Classic Poem of the Month
This feature has been 'offline' for a while, but it's back now with Ben Jonson's 'On My First Son', chosen by Jonathan Davidson of Coventry.
On My First Son
by Ben Jonson
Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy ;
My sin was too much hope of thee, lov'd boy.
Seven years thou wert lent to me, and I thee pay,
Exacted by thy fate, on the just day.
Oh, could I lose all father now ! For why
Will man lament the state he should envy?
To have so soon 'scaped world's and flesh's rage,
And if no other misery, yet age !
Rest in soft peace, and, asked, say, Here doth lie
Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such
As what he loves may never like too much.
I’ve known this poem
for years, probably read it several times, certainly been struck by the
counter-intuitive last line which seems so contemporary, but I hadn’t
properly
read it until
January 2010. I should be ashamed of myself. I am. So to make up for
this, I’m going to have a chat with the man himself, let him take me
through one more time just how he feels about the death of his son.
It’s late. He’s tired and emotional. This may not go well.
Firstly, Ben, can I say that the poem makes me think of Shakespeare’s Hamlet, of the ‘To be, or not to be’ speech. You try to play that ‘only a fool would not want to escape the awfulness of the world’ card. Hamlet failed to convince me when he tried it, and to be honest, you do too. I know you believe, as I believe, that any life is better than death and not just because of what you wish for your little lad but because of what you wish for yourself, to have a son and to die before he dies. And I know Shakespeare’s son, Hamnet died young and this feels like a poem Shakespeare might have written; well, did write in a way across his later plays. That may mean nothing. Did you know him? I think you did. And I still like the poem.
I like very much the way in which you try to reason-out the pain, and yet fail; awfully, completely. The Norton Anthology tells me that ‘thou child of my right hand’ is a translation of the Hebrew meaning of the name Benjamin, as if this will soften the poem’s approach to the pain. And then in the second line, Ben, you introduce the notion that you surely do not subscribe to, that is that you, the poet, is to blame for having too much hope and then, in the last line, for loving too much. Perhaps one can hope and love too much, but not simply for the life of your children. Ben, you’ve got it wrong: you know it, I know it, and it is very moving that you choose to mask your grief with this clumsy chastisement of yourself. Another drink? Sure. And let me rather lamely pat you on the shoulder.
And then you fumble through the Hamletian dilemma, secure in the knowledge that you don’t believe a word of it. And you blow your nose and try to comfort yourself: ‘Rest in soft peace.’ Right. And then you think to try to distance yourself by suggesting for a moment that your son could be likened to a piece of poetry, your best piece. I don’t think so. That is a line whose hollowness echoes down the ages: looking on the artistic bright side, creating a synergy with his art and craft. We know you don’t mean this.
A boy is not a piece of poetry. You’ve shaken my arm from around your shoulder, reached for the strong drink again and begun to gabble and both you and I know it is because you must try to contain your grief. And the finish? The finish is back to that ‘oh, it was my fault for caring too much’ routine. It didn’t work the first time, it fails spectacularly the last time. You know it, and surely the artist in you knows your grief will be better communicated by being contained within a fatuous sentiment. You’ve lost your son, and you’ve lost it totally. I think we should leave it there for today. Thanks.
This is a loser’s poem and perhaps I was drawn to it first of all because it provided a few shallow ideas. Now I know, or I think I know, that Ben Jonson wanted to betray himself, wanted us to demand he stops trying to reason what cannot be reasoned. This wonderfully clever, rational, controlled speech about loss is nothing more than a mask to his pain; what I see behind it is the truth: loss is loss. We got there in the end. I don’t know how he is going to cope, but I know he’ll have to. And I am very sorry his son died, so young. I am very, very sorry.
The Poetry Business receives financial assistance from Arts Council England.
