March 24, 2008
Permettez-moi de vous presenter. . .
mon ami, Charles Baudelaire.
And while I'm not saying the intent is my intent, the capitalization of Toi allows me to read it in a way that perhaps M. Baudelaire did not intend. (Almost certainly did not intend given the title of his chief work--Les Fleurs du Mal.)
De profundis clamavi
Charles BaudelaireJ'implore ta pitié, Toi, l'unique que j'aime,
Du fond du gouffre obscur où mon coeur est tombé.
C'est un univers morne à l'horizon plombé,
Où nagent dans la nuit l'horreur et le blasphème;Un soleil sans chaleur plane au-dessus six mois,
Et les six autres mois la nuit couvre la terre;
C'est un pays plus nu que la terre polaire
— Ni bêtes, ni ruisseaux, ni verdure, ni bois!Or il n'est pas d'horreur au monde qui surpasse
La froide cruauté de ce soleil de glace
Et cette immense nuit semblable au vieux Chaos;Je jalouse le sort des plus vils animaux
Qui peuvent se plonger dans un sommeil stupide,
Tant l'écheveau du temps lentement se dévide!
A translation, more poetic than accurate, but aiming at the spirit:
De Profundis Clamavi
Roy CampbellHave pity, my one love and sole delight!
Down to a dark abyss my heart has sounded,
A mournful world, by grey horizons bounded,
Where blasphemy and horror swim by night.For half the year a heatless sun gives light,
The other half the night obscures the earth.
The arctic regions never knew such dearth.
No woods, nor streams, nor creatures meet the sight.No horror in the world could match in dread
The cruelty of that dire sun of frost,
And that huge night like primal chaos spread.I envy creatures of the vilest kind
That they in stupid slumber can be lost —
So slowly does the skein of time unwind!
And another, again, poetic, not literal
Out of the Depths
Jacques LeClercqSole Being I love, Your mercy I implore
Out of the bitter pit of my heart's night,
With leaden skyscapes on a dismal shore,
Peopled only by blasphemy and fright;
For six months frigid suns float overhead,
For six months more darkness and solitude.
No polar wastes are bleaker and more dead,
With never beast nor stream nor plant nor wood.No horror in this world but is outdone
By the cold razor of this glacial sun
And this chaotic night's immensities.
I envy the most humble beast that ease
Which brings dull slumber to his brutish soul
So slowly does my skein of time unroll.
And then this, which comes from the same hand that gave us the delights of The Importance of Being Earnest
from De Profundis
Oscar WildeProsperity, pleasure and success, may be rough of grain and common in fibre, but sorrow is the most sensitive of all created things. There is nothing that stirs in the whole world of thought to which sorrow does not vibrate in terrible and exquisite pulsation. The thin beaten-out leaf of tremulous gold that chronicles the direction of forces the eye cannot see is in comparison coarse. It is a wound that bleeds when any hand but that of love touches it, and even then must bleed again, though not in pain.
Which leads us to:
Psalm 129/130
De profundis clamavi ad te, Domine;
Domine, exaudi vocem meam.
Fiant aures tuæ intendentes in vocem deprecationis meæ.Si iniquitates observaveris, Domine,
Domine, quis sustinebit?Quia apud te propitiatio est;
et propter legem tuam sustinui te, Domine.
Sustinuit anima mea in verbo ejus:speravit anima mea in Domino.
A custodia matutina usque ad noctem,
speret Israël in Domino.Quia apud Dominum misericordia,
et copiosa apud eum redemptio.Et ipse redimet Israël
ex omnibus iniquitatibus ejus.
Which, in those most magnificent of translations are:
Psalm 130
KJV
Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O LORD.Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications.
If thou, LORD, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?
But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared.
I wait for the LORD, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.
My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning.
Let Israel hope in the LORD: for with the LORD there is mercy, and with him is plenteous redemption.
And he shall redeem Israel from all his iniquities.
1662 BOCP
OUT of the deep have I called unto thee, O Lord : Lord, hear my voice.
O let thine ears consider well : the voice of my complaint.
If thou, Lord, wilt be extreme to mark what is done amiss : O Lord, who may abide it?
For there is mercy with thee : therefore shalt thou be feared.
I look for the Lord; my soul doth wait for him : in his word is my trust.
My soul fleeth unto the Lord : before the morning watch, I say, before the morning watch.
O Israel, trust in the Lord, for with the Lord there is mercy : and with him is plenteous redemption.
And he shall redeem Israel : from all his sins.
To which I append,
[temp title] The Cloud of Unknowing
And so I move from knowing
to unknowing--not merely ignorance
but undoing the knowing I have
untying the knots and staring underneath
at what cannot be known once it is known.
Later: Upon review I discovered that I was remiss in citing my sources. This very fine site presents the original poems from Les Fleurs du Mals with several different English translations. I took the poem and the translations from that site.
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March 4, 2008
The Realm of the Inconstant
The first person we have speak to us from the realm of the Inconstant (the lowest and slowest sphere of heaven) is a woman named Piccarda. She is consigned to this realm because of her "inconstancy" to her holy vows of a religious. However:
from Paradiso
notes by John CiardiPiccarda was already a nun and living in her convent when her brother Corso, needing to establish a political alliance, forced her to marry Rossellino della Tossa of Florence. Various commentators report that Piccarda sickened and soon died as aconsequence of having been so forced against her will and vows.
It is this kind of reasoning that throughout time has bred atheists. Circumstances that we do not will nor do we consent to force us to actions that we would not take for which God, who created and allowed these very circumstances, then punishes or demotes us.
Piccarda had no choice in this matter. For much of medieval time in many places women were just a step (and a very small step) above chattel. A few extraordinary women did rise above these circumstances--but for the most part your lot in life as a woman was to do what the men around you told you to.
But in Dante's mind, a woman who against her will is forced to marry and is basically raped, is inconstant to her vow. I'm surprised she isn't in The Inferno for being false to her vow. Instead God in his infinite love and mercy says--"you were trapped by circumstance and by the situations my will allows, and couldn't puzzle your way out of it--so off to the lowest circle of beatitude and be glad I don't kick you downstairs."
Yuck! This is what I constantly run up against in Paradise. A strange sort of paradise it makes it.
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Beatrice--Snide and Smug
Here's an example of what I spoke of before. Beatrice speaks to Dante:
from Paradiso
Dante (tr. John Ciardi)"Are you surprised that I smile at this childish act
of reasoning?" she said, "since even now
you dare not trust your sense of the true fact,but turn, as usual back to vacancy?
