Hopkins: "I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day"

It's important to have a sense of what Gerard Manley Hopkins' life was like in his last years to understand why his poetry changed and became darker. He moved to Dublin to work as a teacher in 1884. He felt overworked, underappreciated, and was chronically physically unwell. His residence was in poor condition, dingy, cramped, and cold. The plumbing leaked, and the water sometimes became fouled—a problem that ultimately led to his death from typhoid in 1889.

"I Wake and Feel the Fell of Dark, Not Day" is one of the so-called Terrible Sonnets from this period of his life. This poem rises out of the dark night of the soul. There is no silver lining here. But perhaps there is a paradox to darkness. Sometimes In telling the darkness and leaving it as dark as it feels, the telling itself can be a light. And, like Hopkins, if we tell the darkness, we can sometimes find our way out of it, too.

Music from this episode was from EVOE, Diffie Bosman, Alon Peretz, Kyle Preston, and Jon Gegelman. Sound design and editing is by Nate Sheppard.

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Episode Transcript

S1 (00:02):
I'm Andy Patton and this is Rhyme and Reason from
the Rabbit Room. Each season we look at the life
and work of one poet, starting with Gerard Manley Hopkins.

(00:28):
Our final poem of the main season is one of
the so-called terrible sonnets called I Wake and Feel the
Fell of dark, not day. Here it is. I wake
and feel the fell of dark, not day. What hours?
A what black hours. We've spent this night. What sights

(00:50):
you heart saw. Ways you went. And more must and
yet longer lights delay with witness I speak this but
where I say hours, I mean years mean life. And
my lament is cries. Countless cries. Like dead letters sent
to dearest him that lives alas, away. I am Gaul,

(01:17):
I am heartburn, God's most deep decree. Bitter would have
me taste. My taste was me. Bones built in me.
Flesh filled, blood brimmed. The curse self. Yeast of spirit
a dull dough sours I see the lost are like this.
And their scourge to be as I am mine. Their

(01:39):
sweating selves but worse. In the last episode, we left
Hopkins in Dublin, suffering through what would be the last
years of his short life. He came to Dublin to
work as a teacher in 1884. The residence to which
he was posted was in poor condition. It was dingy,

(02:00):
cramped and was cold. In a letter, he called the building, quote,
a sort of ruin. And he said that his room
was so small that he had more money to buy
books than. Room to put them in. You can imagine
him there, overworked and underappreciated, chronically physically unwell, despairing but

(02:22):
doggedly carrying on his priestly vocation, to which he seemed
so ill suited. In these Dublin years he was plagued
by fits of sadness so severe they resembled madness. On
top of his cramped conditions, the plumbing leaked and the
water sometimes became fouled, a problem that, just five years

(02:43):
after moving to Dublin, would lead to his death of
typhoid in 1889. Just like the volta of a sonnet,
toward the end of his life, his poetry changed. As
his circumstances changed, it became sharper and darker. Forlorn, yet
also at moments uncovering a consolation that was all the

(03:06):
brighter for its desperation, for the fact that it was
a hard won hope. Hopkins wrote that his final sonnets
came unbidden and against my will. They were poems that
echoed the psalmist who wrote out of the depths I

(03:27):
cry to you. Margaret Ellsberg wrote of these last sonnets
that after reconciling his ascetic nature and his poetic impulses,
his writing was, quote, flooded with the moral insight that
20 years of conscientious study of the Spiritual Exercises had
bestowed upon him. Despite the suffering in his life and

(03:55):
its extreme crescendo at the end of his life. His
last words were I am happy, so happy. I loved
my life. Now let's look at this poem. It rises

(04:19):
out of the pit, as it were. The dark night
of the soul. As the first line indicates, I wake
and feel the fell of dark. Not day. What hours, oh,
what black hours we've spent this night. The sonnet begins
and ends in darkness. And so the suffering seems to
stretch on to an unremitting, unrelenting, hopeless infinity. There's no

(04:42):
silver lining in this poem. There are no hard won lessons.
Just the wrestling and the struggle and the questions and
the dark conclusions that breed in their wake. He addresses
his own heart. What sites you heart sore ways you went.
And more must in yet longer lights delay. The poet

(05:07):
is in flight in his most inward self and quote
with yet longer lights delay. No hope is on the horizon.
There's panic and there's desperation. In the Bible, the Book

(05:32):
of Lamentations tells us that God's mercies are new every morning.
But what about those nights when it feels like morning
never comes? That the hours of night will never end?
When even though the sun rises. It feels like the
night continues. That's where this poem lives. And Hopkins locates

(05:53):
the origin of his suffering with God. He writes God's
most deep decree. Bitter would have me taste. My taste
was me. If he has become gall, become heartburn. It
hasn't happened outside the sway of an all knowing, all
seeing God. The poet's God knows his despair, but he

