The River LetheIMAGINATIVE RESPONSE& CRITICAL REFLECTION

Claudia Murphy | English Extension 1 | March 12, 2020

ContentsThe River Lethe...............................................................................................2

Ode on Melancholy by John Keats...................................................................5Original first stanza, later removed from the publication:........................5

The published poem without the original first stanza:..............................5Reflection Statement.......................................................................................7

Bibliography....................................................................................................8

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The River Lethe

Back and forth, back and forth. Her stomach churned with the vigorous rocking of the boat. The stench of rotting bones filled her nostrils, forcing her to recoil from the edges, curled away from the grotesque structure. She could feel the souls of the lost rising from the surface beneath her to taunt her, tell her she couldn’t escape, it was either death by sea or suffering through this torment. Taunting her. Delirium turned the masts into gibbets, the rigging into Medusa’s lustrous hair. The crashing waves of sea water were water no more, but a deathly poison that called her into their depths. Their billowing form hypnotising her blank stare. Blank, unmoving, unchanging. Mind invaded with a single goal: to find it. Others once travelled with her. The loneliness has become close to finishing her journey. However, she thought they were weak. Only the weak succumb to the ocean’s calls, only the weak succumb to the ships rotting masts. She would not.

Limbs struggling to raise, body overtaken by lethargy. Her hollow chest yearns and yearns and yearns to be filled. The ship bends on a harsh curve, water flooding the deck, seeping through the gaps in the skulls that fill the complex. Rotting teeth clenched as the abandoned heads breathe in the salty poison, letting it spill from their empty eye sockets like their forgotten tears. Her body tumbles, though she cannot yet move. She is glued by the sin of Sloth, holding her arms close by her sides. Every move cause aches in every tendon at every moment. Ribs straining with a single breath, attempting to feel something more than being an empty cavity. Deep breathing. In and out. Nose and mouth. Chapped, bitten lips pursed in bid to keep her own sanity. She counts, too. She holds herself spellbound with the hymn of numbers. In. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Out. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Dizzy with concentration.

She has to find it- she will find it. Nothing else will ease her pain. The throbbing of her fingertips, the futile pulses behind the cage of her chest, the everlasting vacancy of her mind which somehow still runs, day and night, with pointless thoughts. She knows it is out there. The stories have told her so. A river of immense beauty, twisting through the earth like glistening teardrops of hope down a Faery’s cheek. The prosperous harvests of evergreen fruits could feed the river’s believers for eternity and more, letting the soul taste true happiness- true euphoria. She dreams of using the sweet nectar of the river’s flowers to aid her in falling into a restful slumber; or weaving baskets from the reeds that hide deep in the drooping trees. To feel happiness, to forget all else. Every ache, every tear, every scream for help, every heartbeat skipped with fear. To no more see that within her dream; dream only of the river Lethe.

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The bones creaked once more as the ship jolted once more, and her reverie was broken. She could hear the rasp and grind of sand and stone against the bough. Puppet-like limbs carrying her under the command of her desire. Move forward. Jumping from the skulls beneath her blistered feet to the soft sand below her, the place behind her eyes throbbing with sharp aches at the bright world in front of her. The harsh, piercing wind had changed since she felt the sand between her toes; now it brushed her face, soft and calming. Move forward. She had made it- though it was not over.

Once she could feel the sun on her skin, kissing her gently and inviting her onwards, her purpose became clear in her mind. To bathe in the cool waters of the river, to forget the agony of the present, to fill the cavern in her chest. For months she had begged for this feeling, to breathe this clean air in and feel it trickle throughout her body. Legs taking their course, she walked on. Dew drops coated the greenery, glimmering in the light with every step she took, every new perspective she had. She squinted when the trees allowed a kaleidoscope of sunshine into her tired eyes, giving them a life she had dreamed to see each time she glimpsed at a mirror. Her bored reflection staring back at her, looking just as soulless as she felt. The grass beneath her feet was vibrant and unbelievably soft, caressing her toes at every lift and fall, comforting her in her mindless journey towards the last river bend before the sea.