Charming. Simply charming. There's nothing to inspire love and admiration like some smug, self-righteous, overly informed combatant smiling at your stupidity and then telling you so. I'm supposd to be enchanted/enthralled by this? Color me appalled.
Fortunately Dante's goal was not entirely to make me love Beatrice as he did. If so, his cause is utterly lost. Unfortunately, I perceive that this guide to the celestial realms will not be nearly so convivial as our guide through the other two. We can expect to be laughed at, lectured sternly, and variously assaulted and accosted as we try to enjoy the scenery.
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February 26, 2008
Reflections on Purgatorio
I feel obliged to start this discussion with the customary disclaimers. I don't claim to be a deep reader, one filled with wisdom and overflowing with information about Dante. I am, like most of you who read this, a reader--one who enjoys reading things that challenge me and provoke me. I find most readings of critiques to be highly worked up and overwrought--often I find myself doubting that any author would have so contrived and twisted the work they were completing to meet the gyrations of the critics. A critic lays a layer atop a work even though the seeming effort is to explore the labyrinth laid before them.
On the other hand, a reader sees the work from within the labyrinth. There may not be a complete sense of its design, nor may we see clearly all the elements that make up the patterns; however, we see clearly what is clearly spoken and we appreciate the work for that.
That said, let me start these reflections by sharing one line that really struck me. Bear in mind that the translation I am using, for a great many reasons, is the one by John Ciardi:
". . . the blessed wormwood of my agony."
It is strictly out of context, but it started the other chain of thought I wanted to share. This line is spoken by one in purgatory. Speaking of his wife's ardent prayers on his behalf, he notes that her prayers have lifted him already so high in purgatory, setting aside years and years of suffering that would otherwise be required for purgation.
But notice the way he refers to this suffering--"the blessed wormwood of my agony." The suffering is real--it is as real as the suffering in Hell, and yet it is not torment. Over and over again Dante makes the point that this suffering is gladly engaged in, indeed embraced by the souls themselves as they know the end of it in time. The Lustful souls in conversation with Dante stay strictly within their sheets of flame, and so it is throughout the Purgatory. The souls know that this suffering cleanses, this suffering purifies, this suffering leads to heaven.
Extend that a bit--human suffering, properly viewed and with a heart set on God's will is purgative. And that suffering be it "Nella's tears" (the wife referred to above) for the loss of her husband and for the sympathy with his suffering, or our own physical pain borne with the expectation of seeing God, is purgative not only for ourselves but for others as well. In the Christian context, suffering has meaning. But so too does the beatific vision. Those in purgatory do not needless extend their stay, reveling in their suffering and purgation. Rather, they move on to the beatific vision and to the enjoyment of the presence of God. This is where I part company with many of the Saints. While suffering is purgative, life is filled with enough--we needn't add to it through our own contrived mortifications that have as their end release from attachment. Properly lived, life has quite enough that should provoke us to give up the things we are attached to--the celice and the discipline are neither required, nor, it seems to me, within God's ordained will for us. He hands out the suffering we require--we need not add to it. And indeed, adding to it is contradictory to His will, it is clinging to purgatory when He has decided we need bliss.
Purgation happens. Life carries with it enough of heaviness. Little things like denying ourselves too much food or food of a certain kind--that isn't really suffering, or if it is it is suffering borne of our own selfishness and self-centeredness. People in India live very well without a Hershey's bar a day. Real suffering--not having enough to eat, losing someone we love, living through a terrible wasting disease with Death hanging over us--is not something we choose. It is something that with the grace of God we live through and by living through it contribute both to our own purgation and to the purgation of those around us. We are not saved singly, although salvation is individual and singular for each person. Rather, we are saved within the community, the entire Body of Christ is resurrected, not merely a cell on the big toe. Our own bliss in salvation comes in part from the knowledge that salvation is for all and we have worked for it through our many small works of spiritual and corporeal mercy.
Thus purgation can begin here as we abide in God's will, accept what life brings us, and relish God's perfect plan expressed through it. That doesn't mean we do not mourn or hurt. But it does mean that our pain has meaning both for us and for those around us. When we live through a time of suffering, we are in sympathy with those in Purgatory and we are spending a little of our own time there as we head for heaven. Suffering isn't to be sought out--it will find us soon enough. But once we have been found, bearing with the suffering through the strength of the One who saves us strengthens both us and those around us even though we do not necessarily see this effect.
One last point on Purgatorio comes from a provocative note by the translator in the endnotes. I will let it stand without further comment:
from "How to Read Dante"
John CiardiThe Seven Deadly Sin for which souls suffer in Purgatory are--in ascending order--Pride, Envy, Wrath, Adedia, Avarice, Gluttony, and Lust. Acedia is the central one, and it may well be the sin the twentieth centruy lost track of. Acedia is generally translated as Sloth. But that term in English tends to connote not much more than laziness and physical slovenliness. For Dante, Acedia was a central spiritual failure. It was the failure to be sufficiently active in the pursuit of the recognized Good. It was to acknowledge Good, but without fervor.
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November 13, 2007
"The Figure a Poem Makes"
from "The Figure a Poem Makes"
Robert FrostIt should be of the pleasure of a poem itself to tell how it can. The figure a poem makes. It begins in delight and ends in wisdom. The figure is the same as for love. No one can really hold that the ecstasy should be static and stand still in one place. It begins in delight, it inclines to the impulse, it assumes direction with the first line laid down, it runs a course of lucky events, and ends in a clarification of life-not necessarily a great clarification, such as sects and cults are founded on, but in a momentary stay against confusion.
The entire essay or, at least, a longer excerpt, here. For those interested--here's a link to an Arabic translation. Isn't it lovely even to look at?
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October 9, 2007
Bewteen Truth and . . .
from Puragatorio
Dante, tr. John Ciardi[Virgil speaking to Dante]
But save all questions of such consequence
till you meet her who will become your lamp
between the Truth and mere intelligence.
How many aspire to the Truth by means of human reason alone. And I don't refer to the scholastics or their followers but the benighted Dawkinses and Hitchenses of the world who claiming liberation from the hoary old ties that bind, bind us in new and more severe chains, because within these we could easily be cast into the Hell of our own making. Human intelligence is faulty and frankly, in my experience, often not much interested in the Truth so much as in making a display of itself for others to admire.
