopkins’ Harrowing Poem. Despair.

In contrast to the glorious and uplifting ending of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “The Grandeur of God,”” that was discussed in a previous post, Gods Grandeur, are his poems written when, as a priest, he was re-assigned to Ireland, where his isolation contributed to the poems we know as The Terrible Sonnets, “terrible” in an earlier sense meaning “filled with terror.” These poems are filled with terror, and with despair, the outcryings of a desperate soul. In part I include one of these as a rebuttal to the notion that poems have to be pretty to be beautiful, for these poems are as gorgeous as they are terrifying. I am injecting a personal note here. As someone on the lower end of the Autism Spectrum, I am acutely aware of the plight of those on the higher end, where feelings of isolation and despair can be overwhelming, particularly when being “different” can lead to bullying. After the analysis of the poem, I have included a selection from my novel, Notes from under the Skin, the story of a boy who is both autistic and gay. It is stark and painful and may not be for everyone, so you may want to skip it, but I felt I would remiss if I didn’t include this one personal (not autobiographical) shout-out for those, like Hopkins, who feel they are isolated from the world.

But to start with Hopkins. Of the Terrible Sonnets, I have selected: “No worst…”

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The rhyme scheme, abbaabba cdcdcd, dvides the poem into an octet (8 lines) and a sestet(6 lines), characteristics of a Petrarchan Sonnet. The octet is a personal cry for relief from a pain that does not relent. The opening “No worst” sets the tone of complete despair. Thrown (pitched) low (pitch) in is grief, it continues to worsen as grief only intensifies, as the mind remembering (schooled) past griefs only adds to the intensity (wilder ring) of further pain (pangs). The “p” alliterations suggest pounding heartbeats, an assault on the senses. He can find no relief in his religion (Comforter, Mary), a desolation to a priest. His cries from the assault gather, like a herd of animals, huddled together into a “main, a chief Woe,” a sorrow that, for him, pertains to his whole world; the alliterative h’s suggest gasping (heave) in pain from the assault and the w’s onomatopoetically suggest a kind of stuttering. The cries metaphorically are a hammer that beats incessantly (wince and sing) against the anvil of his being, but eventually wear down (lull), and finally cease (leave off), leaving him spent and empty from the intense (Fury) focus (no lingering, fell (fierce, savage)) of the blows.

The sestet is six lines of despair and complete despair, harrowing in their total lack of hope. The mind has frightening depths of descent (cliff of fall) into despair, unfathomable to anyone who never made the descent in the insignificance of life (our small durance). The poem ends in an ironic collapse, as he/we (pun on wretch) are summoned (pun on creep) to seek the only “comfort” in this whirlwind of despair: death and oblivion. No worst, there is none.

Which brings up a question: do we even want to read such a poem? Is the brilliance of the language and artistry enough to compensate for the painful message? Should we confront our demons?

The following excerpt, which chronicles one boy’s despair, from my novel, Notes from under the Skin, I had originally included in a separate post, “Bullying,” but was tempered by some of the reactions to it, so I included it here, with the caveat:

This may not be for everyone.

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I’m short. I’m skinny. I have weak hands and arms. I’m afraid of people. I guess I’m sorta cute. I don’t have acne. I can’t play most sports. I am afraid of gym class. I love books and poetry. I hate History. I love Math and languages. I love music. I like flowers and plants. I love movies. I love to watch baseball. I hate professional hockey. But I like Olympic hockey. I love everything Olympics, Winter and Summer. I love Ice-Skating. I love Downhill Racing. I love Snowboarding. I don’t like Curling. I don’t like the one where they lie down, shoot, get up, snowshoe, lie down again. etc. I am afraid of big ships. I like to dance–alone. I am afraid of bullies. I like school–except for bullies and gym and history–but only when the teacher and class aren’t boring. I am afraid of changing in front of other boys. I love my father. I don’t like my mother. I like rain. I like snow. I like sun. I like trees. I hate parties. I can’t swim. I like bike riding. I hate noise. I hate talking on the telephone. I like computers. I hate small talk. I like being alone. I am afraid of shopping malls. I am afraid of big cities. I am afraid of acting. I am afraid of church. I am afraid of playgrounds. I get sick when I see mean things. I cry a lot. I hate jokes. I don’t like being touched. I love my father and my parakeet. I love gorillas. I am afraid of kids. I hate having to talk to people I don’t know. I hate shopping. I hate bargaining. I hate sitting in waiting rooms. I hate getting haircuts. I hate most clothes because they are itchy. I like sneakers. I love pianos. I hate buses. I hate people who eat popcorn in the movies. I hate people who eat dinner in the movies. I hate people who talk in the movies. I hate tall people in the movies. I hate havingto watch people eat. I hate having people watch me eat. I am afraid to meet new people. I am afraid of looking weak. I am afraid of girls. I hate barking dogs. I hate scratching cats. I hate being told to do something I don’t want to do. I hate waiting in line. I hate talking to the doctor. I am afraid of fist-fighting. I am afraid of prison. I am afraid of policemen. And women. I am afraid of the dark. I am afraid of high places. I am afraid of spiders. I love Christmas. I hate Halloween. I hate dark streets. I hate motorcycles. I like sunshine. I hate that I am so hyper, especially around dogs and babies. I hate that I can’t sleep. I hate cafeterias. I hate watching people chew gum.

