Shakespearean, Swiftian, Dickensian, Hardyesque. Were we to put the pollen of the literary family tree under the microscope, I fear that we might still find its chromosomes distinctly male.
It’s not news that the canon is historically thus, but it still startles me to discover how easy it is for a female voice to disappear into the greenery of the perennially masculine tradition. We may well extol the brilliance of Emily Dickinson or the genius of Mary Shelley (whilst conveniently forgetting that the genre of science fiction was established by a woman) but where are their roots and branches, their buds and leaves?
I feel ashamed to admit that my first encounter with Charlotte Mew, the early 20th-century writer whose poetic legacy underpins the story of my novel in verse The Poet, was in a GCSE classroom, 20 years into my teaching career. Why had I never read this work before? Where had this writer been when I’d been studying for my degree? How had I failed to notice a poet with a skill to rival, if not surpass, that of Thomas Hardy? Why had no one ever said, if you love Emily Bronte, you must read Charlotte Mew?
Perhaps it’s because she was not prolific, leaving behind on her death one slim volume of published poetry, some essays and a handful of short stories. Or because in her lifetime Mew disappeared from public consciousness, her death was inaccurately reported, the brief obituary naming her Miss Charlotte Mary New. Perhaps it’s because literary fashions change. But some voices are never forgotten and Charlotte Mew’s ought to count among their number.
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When Jonathan Franzen wrote about Edith Wharton in denigratory terms, eliding from his assessment of her writing much of what was positive in her biography and instead focusing on her physical appearance rather than her literary merit, he gave a masterclass in how not to advocate for the genius of the opposite sex.
Mew’s biography has often been the subject of interest rather than her poetry: the madness of her siblings, questions surrounding her sexuality, her horrifying and lonely suicide. But what ought to be calling to us first and foremost is this writer’s phenomenal ability to produce verse that, in its emotional intensity, electrifies the reader. To reduce Charlotte Mew to a collection of biographical facts is to negate the genius at work. The multiple voices she could inhabit, her experimentation with metre and lineation, her originality in the use of imagery and rhyme, make me wonder why she is not more widely read.
Julia Copus entitled her recent biography of Mew This Rare Spirit and her scholarly account of Mew’s life and work is a joy to read, privileging as it does the poet’s mastery of form and putting to bed some of the more gossipy mis-interpretations of her life. It has also been gratifying to discover Charlotte Mew make a brief appearance on the AQA A level syllabus in a collection of love poetry (interestingly if unsurprisingly, more than three-quarters of this collection is male-authored, as if a woman still has little of weight to say about love) and to see her featured in John Carey’s recent anthologies.
Comparatively the 21st-century female artist has it easy. Or so we’re led to believe. I’ve read several recent articles bemoaning the demise of the male novelist who flounders to be heard amidst a tidal wave of salty female voices. It seems to be a given that a writer who also happens to be a woman is now if not only on a level playing field, perhaps even given a head start.
My protagonist, Emma Eliot, hopes that in this era of equality she - as a young poet and academic - will be able to achieve her potential without the barriers of gender or class blocking her way. And she believes she has even found a staunch supporter in her lover, Tom Abbot – a man born into the kind of privilege that ensures his voice is always heard.
Thomas Hardy, to his credit, championed Charlotte Mew (perhaps because he too knew what it meant to struggle), and he with John Masefield and Walter de la Mare campaigned for her to be awarded a Civil List pension to grant her more freedom to write and alleviate some of the anxiety her difficult domestic situation created. But, despite early indications to the contrary, Emma finds no such support in Tom. Indeed, his growing disparagement of her work serves to render her tongue-tied and anxious, questioning her right to be heard.
In The Poet I write about how difficult it still is for a young woman to believe in herself when she is belittled. But Charlotte Mew was stubborn in the face of rejection; she eschewed polite society and did not allow negative assessments of her writing to daunt her. I love that Mew refused to alter the lineation of one of her most famous poems, The Farmer’s Bride, and so on publication it was typeset sideways to accommodate her long lines. That speaks volumes about the kind of writer she was: one that would not sacrifice her vision for the sake of market forces.
My Emma Eliot develops similar chutzpah. But it is in gathering strength from the women around her that she finds a way to overcome the persistent fear that she’s just not good enough. Situating her in a line of poets, I write about how she is one of many, another branch on a tree that blossoms with the restless rhythms of female creativity, blooming with potential. Emma wonders if she’s a cheat, a plagiarist, a fraud, reliant as she is on the line that extends behind her, but she comes to embrace the power of fearlessness, even if that means destroying the very thing she thought she loved, and to thriving despite every attempt to shift her into silence.
The Poet by Louisa Reid is published by Doubleday on June 9th