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At Home (or in Vegas) with Dante
from Purgatorio
Dante, tr. John CiardiThe loser, when a game of dice is done,
remains behind reviewing every roll
sadly, and sadly wiser, and alone.The crowd leaves with the winner: one behind
tugs at him, one ahead, one at his side--
all calling their long loyalty to his mind.Not stopping, he hands out a coin or two
and those he has rewarded let him be.
So he fights off the crowd and pushes through.Such was I then, turning my face now here,
now there, among that rout and promising
on every hand, till I at last fought clear. . . .When I had won my way free of that press
of shades whose one prayer was that others pray
and so advance them toward their blessedness. . .
What Dante is promising is to remember those who approach him to those who love them back home and to remind all to pray for the poor souls in purgatory whose progress toward heaven is sped by the prayers of those in a state of grace. As we approach the days in which we recall the Saints and all the dead, Purgatorio is perfect reading--a reminder always to bear in mind those who suffer now for eventual glory. And a reminder to us to cut our suffering hereafter short by living a life that has as its goal an ever nearer approach to God in the life of this world.
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October 8, 2007
The pre-Blessed Spirits
One of the truly wonderful things about Purgatorio is that Dante over and over again affirms that these souls who arrive on the shore of the island of Purgatory are already blessed. They arrive and proceed through at their own pace, a pace determined by their lives on Earth.
Among those moving very slowly on the shores of the island we meet Manfred:
from Purgatorio
Dante, tr. John CiardiMy flesh had been twice hacked, and each wound mortal
when, tearfully, I yielded up my soul
to HIm whose pardon gladly waits for all.Horrible were my sins, but infinite
is the abiding Goodness which hold out
its open arms to all who tun to It. . . .No man may be so cursed by priest or pope
but what the Eternal Love may still return
while any thread of green lives on in hope.Those who die contumacious, it is true,
though they repent their feud with Holy Church,
must wait outside here on the bank, as we do,for thirty times as long as they refused
to be obedient, though by good prayers
in their behalf, that time may be reduced.
I quote this passage for several reasons. One is to give a sense of Dante's vision. Ciardi notes that there seems to be no real significance to 30 as opposed to say 50 or 100. In fact, except that it probably doesn't work in Italian 33 might be more apropos.
Another reason is that reading this one gets the sense of a need for real notes. What's this about twice hacked, what actually went on. In a section I didn't quote there is a mention of him being transported with "tapers quenched" after his death. Good notes are essential to any real understanding of these works. Either that or a fairly thorough understanding of the history of all the kingdom that made up Italy at the time of Dante--an expertise almost none of us command.
Finally I quoted it because it contains a line that I have borne in memory since the eighth or ninth grade when we were called upon to read Robert Penn Warren's All the King's Men. There is either in an epigraph or in a chapter proper, a quotation which, in the book, is a reference to the office set-up of Willie Stark, but which is reflected clearly here
Mentre che la speranza ha fior del verde
which is translated in that book As long as hope still has its bit of green. Here is is translated "while any thread of green lives on in hope."
For whatever reason, that line has stuck with me, and I scoured Dante several times looking for it. And this morning, it just popped out at me as I was reading. God's sheer grace and goodness and perhaps a message for meant for this day.
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October 4, 2007
A Dantean Invocation for the Day
from The Inferno--Canto XXIV (46-51)
Dante (tr. John Ciardi)"Up on your feet! This is no time to tire!"
my Master cried. "The man who lies asleep
will never waken fame, and his desireand all his life drift past him like a dream,
and the traces of his memory fade from time
like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream. . . ."
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September 5, 2007
Cold Truth
The cold light of truth in four lines from a poem.
from "The Imaginary Iceberg"
Elizabeth BishopWe'd rather have the iceberg than the ship,
Although it mean the end of travel.
Although it stood stock still like cloudy rock
And all the sea were moving marble.
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September 4, 2007
Correspondences
To make good sense of Roethke's poem, you may want to visit one by Charles Baudelaire, Correspondences, another translation of which is appended below.
Correspondances
Charles BaudelaireLa Nature est un temple où de vivants piliers
Laissent parfois sortir de confuses paroles;
L'homme y passe à travers des forêts de symboles
Qui l'observent avec des regards familiers.
Comme de longs échos qui de loin se confondent
Dans une ténébreuse et profonde unité,
Vaste comme la nuit et comme la clarté,
Les parfums, les couleurs et les sons se répondent.
II est des parfums frais comme des chairs d'enfants,
Doux comme les hautbois, verts comme les prairies,
— Et d'autres, corrompus, riches et triomphants,
Ayant l'expansion des choses infinies,
Comme l'ambre, le musc, le benjoin et l'encens,
Qui chantent les transports de l'esprit et des sens.Correspondences
Nature is a temple where living pillars
Let escape sometimes confused words;
Man traverses it through forests of symbols
That observe him with familiar glances.Like long echoes that intermingle from afar
In a dark and profound unity,
Vast like the night and like the light,
The perfumes, the colors and the sounds respond.There are perfumes fresh like the skin of infants
Sweet like oboes, green like prairies,
—And others corrupted, rich and triumphantThat have the expanse of infinite things,
Like ambergris, musk, balsam and incense,
Which sing the ecstasies of the mind and senses.
Translation from this site q.v. for an interesting explicative note.
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The Body of Allusion
The text of one of my all-time favorite poem--posted or reposted. Magnificent and beautiful. I am often stunned by Roethke's poetry and I remember really disliking it when I first read it--go figure.:
In a Dark Time
Theodore RoethkeIn a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
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August 31, 2007
Another Theory About Poetry
Sometimes I wonder if any great work of poetry actually sprang from a poet who wrote with intention rather that wrote from his or her own experience. That is not to say that there is no meaning in poetry, but those poems most fraught with meaning, most bound up in intention may be only secondarily so. That is, the poet in the composition of them followed the muse (inspiration, the Holy Spirit--you name the mysterious element that gives birth to art).
I ask because when I look around at all the earnest young artists today whose intent is to jolt, shock, and pull us out of our blase day-to-day plumbing of reality, their work is mostly of a moment. The shock wears off and the work becomes an artifact--a remnant of an era.
I look at some of the great poetry of the past and I see story telling, and yes, some kernel of a notion, some idea that gave birth to the whole--but I don't necessarily buy that the whole poem was constructed toward the end represented by the kernel. It may have been refined and perfected with the end in mind--but as I think about my poetry, I realize I don't think, "I'm going to bring this symbol and that symbol into conjunction and by their juxtaposition undermine this linguistic element. I think instead of a moment--real or imagined--a moment that means something--not in the sense of universal meaning, but in the sense of having importance in my understanding of how the world works. And thinking of that moment, I attempt to convey that understanding as best I can. There is no intent for this or that meaning. The words lead, I follow them.
