Ambiguity in poetry – ‘catching the sense at two removes’

Some of the difficulty in understanding the poetry of Robert Penn Warren, the subject of our last three articles, lies in its ambivalence, or the ability of some of his utterances to have more than one possible meaning. Writing about him put me in mind of William Empson's 'Seven Types of Ambiguity', published in 1930 when the author was twenty four. Of it even the great Leavis wrote a couple of years later, “Mr Empson's book is one that nobody interested in English poetry can afford not to have read.”

I must confess that as a young man I did not persist in reading the book to the end. However I did read most of it, and remember being fascinated by the prodigious analytical skill with which Empson uncovered multiple layers of meaning from a single extract of verse. Indeed, this work proved to be the largely unacknowledged cornerstone of twentieth century literary criticism; the main thrust of this being an emphasis on the text itself irrespective of extraneous considerations such as authorial background and socio-historical context.

It has, in fact, been suggested that even the later developments of post-modernism, post-structuralism and deconstruction, which claim the independence of the text from its creator, should rightly trace their foundations to this work.

Even if Empson tended to make something of a fetish of poetic ambivalence, it is indisputable that ambiguity plays a large part in the modus operandi of poetry. The saying may even hold good, in this instance, that “ambiguity is the name of the game”. It is therefore appropriate to consider some ways in which this feature presents itself in poetry.

The simplest form of ambiguity is, of course, the pun where, in one form, a single word is invested with more than one meaning. An example of this is found in Hamlet's very first line. His uncle has just greeted him with the words, “But now, my cousin Hamlet, and my son, -”. Hamlet's answer is an aside, “A little more than kin, and less than kind”.

He means that he is more than Claudius' kinsman since the latter has just become his step-father; at the same time he is less than an actual son to Claudius, the word “kind” being used in its then still current older sense of “natural”. But “kind” also carries its other commoner meaning to imply that Hamlet is far from being benevolently disposed to the uncle who has deprived him of the kingship by hasty marriage to his widowed mother. What a lot Shakespeare has done with this single line to introduce Hamlet's personality to us!

Another such example comes in the penultimate verse of Marvell's 'The Garden'. His solitary and pleasurable garden experience puts the poet in mind of the Garden of Eden. “Such was that happy Garden-state, When Man there walk's without a Mate: After a Place so pure, and sweet, What other Help could yet be meet!” Adam, in other words, was better off before the advent of Eve. In such a delightful place as Eden what further “help” could possibly be “meet” - a now archaic form of “necessary”! These two words albeit not immediately adjacent to each other are intended as a pun on the word “helpmate” (“helpmeet” in its older form). This is a term usually applied to a wife since Eve is referred to as a “helper” for Adam in the Genesis account.

Another type of pun occurs when a word, in addition to its own meaning, is meant to carry the meaning of a differently spelt but similarly-sounded word. A famous example is found at the end of Donne's 'Good Morrow': “What ever dyes, was not mixt equally; If our two loves be one, or, thou and I Love so alike that none doe slacken, none can die.” Underlying this is the idea that the consistency of a compound comprising different elements of equivalent strength does not undergo change or decay.

This would only happen if the one of the elements, being weaker, can be changed or “dyed” by the other. Similarly, if two lovers are equally and steadfastly devoted to each other, their love will never perish or “die” but last forever. “Dye” and “die” are actually mutually complementary puns!

Another rather beautiful example of this type of pun is found in Marvell's 'Dialogue Between the Resolved Soul and Created Pleasure'. The latter has been vainly trying to tempt the former away from spiritual pursuits through the offer of various worldly pleasures.

A seemingly irresistible temptation comes in the form of music: “Heark how Musick then prepares For thy Stay these charming Aires;” The resolved soul acknowledges that music is the greatest of all pleasures: “Had I but any time to lose, On this I would it all dispose.” But then it asserts: “Cease Tempter. None can chain a mind Whom this sweet Chordage cannot bind.”

There is actually a double pun here. “Chordage” refers to the “chords” (a poetic synonym for the “strings”) of a musical instrument. But it also refers to the “chords” or harmonies produced by those strings. At the same time it substitutes for “cordage”, the cords or ropes of music which fail to “chain” or bind the resolute soul.

There is also the related device of the 'double entendre' or 'double entente', an expression that is meant to have a dual interpretation. There is an example of this in the portrait of the Prioress in the Prologue to Chaucer's 'Canterbury Tales'. This nun, although demanding the respect due to her calling, is hardly of the self-effacing type associated with it. Her speech, manners and attire are patently designed to highlight her natural comeliness. Thus, when at the end of the portrait we are told that she wears a large golden brooch inscribed with the words “Amor vincit omnia” (Latin for “Lover conquers all”), the ironic implication is that hers is a propensity for romantic as well as for spiritual love.

It will be noted that there is no punning, as such, in the last example. The words themselves do not have more than one meaning or suggest other words like themselves, as in the case of puns.

It is the context that endows the words with their ambivalence. And this brings us to the more difficult and more interesting kind of poetic ambiguity with which Empson was primarily concerned: that which arises from the evocative or suggestive power of the words as used by a poet. Let's look now at the opening line of Shakespeare's nineteenth sonnet, which reads: “Devouring Time blunt thou the lion's paws,”

Although Time is here spoken of as “devouring”, this is an epithet customarily attributed to the lion that is Time's victim. Thus Time is made out to be lion-like in its capacity to devour everything before it. That is the first implication of what is virtually a transferred epithet. But it goes deeper than that. Since “devouring” is primarily applicable to the lion but is applied to Time, it must follow that the “blunting” effect of Time is actually caused by the lion as it pursues and devours its prey. Thus, there is something even more tragic to contemplate than the destructive power of Time. It is the fact that the very energies we expend in manifesting our prime and our pride of life eventually bring about our decline and death. In other words, we are the devourers of our own time!

From this it is evident that metaphor plays a considerable part in the production of poetic ambiguity. Such figurative language is the stuff of the poetry of Shakespeare, Donne and Marvell.

This is probably why another seventeenth century poet, George Herbert, once felt the need to abstain from the metaphorical habit in deference to his generally spiritual subjects. In 'Jordan I' he complains: “Must all be vail'd (veiled), while he that reades, divines, Catching the sense at two removes?”

Fortunately, Herbert did not stick to his resolution. His poetry abundantly employs his distinctive brand of the metaphysical conceit.

It seems that ambiguity, intended or otherwise, comes naturally to most great poets and that some of the meaning of their poetry must inevitably seem to be “vail'd”.

Accordingly, “catching the sense at two removes” is something that the serious reader of poetry should be prepared to do if he wants to appreciate it fully. In the next article it is hoped to demonstrate not seven, but a few chief means by which ambiguity occurs and may be recognised in great poetry.