[hardy-l] Disagreement on "Lying Awake"

[Julian W. Whipple]

Dear Friends,

   Contrary to many of the views expressed so far and perhaps exposing a very naive point of view, I am finally compelled to opine that this poem strikes me, as do so many other of Hardy's poems set in cemeteries, as not at all macabre or even lugubrious.  As several contributors, from Betty's original posting up the most recent ones have pointed out, the personifications are central, especially given that these are going on as dawn comes on, right down to the names' "creeping out", as they would appear to do in the light gradually falling on the many angles of the stones, especially in a country churchyard.  "Channel Firing" strikes me similarly; the future is far more macabre than the present in that poem.  "Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave"  is actually comical.  Now "The Man He Killed" doesn't apply to this view of Hardy's "graveyard" poems, of course, although even that is couched in light language that, for me, makes it even sadder; I am sure there are many others that either do or do not apply.  Thomas Gray's "Elegy" and Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle" likewise are somber and stirring but hardly macabre though I grant they are lugubrious.  (speaking of Dylan Thomas, let's not forget Captain Cat in Under Milk Wood - a fine mix of many emotions on death.)

   Another point: most respondants seem to think the poet is the narrator.  I see nothing to support this view and have always felt that in all fictive works it is a dangerous aaumption without evidence.  Gray and Thomas's poems cited above have plenty of evidence to support the poets-as-narrators, as do many of Hardy's - but not those cited.

   Finally, and please skip this if you like, apart from those times when I was a part of graveside ceremonies, I have never found graveyards to be macabre or lugubrious.  As a youth some of my friends and I would often gather in a nearby cemetery at night to speak quietly, making sure not leave any trace of our gathering, and it was never about death.  As I recalled, the company of the departed kept us contemplative and rather quiet but never downhearted.  I felt much the same at the graves of the Hardys at Stinsford, Wordsworth at Grasmere, Thomas at Laugharne and others of my favorite poets.  I cannot say the same for Jim Morrison's grave at Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris or even Robert Frost's at Old Bennington in Vermont, and I find it difficult to achieve the same mood at Westminster Abbey or even at Holy Trinity in Stratford-on-Avon as I do at the three more humble sites mentioned above.

   Now, lest those few who remember me think I have become unnaturally fixated on death and lost my sense of humour, I remain

Your Jolly Admirer,
Julian

"Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like bananas."


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