And because that is the pattern, I often wonder whether all that is made of Eliot is purposive, or if rather he composed what made sense to him in all the complexity that is Eliot and we are left to divine purpose and intent where indeed the only purpose may have been to expel the irritant. When it happens we sometimes have pearls--but mostly we have dross--even in the works of the greatest poets--the discards more than likely greatly outnumber the poems that are worked to completion.
Just some thoughts, with no proof behind them.
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August 5, 2007
Revisiting Break, Blow, Burn
Some time back I reviewed Break, Blow, Burn by Camille Paglia and remember being put off by some of her idiosyncratic choices for modern poetry. Perhaps I focused too much attention on that.
Ms. Paglia has a distinct voice, self-assured, self-assertive, urbane, and elegant. Her personal opinions have the solidity of the throne of God and she expresses them as though they were edicts passed down from the time of Moses. She triumphs the artistry of Stevie Nix while decrying the depredations of the European post-structuralists.
What she says deserves attention, not because she says it does, but because her voice has an authority that comes from deep engagement with the materials she studies. Agree or disagree as you will, one thing will be certain--you will be perfectly clear on what you are agreeing or disagreeing with. Ms. Paglia's prose is bereft of the academic apparatus of most critics. And for good reason, "Good writing comes from good reading. Humanists must set an example: all literary criticism should be accessible to the general reader. Criticism at its best is re-creative, not spirit-killing." And so the criticism she tenders in this book fits that pattern she assumes for criticism in general.
One might argue with some of the re-creations--for example, the excessive rhapsodic waxings on William Carlos Williams and on Joni Mitchell's "Woodstock," can strike one as overwrought and grasping at straws. But then, her passionate enthusiasm for these works deserves our attention. Perhaps we overlook something that might well be worth consideration. Perhaps there is something here that we must learn from an enthusiast disguised as a critic.
But I picked up the book , once again charmed into reading by the beautifully fashioned introduction in which Ms. Paglia sets herself up as pedant and tour-guide in a whirlwind cruise through English poetry from Shakespeare to Joni Mitchell. And her first stop is what gave me pause and begged for a more gentle reconsideration of the book:
Sonnet 73
William ShakespeareThat time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Of the great bard's sonnets, one of the more melancholy and searching--bleak as a desert and therefore refreshing in a way that only truth and emptiness can be.
Ms. Paglia goes on to point out matters structural: The three quatrains are single sentence-metaphors each applied to is subject and accumulating into the final couplet. Matters linguistic: you can identify each by the presence of the phrase "in me." And matters symbolic--"bare ruined choirs" being both the life of the poet and the destruction of Henry VIII. Here, perhaps because of her own attempt at making a secular scripture, she may not have as full a reading as might be possible were she to plumb the depths of Shakespeare's faith. She asserts that, "There is no reference to God or an afterlife. Consciousness itself is elemental, an effect of light and heat that dissipates when our bodies are reabsorbed by nature." Here she follows the fatal flaw of her mentor Harold Bloom, who cannot seem to see that Shakespeare, far from being a secularist, was deeply spiritual, and the threads of this poem speak both to the fate of the human person, but also to the fate of that subject to the human person. "Bare ruined choirs where late the sweet birds sang," is indeed the work of man--the attempt to drive out God and replace Him with what man hath wrought--the Reformation religion.
But enough. The point here was two-fold--to present a kind of apology for the first review and to present this lovely sonnet. And it was slanted more to the second. When I opened the book and saw it there I read it. Then I read it again. Then I read it aloud. Then I read it again. Then I read Ms. Paglia's enlightening gloss of it. And then I read it again, recognize the partial truth of Ms. Paglia's interpretation. But also realizing that in three pages she could hardly do justice to the tight compression of this gem of the English language.
So do yourself a favor. Go back up to the poem and read it. Really read it. Don't let your eyes cascade down it. Stop at each word. Say it out loud. Say it slowly. Then read it quickly. Then force it into it's iambic pentameter and see where the stresses fall (this indeed is part of the amazing genius of Shakespeare--not only did he use Iambic pentameter, he also used the meter to undercut or enhance the message and meaning of the words resting upon that base. And if you don't think this is any big deal, try it yourself.)
Shakespeare is a place to start. But as I thought about it, what if one were to approach scripture in the same way. Read it, read it again. Read it out loud. If it's poetry try singing it, or letting it roll in a rhythm of poetry. Try rephrasing it. Listen to it in all those ways and you will be astonished at what may come through for you. Words you've heard more times than you can count come alive--they breathe and make new strong-fashioned art. No wonder Shakespeare so easily confuses atheist academics who wish to make of him a secular scripture. He had himself internalized these rhythms of the language and used them in a way that at that crossroads of time and art turned him into an archetype. No wonder George Bernard Shaw spent all of his time despising Shakespeare, always concerned that he would never escape the Bard's long shadow. And indeed, he did not.
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August 1, 2007
For the Poets Among Us
Perhaps you all can advise.
When I write and let the words flow as they naturally flow and follow carefully their internal rhythms and mechanics, I almost always wind up with lines of 9 or 11 syllables.
For example, this line,
and richly has delivered on that promise.
I can change it and make it conform to "standard" prosody, and yet to do so changes the meaning, rhythm, and meter to such an extent that the poem, while it may be technically perfect thuds and limps.
Some poetic voices conform nicely to iambic pentameter, but I'll be honest, I've never thought it the rhythm of English speech, though many will swear that it is the "natural rhythm of English." To me it always sounds a little stilted, a little forced, a little off. Not badly so, but enough so that you can tell you're hearing a line of poetry--and while that isn't bad, it seems rather like letting the audience know how you made the penny vanish.
Any opinions, ideas, suggestions, notions, or . . . I don't know. I'd love to hear any feedback.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 5:28 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
July 31, 2007
An Observation
Let me start, apropos of nothing, with a revised line from my journal this morning because it allows me to think about some beautiful things.
"Life without prayer is Life-in-Death."
Originally, I said, "half-life." But then I thought of Coleridge's poem and the remarkable image of Death and a woman casting dice for the Mariner's fate.
from "Rime of the Ancient Mariner"
Samuel Taylor ColeridgeHer lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.
Life-in-Death wins the Ancient Mariner. And it's interesting that the first part of the description of Life-in-Death is rather attractive in a seductive sort of way. And even white skin is lovely until we reach "as leprosy."