(06:14):
addresses Himself to God anyway with his cries as one sending, quote,
dead letters to dearest him that lives alas! Away. And
God has left him to the blood brimming curse. Left
him with the dark yeast to sour his spirit's dough.
And then the poem ends with the dreadful lines. The
lost are like this. And their scourge to be as

(06:37):
I am mine, their sweating selves. But worse. One of
the questions we can ask about this poem is why
did Hopkins immortalize his darkest moments in poetry? What's happening here?
Is this a poem of faith or a poem of doubt?
Is it good for us to read this poem and

(06:57):
the other terrible sonnets like it? It would be easy
to shy away from the dark work Hopkins is doing
in his poetry at the end of his life. Easy,
and perhaps even understandable because they're difficult. But we shouldn't

(07:22):
condemn these poems any more than we should condemn the
darkness and say the Psalms. Read Psalm 88 and you'll
find similar images as the ones Hopkins is using here.
The psalmist wallows in a dark night that he likens
to drowning in a flood. The Psalms are loved for
many reasons, and one of them is that they're incredibly realistic.

(07:43):
They span the breadth of human experience, from the heights
to the depths, and they're absolutely honest about all of it.
They don't shy away or pull punches. They're unsentimental. And
that's why they have endured as the prayer book of
the people of God for millennia. As the enduring legacy
of the beauty and the wisdom of the Psalms illustrates.

(08:05):
There is a paradox to darkness, sometimes in telling the
darkness and leaving it as dark as it feels, without
a compulsion to weave a silver lining through it, to
bring it to a happy ending. The telling itself can
become a light. If we tell the darkness, we can
sometimes find our way out of it too. And maybe

(08:27):
a similar thing is happening in this poem. Yes, in
a sense, Hopkins is immortalizing these doubts in poetry. But
in writing his doubtful wrestling, he created testaments of faith.
After all, the faith that struggles isn't dead any more
than a drowning person who still has the strength to

(08:48):
yet keep their head above water is dead. What looks
like painful thrashing might be dogged. Survival might be strength
revealing itself when it's put to the test. Faith that
expresses honest hardship can be faith tested and sometimes faith found.

(09:16):
So the poets black hours that seemed to last all
life long can become a crucible of belief, not just
an arena of deconstruction. Wrestling with God is active, impassive faith. Apathetic.
Faith is dead faith. And that isn't Hopkins. He's crying out.
He's reaching for a God he trusts. He loves, he

(09:38):
believes in. He's clutching tight to whatever strings of faith
he can reach. And when his flailing finds none in
the midst of those black hours, he writes that to.
The poems Hopkins was writing at the end of his

(10:00):
life are so particular, so of a moment, that they
actually become universal. People in the grips of pain have
come to these terrible sonnets, and found the solace that
only fellow sufferers can give to one another. It reminds

(10:24):
me of a Thornton Wilder quote that goes like this.
Without your wound, where would your power be? It is
your very remorse that makes your low voice tremble into
the hearts of men. The very angels themselves cannot persuade
the wretched and blundering children on earth, as can one
human being broken on the wheels of living. Hopkins was

(10:47):
broken on the wheels of living. And maybe that is
part of what has made his poetry so lasting, and
has allowed so many other people over the decades to
come to these poems and see themselves in them. And now,
with all that in mind, here is I wake and
feel the fell of dark not day. Read by Heidi Johnston.

S2 (11:15):
I wake and feel the fell of dark. Not day.
What hours or what black hours we have spent this night.
What sights you heart saw. Ways you went. And more
must and yet longer lights delay. With witness I speak this.

(11:39):
But where I say hours, I mean years mean life.
And my lament is cries. Countless cries. Like dead letters
sent to dearest him that lives alas away. I am goal,

(12:02):
I am heartburn, God's most deep decree. create better would
have me taste. My taste was me. Bones built in me.
Flesh filled, blood brimmed the curse self. Yeast of spirit
a dull dough. Stars I see the lost are like this.

(12:22):
And their scourge to be as I am mine. Their
sweating selves but worse.

S3 (12:53):
I'm definitely ready.

S4 (12:56):
I'm here with my special guests who are definitely ready.

S3 (13:00):
Yeah, it's us, the ultimate team. The music from this
episode was from.

S4 (13:09):
Furtive by Diffie. Bozeman.

S3 (13:12):
Votive by Bozeman.

S4 (13:15):
All right. Ivy. This is for you.

S3 (13:17):
Last. Sorry.

S4 (13:18):
By Alain. Paris.

S3 (13:20):
By Alain. Parrots.

S4 (13:24):
Stop!

S3 (13:24):
What is he doing? What is he doing?

S4 (13:27):
He's just being naughty.

S3 (13:29):
Well, nothing is forgotten by Kyle Preston. He almost flew
a way.

S4 (13:35):
By John Gagelmann.

S3 (13:37):
By John Gagelmann.

S5 (13:39):
I'm here alone by Eva.

S3 (13:41):
The sound design editing is by Nate Shepard. You can
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our newsletter at Rabbit Room Poetry.