She followed the waterside, legs slowing as it curved like the end of a great dragon’s tail. Majestically curling around a wise Oak who’s roots tickled down the banks, deep into the water. She follows them and becomes aware, for the first time in years, of how hard her heart is beating. Pounding in her chest, reacting to her anticipation of finally reaching the holy grail she had been yearning for. So long, she had waited so long for this journey to begin and for it to end. Brought to her breaking point, dragged to her wits end. All her suffering, all of her pain, it was about to be forgotten. She would be free.

Her hand reached towards the Oak. Fingertips dragging on the rough bark that enveloped its core and age. Her eyes fluttered shut as she let it guide her, let it call to her to beckon her around the great tree. The soles of her feet wrapping around the thick roots, centering her to the divine Earth, steadying her for her journey. She could hear a soft murmur in her mind, so soft that it was unintelligible. Light touches still skimming over the body, the murmurs only became louder. She felt as if she was walking closer, closer to the calling in her head. She could make out the syllables now; another step and she could hear the strained vowels. Each millimeter her fingers moved, the volume increased, building like desert dunes in the midnight blue whilst no one was looking. Louder, louder. The voice was luring her in, intoxicating her so to leave behind her other senses. Her fingers caught against a ridge in the rind and she stopped. It was clear to her now as she stood in silence aside from the whispering of the Oak leaves in spring. The calling had

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stopped, but not before she deciphered the bewitching words. Her eyes opened and she saw the doing of a sinner. A sinner which she had listened to so carefully. Carved into the art of Nature were the words that had been so magnetic to her soul:

No, no, go not to Lethe,

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed by its devilish poison.

She jolted away, as if she was burned, and stumbled backwards towards the bank. She felt the cool licks of water at her heels and she turned, body instantly relaxing as she stared into the deep water that held all the nebulae of the Universe. It seduced her, until she was finally walking into the delightful depths, stepping deeper until the cool soothed the heat of her waist, just below her breast.

That is when the burning began, pinching as her skin, leaving her grimacing in its wake. It felt as if acid was crawling up her body, and the muddy surface beneath her toes had disappeared. A force was dragging her down. Her relentless struggles only made it pull faster until she could feel the sting of the river at her chin. Desperate breaths filled her lungs as she kicked under the water, trying to push away whatever creature was luring her into the depths. Then she was submerged. The pounding in her ears is strong as she feels her skull compress, still being tugged deeper despite her efforts. It was futile. She cries out, losing the remaining oxygen in her lungs. She begs the Deities to free her from this underwater limbo. Her consciousness is barely there, but remains. She feels as if she is being taunted by the river, which is keeping her awake only so she can feel the pain of this torture. Her ribcage shrivels around her still aching heart, the excruciating pain somehow easing her panic as she finally gives in and allows herself to be taken deeper into the river.

The force stops, and she doesn’t move. Her body naturally floats up to the surface, she sees only the pale light of outside and wonders how the river could be so bottomless as it seemed. Once she breaks away from the water, she breathes in, lungs begging to be filled. It smells nothing like its fragrant scent before. It’s putrid. The sublime world she once saw was replaced with a desolate wasteland of the hopeless.

And she cried. She cried not because of the grim world, not because of the pain in her head and chest, nor because of the fear she felt crashing over

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her in waves. She cried because she knew the river had granted her wish. It had made her forget, though it replaced her memories with something of its own, something much worse. And never again will she discount a sinner’s words. Never again will she ignore them. Their temple of delight had hidden the Devil’s own sovran shrine.

Ode on Melancholy by John KeatsOriginal first stanza, later removed from the publication:

Though you should build a bark of dead men's bones,

And rear a phantom gibbet for a mast,

Stitch shrouds together for a sail, with groans

To fill it out, blood-stained and aghast;

Although your rudder be a dragon's tail

Long sever'd, yet still hard with agony,

Your cordage large uprootings from the skull

Of bald Medusa, certes you would fail

To find the Melancholy—whether she

Dreameth in any isle of Lethe dull.