Life without prayer is succumbing to Life-in-Death--a life of sensuality that misses the point of life at all--not really living, but living in Death.
We have a choice--God or anything else because God has made it clear that He is not a God of half-measures, and He will let us have our choice. Not easily, He'll fight for us, but if we insist, He will not overwhelm us and subdue our wills to his choice.
And so, life without prayer is life without God and not a life at all.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 5:40 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
July 26, 2007
Seeking the Perfect Line
And my candidates:
Her changes change her changes constantly--Dante speaking of Dame Fortune
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me--John Donne Holy Sonnet XIV
Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm--Song of Songs 8:6
Undoubtedly, there are others, but these are a start and cause me to want to seek more.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 7:16 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 7, 2007
Fierce Poetry, Fragile Poet
I post these because they speak for me when I have no tongue or sense and they say what cannot be said by me even were I longing to say it.
To My Lady of Poetry
Alfonsina StorniI throw myself here at your feet, sinful,
my dark face against your blue earth,
you the virgin among armies of palm trees
that never grow old as humans do.I don't dare look at your pure eyes
or dare touch your miraculous hand:
I look behind me and a river of rashness
urges me guiltlessly on against you.With a promise to mend my ways through your
divine grace, I humbly place on our
hem a little green branch,for I couldn't have possibly lived
cut off from your shadow, since you blinded me
at birth with your fierce branding iron.
Note "My lady" not "Our lady." The poem seems to be about the Blessed Virgin and is certainly strewn with her trappings, but what is adored here is not Mary, Mother of God, but the muse of poetry. And what is said here is said thoroughly in the last tercet because it seems to me that there is a way of seeing that cannot be undone or unseen, a blindsight that is the gift and curse of the poet and no amount of undoing can change it or alter it one iota--it is laid upon one at birth, or at least very early on and it is through that lens that all is seen that can be seen and seen in ways that it seems others do not. Although that last may simply be pretension and pride.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 7:15 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Confused Love
And love can be most confusing:
I Do Not Love You Except Because I Love You
Pablo Neruda
I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire.I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
Bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
Is that I do not see you but love you blindly.Maybe January light will consume
My heart with its cruel
Ray, stealing my key to true calm.In this part of the story I am the one who
Dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
Because I love you, Love, in fire and blood.
And another, quite lovely even in translation:
Saddest Poem
Pablo Neruda
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 7:04 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
June 6, 2007
In the Season of the Spirit
Veni Creator
Czeslaw Milosz
Come, Holy Spirit,
bending or not bending the grasses,
appearing or not above our heads in a tongue of flame,
at hay harvest or when they plough in the orchards,
or when snow covers crippled firs in the Sierra Nevada.I am only a human being: I need visible signs.
I tire easily, building the stairway of abstraction.
Many a time I asked, you know it well,
that the statue in church lift its hand, only once, just once, for me.
But I understand that signs must be human,
therefore, call one person, anywhere on earth,
not me-after all I have some decency-
and allow me, when I look at that person,
to marvel at you.
And as a result, my life is better.
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Lest We Seem Too Far Gone
A contemporary British haiku, thank you.
[Haiku] Wendy Cope(iii)
November evening:
The moon is up, rooks settle,
The pubs are open.
That never-ending Japanese obsession with the pubs here creeps into British poetry.
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A Purgatorial Poem
Being of a melancholy cast of mind this morning, a purgatorial poem seems best to fit the mood:
Cuchulain Comforted
William Butler YeatsA man that had six mortal wounds, a man
violent and famous, strode among the dead;
Eyes stared out of the branches and were gone.Then certain Shrouds that mutter head to head
Came and were gone. He leant upon a tree
As though to meditate on wounds and blood.A Shroud that seemed to have authority
Among those bird-like things came, and let fall
A bundle of linen. Shrouds by two and threeCame creeping up because the man was still.
And thereupon that linen-carrier said
'Your life can grow much sweeter if you will'Obey our ancient rule and make a shroud;
Mainly because of what we only know
The rattle of those arms makes us afraid,'We thread the needles' eyes and all we do
All must together do.' That done, the man
Took up the nearest and began to sew.'Now we shall sing and sing the best we can
But first you must be told our character:
Convicted cowards all by kindred slain'Or driven from home and left to die in fear.'
The sand, but had not human notes n or words,
Though all was done in common as before.They had changed their throats and had the throats of birds.
Something about these shades resonates within me. The poem speaks out of shadow and into shadow and is shadow-strewn all about.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 6:50 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 31, 2007
A Source for the Title
And a resource for thinking more about the book Cold Heaven.
THE COLD HEAVEN
William Butler YeatsSUDDENLY I saw the cold and rook-delighting Heaven
That seemed as though ice burned and was but the more ice,
And thereupon imagination and heart were driven
So wild that every casual thought of that and this
Vanished, and left but memories, that should be out of season
With the hot blood of youth, of love crossed long ago;
And I took all the blame out of all sense and reason,
Until I cried and trembled and rocked to and fro,
Riddled with light. Ah! when the ghost begins to quicken,
Confusion of the death-bed over, is it sent
Out naked on the roads, as the books say, and stricken
By the injustice of the skies for punishment?
Posted by Steven Riddle at 8:34 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
January 9, 2007
Unaccustomed as I am to Public Speaking
I don't much like self-promotion, but presumably by posting this link I am also increasing the audience for the on-line magazine. So, if you're so inclined go and see my latest publication here.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 12:00 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
October 8, 2006
Linked Verse, Ended
My thanks to everyone who contributed to this wonderful experiment. There were a small number of entries, but we got from it three interesting poems that would not otherwise be.
Linked verse is a kind of word game. It served as a sort of community building exercise among the poets of the Japanese Court. Of course, there was oneupsmanship and all manner of odd exercises that go with poets writing poetry together; however, it is an elegant and charming way to introduce the poetry shy into the art of poetry and to give the participant some sense of the diffiuclty of composing images in few words.
Everyone who chose to partipcate did a magnificent job of fulfilling the object of the exercise and producing their links. Thank you so much. I emjoyed, as well, watching the verse grow from its separate pieces and influences.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 10:16 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
October 7, 2006
Three Strains of Autumn--Linked Verse Continued
Be sure to check below this first post for additional posts. This is being kept high up on the list so that people will continue to add and admire the works of others. Autumn Brightness is really taking off, and we've even had an adidition to "Autumn? What Autumn?" thanks to Mrs. Darwin.
