The thrown voice is closely associated with Robert Browning, whose dramatic monologues, “Porphyria’s Lover” and “My Last Duchess” are masterpieces of the genre. However, its modern roots can already be discerned in a long verse drama by Keats’s more popular rival, Barry Cornwall. Cornwall's Marcian Colonna (1820) shocked and enthralled Romantic audiences left cold by Keats's own attempts at enthusing the reading public.
The week, spent with such a wonderful group of inspiring and talented writers at Ty Newydd – given additional spice by superb readings from the poet Kathryn Simmonds and writer and activist Kevin Powell – sent me back to the Romantics in other ways. Damian and I wished to address the dramatic monologue as a form that takes us “beyond self” to get back to self, an approach that offered a different “take” on the post-Romantic “I” in contemporary poetry, where Romanticism’s self-representation as the only veridical, authentic mode of composition, predicated on the heroic articulation of first-hand experience, still has currency. We wanted our thrown voices to resist the post-Romantic confessional/veridical mode – itself a conceit, as we discussed – in order to arrive at a way of thinking about voice and style as constructed, yet in a sense no less – perhaps more – “personal” than the confessional poem in its full Plathian expression.
It might seem foolish to go mano-a-mano with the Duke, but here’s a link to one of my own dramatic monologues, "Elisions", from my collection Wan-Hu’s Flying Chair (Salt, 2009). In it, a Romantic-period steam engineer, a man not unlike James Boulton, a member of the Lunar Society and as such an abolitionist, tries to elide his complicity in the slave trade while letting his sense of culpability slip precisely at the same time.
Keats was no different to other writers in his circle in that regard, plundering Lempriere’s Classical Dictionary for Greek mythology, and turning to whatever books were at hand during “research” for even his most personal, ostensibly self-contained works. Take the great odes, written in May 1819. Do we think any less of Keats once we see his (possible) debt to the French philosopher Etienne Bonnot de Condillac? Compare the following lines from “Ode on a Grecian Urn” and “Ode on Melancholy” (respectively) to what I think are their immediate sources in Nugent’s English translation of Condillac’s Essay on the Origin of Human Understanding (1756):