The published poem without the original first stanza:

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist

Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;

Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss'd

By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;

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Make not your rosary of yew-berries,

Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be

Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl

A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;

For shade to shade will come too drowsily,

And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall

Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,

That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,

And hides the green hill in an April shroud;

Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,

Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,

Or on the wealth of globed peonies;

Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,

Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,

And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;

And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips

Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,

Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:

Ay, in the very temple of Delight

Veil'd Melancholy has her sovran shrine,

Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue

Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;

His soul shalt taste the sadness of her might,

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And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Reflection Statement

‘Ode to Melancholy’ by John Keats (1819) is telling the sufferer what to and not to do when experiencing sadness. The published poem is a complete change of tone from the original first stanza. It shows the internal struggles of Keats, who was surrounded by death and morbidity at the time he wrote the poem, as he attempts to live without worries with true positive nihilism which became a prominent feature amongst Romantics. He alludes in the full poem that you must feel complete joy in order to feel sadness, which I refute in my imaginative response ‘The River Lethe’. My concept surrounds what I believe would have happened if Keats’ story from his original first stanza continued, and shows my belief on the myth of Lethe and the realities of taking such drastic measures. By harnessing the elements of supernatural I used in my piece, I hope to show the dangers of the unhealthy need to change or forget memories.

The idyllic way of thinking that Keats represents in this poem is what sets it apart from my imaginative response. Anselm Haverkamp states that “taking countermeasures, makes the Ode to Melancholy, as one would expect, into an Ode on Melancholy”. This is relating to Keats’ counteractive measures against the themes of battling against melancholy in the original first stanza and his words against suicide in the published poem. ‘The River Lethe’ is separate from this as it embodies the aforementioned “Ode to Melancholy”, rejecting Keats’ interference and following his original narrative. Through my modern context I am able to see the flaws in the Romantic view of sadness, and I express this through my narrative. The idyllic way of thinking that Keats represents in this poem is what sets it apart from my imaginative response. Freud states in ‘Beyond the Pleasure Principle’ that melancholy is the “work of mourning”, which directly relates to Keats’ context as a writer as his father, mother and brother had all died early in his life from accident and illness. This feature is prominent in Keats’ original first stanza of ‘Ode on Melancholy’ of which I was inspired and I directly borrowed Keats’ grotesque imagery to use in my own piece. “And rear a phantom gibbet for a

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mast… Your cordage large uprootings from the skull / Of bald Medusa” (Ode on Melancholy). Through this, I invited the reader into my intended Literary World - “Delirium turned the masts into gibbets, the rigging into Medusa’s lustrous hair.” (The River Lethe). I wanted to heavily incorporate the supernatural and mythological themes Keats utilised in order to provide my imaginative response with a fable-like tone and flow. I did this as Keats’ use of iambic pentameter and ABAB rhyming scheme throughout ‘Ode on Melancholy’ showcase an unworldly colour to his poem, which contrasts against the serious issues the poem is addressing.

‘Ode to Melancholy’ follows a rhythm akin to a “stream of consciousness” (Barbara Herrnstein Smith) that seemingly addresses the audience in relation to the human experience of melancholy. I used this feature in my writing to create a narrative that exposes the other side of Keats’ poem which he did not explore thoroughly. I developed a warning perspective on human nature. I captured the emotive language used by Keats which is an important feature of the Romantic period as well as using more Romantic imagery. “A river of immense beauty, twisting through the earth like glistening teardrops of hope down a Faery’s cheek.” I wanted to use the Elysian visions he supplied later in ‘Ode on Melancholy’, “That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, / And hides the green hill in April shroud”. He alludes in the second stanza of the published poem that one must enjoy beauty while it lasts, I countered this belief in ‘The River Lethe’ by building on the concept that beauty is in the eye of the beholder “Dew drops coated the greenery, glimmering in the light with every step she took, every new perspective she had.” This aided my concept as I tackled the idealised Romantic view on sadness, I used it to show a contrast between the two narratives.

By using the Literary World Keats’ created, I was able to write about an important issue within the human psyche whilst exploring various forms and features utilised in the Romantic era. Using my modern context, however, I was able to manipulate the narrative to contrast against and simultaneously compliment ‘Ode on Melancholy’ by inviting the reader into my world to view my perspective of the poem.

BibliographyFreud, S. (1920). (Jenseits des Lustprinzips). Germany.

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Haverkamp, A. (1990). Mourning Becomes Melancholia. A Muse Deconstructed: Keats's Ode on Melancholy. New Literary History, 693-706.

Smith, B. H. (1966). Sorrow's Mysteries": Keats's "Ode on Melancholy. Studies in English Literature, 679-691.

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