While it is more usual to assemble linked verse one contribution at a time, because so much good was offered and so much that will work together, I have assembled the following offerings.
The next step is to choose a strain (please indicate in your contribution) and add the next link in the verse.
To be faithful to the authors--I removed additional indications of break as they are not usual part of the linking. In one case I made a plausible edit, in another requested an author's permission to add to the contribution.
Now I present my compilation and ask for the next contributions. The fun of linked verse is to wrench the poem out of the direction it was going and give it a new heading that still makes sense. I hope these do that so far.
Autumn Brightness
Fall fell in one night
cold crept in, painting the sky,
summer's cessationThe calendar page rustles
Smoke in the rain wind wakes meOne last cricket song
Train whistles while gutters drip
Dark night but cheerfulNow grass is dry from summer
Heat lingers on golden hillsAs our summer ends
We wait for the winter rain
But first the wild firesfires that burn in falling leaves
in leaves in swirls underfootCool in the nostrils
Running loose on the wet grass
Fall remembers meThe sounds of dried leaves crunching
The smell of hot dogs cookingCheers from the home crowd,
On a crisp fall afternoon:
Football has returned!Winter grey-brown sea begins
to limn the shoreline--salt frostBirds return, ibis
once again strut and pluck lawns--
bold October looms.Seeking porchlights, out past dark
Muffled laughter, running feetTennis-shoed pirates,
Princesses, ninjas and ghosts;
Ding-dong: Trick or Treat!Blue Angels each October,
While the ocean turns cooler.Fog in the morning
Near the sea, sunny afternoons,
November fireplaces.Autumn. Poor Souls Purgatory
Reminds us of death decay.But my Spirit rises
As I see resurrection
In luminous leaves.dewdrop on red leaf fallen
in the early autumn grasscolor surprises
morning's brightness magnified
with a trace of chill
Autumn Bleakness
Fall fell in one night
cold crept in, painting the sky,
summer's cessationI am her friend and lover
waking to her misty dawnprayers spill from mouths --
cloudy little pools of hope
lost as the day warmsLike grey leaves, our lives grow dim.
Will we see the winter's birth?Drive, work, a pay stub:
These define life's borderlines.
Happiness eludes.To be found again in sweat
Spent for love without reward.O little bold squirrel,
You cross the road fearlessly,
But brother lies dead
Autumn? What Autumn?
Fall fell in one night
cold crept in, painting the sky,
summer's cessationBut not all is quiet,
with the children who are working together
to create a puzzle picture
while Mama writes a poem.Images alive become
Images living in words.Happy laughter rings.
Mama pauses, wishes she
Could find the camera.
Note this last strain is a more avant-garde form in which the more or less thirty-one syllables are used at the poet's command. A much more challenging linkage.
Remember, to add on--2 7-syllable lines, and a 5-7-5. So, overall you have: 7-7-5-7-5--thirty-one delectable little syllables to share autumn where you are.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:51 AM | Comments (10) | TrackBack
October 1, 2006
Linked Verse
I want to encourage everyone to continue to contribute. We've had several really nice additions to the "brightness" thread over the past few days from people who very modestly say "We're not poets." The reality is that every person is a poet from birth--we just have it drummed out of us as we study the mind-numbing nonsense that most people consider literature classes. We won't all produce world-class poetry, but as children of that greatest Poet, we each have our own voice and charms. The constrained form of the linked verse also helps in versifying--it gives strong rules that help to guide the writing in distinct ways. So all you not-poets out there, abandon your inhibitions, drop your protections, and give us some linkages to our verse. So far, Autumn Brightness is a pretty good read, and give a nice sense of the diversity of Autumn around the country.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 10:23 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 28, 2006
Playing Catch-Up
Those of you favoring moribund images of autumn are WAYYYYY behind. Get moving, add to your linked verse!
Posted by Steven Riddle at 11:41 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
September 25, 2006
Linked Verse
I'm closing the linked verse post below as I compile the three main threads I've identified thematically--the melancholy, the joyous, and the avant garde. I've decided to use everything I've received if I can work the pieces correctly and we'll use that as the basis for our next linkages. Thanks to everyone who has participated so far.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 1:11 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Step Right Up, Don't Be Afraid
So, you say you're not a poet.
You say you don't know nothing about versifying no poem.
No print, No poem, NO PROBLEM!
If you can count, you can add to the linked verse. Yep, a mere 31 syllables about what is happening around you right now. A moment away from Dancing with the Wife Swap Next Door Neighbors Survivor: East OskKosh, 24 Found (or is it 24 Lost?) CSI: Milledgeville or whatever other pressingly urgent event is impinging on your conscience. Set them aside for a moment and take a stab at it. You'll be glad you did.
Homeschool moms, send your kids. Ideal for you, old, elderly shut-ins and ingenues, Nascar Fans, and just mean old curmudgeons.
Let's make a poem together. All you have to lose is about 30 seconds and 31 syllables. Even James would be impressed with the curb on the tongue!
So step right up. That's it, just spin the magic syllable wheel and churn out the next link in our poem.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 8:52 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Here, I'll Even Loan You a Starter
"But not all is quiet. . .
There, six syllables. Cut off the but, and you've got five, only 25 or 26 more to go!
Posted by Steven Riddle at 8:51 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
September 7, 2006
A Poetic Invitation
It occurred to me as I posted the previous poem that I would like to run an experiment in blogging linked-verse. I don't know how many poets there are out there who would be willing to go along, but let me explain what I have in mind.
In a couple of days, I will post a haiku that will be the "seed" of the linked verse experiment. I will also remind everyone that the theme will be "Autumn" or "October," wherever you happen to be. What I hope we can create through the linked verse is a celebration of my favorite season from people in different places (Sorry Aussies and Kiwis, to join in you'll just have to remember what Autumn is like where y'all live while those Northern Hemispherer's are actually experiencing it.)
The rules of linked verse are very simple. The person who wishes to add completes the Haiku by making it a tanka. That is, two seven syllable lines are added to the original haiku that complete that thought and begin the transition into the next thought. Then you also add the new haiku--as a reminder that is a poem of syllable pattern 5-7-5.
Thus each addition will take the form 7-7/5-7-5.
Now here's what I will do. As you post these in comments, I will choose the two or three that most appeal to me and post them along with the original, thus making the linked verse, and I'll add the author's name to the author list. No matter how often you add, you'll be on the author list once.