I like boys.

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I’m scared shitless. We were told today that we had to take showers after gym. I’m panicking. Compared to some of the other guys, I look like a kid—or worse, like a girl. My arms and legs are sticks. Bony chest. And my penis hardly even shows in my underwear. How can I be naked in the shower? I don’t know what the fuck I’m gonna do. As if that’s not bad enough, even though I try so hard not to, I can’t help looking at the other guys. Fuck, what if I get a boner–though nobody would probably even notice? Some of them have such ripped arms and legs, all muscles that move when they move. Seeing them in their underwear makes my face burn. What will happen when I see them in the shower? I’m fucked. I’m trapped. If only I had the balls to kill myself. Why not? How the fuck can I go  every day afraid that I’ll be found out? There’s always a pit in my stomach. I can’t stand it. I’m trapped.

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I’ve been bullied my whole life. I might as well have a target on my chest. Anybody can tell that I can’t defend myself in a fight. I’m not only fucking small, but I’m not strong–shit, I’m weak. I keep thinking it’s just a phase, that I’ll grow, that I’ll bulk up, at least a little, but it hasn’t happened. I look like I’m 10. Some guys are just built to pick on other guys, and when they see me they know I’m easy. What am I supposed to do? I can’t fight them. Run away? They would only catch me, and then it would be worse. So I try to walk behind other kids on the way to and from school. I try not to be alone out of the house. But just writing this makes me sick to my stomach, and, fuck, makes me want to cry–who wouldn’t want to stomp on such a baby?

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So far, they’ve left me alone. I try to get in the shower either before or after most of the other guys are there, and I just let myself get wet so it looks like I showered. But the whole time, I’m shaking inside. I still have to undress at my locker in front of all of the others. And I have to walk to the shower and back. I can’t even imagine what it would be like not to care about all this shit. What would it be like not to care about showers, pool changing rooms, to be able to go skinny-dipping, to be normal. I’m stuck in this body. I hate it. I hate me.

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Worse. It was worse. It couldn’t have been any worse. I can’t go back.

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Principal’s Report on Locker-Room Incident

Brian Miller, a sophomore, was “hazed” while showering after Gym class, Fifth Period. Apparently the “bigger” boys circled him and started taunting him. They began to snap towels at him until he fell to his knees, covering his head. One of the boys, Samuel Anderson, grabbed Brian by the hair and forced Brian’s face into his crotch, calling Brian a “wimpy faggot,” and making lewd suggestions. When some of the boys began to hoot in encouragement, Mr. Damon, the gym-teacher, heard the ruckus, entered the showers, and intervened. He immediately told Anderson to get dressed and come to my office, accompanied by Mr. Allen, another gym-teacher; told the other boys to get dressed and go to class; and attempted to console Brian, who was very close to being catatonic. Brian is borderline Autistic, which exacerbated an already deeply disturbing and humiliating experience.

Under our zero-tolerance policy for bullying, pending verification of the details of the incident, Anderson will be suspended and assigned to mandatory counseling. In light of the fact that none of the other boys stepped in to stop the abuse–and I use that term markedly–the entire gym class will be subject to after-school counseling. It is at least somewhat to their credit that some of the boys did come forward to Mr. Damon and supplied the details that I described above.

We are deeply concerned for Brian’s welfare. Not only did he endure the humiliation of the actual event, but the whole school is now aware of it. This is a hard thing for a young boy to endure.

Post-script: Brian’s parents, understandably angered, called and said that Brian would not be returning to our school; they will be transferring him to the Arts School, where they feel he stands a better chance of finding a supportive environment. I did not attempt to “defend” our school and offered them complete cooperation and our very heartfelt best wishes for Brian in the future.

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(For another of Hopkins’ Terrible Sonnets, see post How to Deconstruct Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Carrion Comfort.” Despair as Genius. 19thC.)

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