If you post additions to the linked verse, you are allowing use of that work here or anywhere else someone wishes to carry on a variant of the verse--in short a creative commons license limited to this work alone.
What I hope will happen is that others will be inspired and moved by other connections than I was, they will take those to their own sites and become their own author/editors of linked verse. I'm hoping that here we will have at least one continuation on the theme of autumn and that we get other variations that give rise to other poems.
No previous poetic experience required. Help provided upon request. Enjoy. I'd like this to be a fun and interesting game that engages people in the creation of simple works of beauty. Together we'll discover that linked verse cannot be forced into a channel and allowed to run wild, it will emulate the season and the theme of nature. At least I hope that's what everyone will discover.
I hope you all feel open to participating and enjoying the experience. And remember, given where I live, my Autumn imagery is likely to be quite different from what the rest of you all see. Mir can vouch for that.
Of what I've explained is unclear, please ask questions so we can clarify all points before we begin. There are no prizes and no right answers, the object is to enjoy and to see how many different things can grow from a simple seed.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 6:59 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
July 20, 2006
Laying My Cards on the Table
This is extremely difficult, so please forgive the following for whatever it lacks in cohesion, it is excerpted from my part of a private correspondence:
But let me tell you about my experience. Someone took one of the poems I wrote, altered a few words akin to the example I published regarding racism and published it in their own magazine. The magazine was a marginal one anyway and I didn't have the money to go after these people, but they took my poem about the glory of diversity and changed it into a hymn to conformity and supremacy and left my name on it. The poem may not have been high art--in fact, it may not have been particularly good--so Art doesn't enter into it. But someone took my words, edited them for their own sense of suitability and then proclaimed the work to be my own. I only found out when I started to get angry looks/comments and letters about the poem.
Now, naturally, I have to repudiate the entire poem, and I don't even mention the incident lest it bring up the whole subject.
In other words, I know what it feels like when one takes it upon oneself to alter the work of another without proper acknowledgment of what has been done. And it hurts--tremendously.
This isn't mere wounded pride or vanity. This is stomach-churning horror and sickness. This is nauseating to the extreme because I have been saddled and labeled to with the name of racist for something I never even did. This hurts--a lot. It hurts because I have a child who may find this out in the future. amd if he does, what is he to think--that his own life with me has been a lie, or merely a means of atonement for past sins? It hurts because there is always the remote possibility my friends or acquaintances may discover it and make me a pariah. Sure, I can explain it--I can show copies of the original that even have comments on them from the professor who originally read it--so they can see its authenticity. But I can never escape from the shadow of it.
So none of this is theoretical to me. It is all factual--harsh reality. I know, as you do in a different way, whereof I speak. This is what impels me to the limits of politeness when I talk about the subject.
And it impels me to judge that the practice is immoral, unethical, and completely unallowable. This is what we are discussing here--the unilaterally transformation of a work and the republication of that work as the work of the original author. If what has been done to me is not immoral or unethical, what description might it travel under?
Later--I see that I did not make clear one essential ingredient of this stew. The poem that was published was not merely edited. It was taken from a previous publication and altered beyond recognition without my consent and republished with my name on it. This makes it the equivalent of the case I have been mistakenly referring to. We're not talking editorial changes in the act of creation, but rather usurpation with misrepresentation. Neither the orginal magazine nor I had any capability of fighting this legally--and fortunately (I hope) the incident was local and the publication that reprinted it hopefully remanded to the compost heap of time. But I lived with the consequences of it for several years.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 8:32 AM | Comments (6) | TrackBack
May 12, 2006
John Drinkwater
An Edwardian poet quoted in The Girls of Slender Means. This appealed to me.
Moonlit Apples
John DrinkwaterAt the top of the house the apples are laid in rows,
And the skylight lets the moonlight in, and those
Apples are deep-sea apples of green. There goes
A cloud on the moon in the autumn light.A mouse in the wainscot scratches, and scratches, and then
There is no souund at the top of the house of men
Or mice; and the cloud is blown, and the moon again
Dapples the apples with deep-sea light.They are lying in rows there, under the gloomy beams;
On the sagging floor; they gather the silver streams
Out of the moon, those moonlit apples of dreams,
And quiet is the steep stair under.In the corridors under there is nothing but sleep.
And stiller than ever on orchard boughs they keep
Tryst with the moon,and deep is the silence, deep
On moon-washed apples of wonder.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 10:51 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
May 3, 2006
The Enormity of Eliot on Love
Reading Howard's wonderful Dove Descending, I am reminded of how much goes into the art of poetry--every ounce of the life of a poet, and all of the skill that goes into summoning words into living, meaningful, vibrant representations of what is in the poet's head. Eliot was one of the last to write truly meaningful "exterior" poetry. After him a seemingly endless parade of posturing, grinning, self-aggrandizing, self-destructive confessional poets who have as their wares only themselves and their numbingly wearing and wearying dreary dull lives. (Any life lived where the sole object of attention is that person in the mirror who hates me is not worthy of the word "life.") Eliot is one of the few with something important to say. And this is what I both love and hate about Eliot. Unfortunately, there are times when he is all too aware that he has something to say. And sometimes it shows.
But putting that aside for the moment. This morning opening up Howard I tripped over a passage that sent me back to the poem leading me to share with you this marvelous sentence.
"Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter."
It is literally dropped in from nowhere at the end of East Coker, and it is a magnificent and true observation. Love is only love when the self is out of the equation. That can only happen when here and now cease to matter. Howard makes the point a different way:
from Dove Descending
Thomas HowardBut what is this about love being most nearly itself when her and now cease to matter? Just that. The man in whom love has been perfected is at home in any place (here or there) and in any time (now or then). He has gone beyond the futility of nostalgia and wistfulness. He is as fully at peace under the lamplight as he was under the stars with his new beloved. No lamenting a lost youth for him. There is a time for this. It is appointed. The wise man of Ecclesiasitcus has already told us so.
(With that last sentence, I'm a little confused, perhaps because I don't know Ecclesiasticus the way I ought, but isn't it the wise man of Ecclesiastes who told us that "there was a time for every purpose under heaven?")
Selflessness allows the person to range freely and comfortably through time and space. No Billy Pilgrim here with the vertiginous careening through Trafalmadorian interference. Even unstuck in time, the person in whom love is perfected is not disoriented by where or when. Because the where and when is eternal. When love is perfected on participates fully in the life of God and thus partakes of eternity while here on Earth.
So once again, I encourage you all--all you fans of Flannery, you champions of Walker, you admirers of Waugh and friends of Spark; in short, all you who love and support Catholic literature--seek out Eliot's poem (you can find it on the web, if you don't care to embarrass yourself with pretentiousness in a library) and read it. And if it makes no sense, read it again. And if there still isn't an inkling, do Ignatius Press and Mr. Howard a favor and buy the book. You really will be glad you did.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:17 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
May 1, 2006
Prevents
from Dove Descending
Thomas Howard[Writing about "East Coker-IV"
The whole earth is our hospital
Endowed by the ruined millionaire,
Wherein, if we do well, we shall
Die of the absolute paternal care
That will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere.]Readers may get lost there [refering to the last three lines noted above]. Can we put it like this:"Die", by this time in the lyric , is our dath to sin and death and hence our birth into Everlasting Life; and it is God who embraces us with his paternal care, never leaving us, but rather going before us all the way ("prevent" is an archaic ususage, meaning precedes").
Now, "prevents" may well mean precedes, and that is a useful help here. However, "precedes" is just as useful and has both the same number of syllables and same emphasis. So why use prevents rather than precedes here? Do we cherish deiberate obscurity? Is Eliot being precious?
Because Mr. Howard is producing a short commentary to ease people into reading the poem, there simply isn't time and space to note every interesting term and every fascinating poetic choice. Therefore, if you're inclined to indulge, some speculations will be recorded here.
Perhaps Eliot is suggesting that as we grow more aware of God's strength through our own weakness and death, we also become more aware of how we are hedged around by love. That is, His will prevents us everywhere from straying over the cliff into the unredeemable. Indeed, within His mercy there is no unredeemable, and so within His grace those who know Him are "prevented" everywhere from wholly falling out of touch with Him.
There are, perhaps other intricacies involved with this word choice. It seems important because it is more than merely delbierately obscure, and by the rules of poetic diction and analysis, that implies a meaning that is not necessarily transparent, nor so easily arrived at as might be for other lines.
Perhaps it goes without saying how much I am enjoying Mr. Howards reintroduction to the great T.S. Eliot. It's been a while since I've spent so much fruitful time with this, or any, great poet.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 1:51 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
Wow, The Blogging Experience
. . .in a nutshell.
from Four Quartets: East Coker V
T.S. EliotSo here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years—
Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres
Trying to use words, and every attempt
Is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure
Because one has only learnt to get the better of words
For the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which
One is no longer disposed to say it. And so each venture
Is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate
With shabby equipment always deteriorating
In the general mess of imprecision of feeling,
Undisciplined squads of emotion. And what there is to conquer
By strength and submission, has already been discovered
Once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope
To emulate—but there is no competition—
There is only the fight to recover what has been lost
And found and lost again and again: and now, under conditions
That seem unpropitious. But perhaps neither gain nor loss.
For us, there is only the trying. The rest is not our business.
It was the underlined section that first led me to post, but reading more carefully and more closely, it seemed that the remainder might also serve as comment on the blogosphere.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 1:32 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
T.S.Eliot's Riff on St. John of the Cross
from Four Quartets: "East Coker" III
T.S. EliotYou say I am repeating
Something I have said before. I shall say it again.
Shall I say it again? In order to arrive there,
To arrive where you are, to get from where you are not,
You must go by a way wherein there is no ecstasy.
In order to arrive at what you do not know
You must go by a way which is the way of ignorance.
In order to possess what you do not possess
You must go by the way of dispossession.
In order to arrive at what you are not
You must go through the way in which you are not.
And what you do not know is the only thing you know
And what you own is what you do not own
And where you are is where you are not.
from Ascent of Mount Carmel I.13.11
St. John of the Cross
To reach satisfaction in all
Desire its possession in nothing,
To come to the knowledge of all
Desire the knowledge of nothing.
To come to possess all
Desire the possession of nothing.
To arrive at being all
Desire to be nothing.
To come to the pleasure you have not
You must go by a way in which you enjoy not.
To come to the knowledge you have not
You must go by a way in which you know not.
To come to the possession you have not
You must go by a way in which you possess not.
To come to be what you are not
You must go by a way in which you are not.
When you turn toward something
You cease to cast yourself upon the all,
For to go from the all to the all
You must possess it without wanting anything.
In this nakedness the spirit finds its rest,
for when it covets nothing
nothing raises it up and nothing weighs it down,
because it stands in the centre of its humility.
In the third division of East Coker, T.S. Eliot embarks upon the journey into dark. At first this journey is equated with death, "O dark, dark, dark. They all go into the dark," is the first line of the section. He then goes through a litany of who "they all" are and the fact that they all go into the dark. He seems to make the point that the dark comes upon everyone whether or not they are prepared to enter it. Then, at the end of the section, Eliot segues to a different dark, another kind of death--the death, while yet willing, of the self and selfishness, which can only proceed along the dark way, the via negativa the "dark night of the soul." It is a dark night because cherished false images of self must die in the light of God Himself. Indeed, the light of God Himself is so light that it appear dark to those ill-equipped to receive it.
Death to self is not death of self. To travel to God in this life, one must die to self, to selfishness, to self-involvement, to all the illusions and images of oneself that have become so cherished. One must consent to being stripped down to the barest nothingness and reconstructed in God's image. This is terrifying, at least in the abstract. But when one stops to consider that nearly everyone experiences this to one degree or another without tremendous instantaneous repercussions, it becomes less terrifying and more inviting. Children are taught by the parents from very early on not to be selfish and self centered. They are constantly reminded "please, thank you, excuse me." They are constantly told, although not in so many words, to die to self.
When a person behaves in "conventional" ways, following the rules of courtesy or etiquette, that person dies to self a little. It isn't a major, earth-shaking trauma, but a small turning away from serving oneself and toward serving another. When one gives place, willingly or unwillingly to another, one dies to self--sometimes reluctantly and bitterly, engendering rage and a desire for vengeance. Sometimes willingly, engendering love and charity.
The death to self must be complete to continue on the path to God. These many small things add up, but each person is asked for more. Each person is asked, in fact, for everything. But most of the time they are not asked for every at once. It is a slow growth, a gentle path, as yet winding through the foothills that lead up to Mount Carmel. The steep ascent is another matter entirely, and there must be a certain amount of shedding of self that occurs before one can set foot on the mountain proper.
But everyone is called, and in this life or the next, all will Ascend through the darkness of the weight of self into the light of the Father. This is what purgatory and heaven are all about--shedding self to become God while remaining distinctly who one is in Him. Salvation--to be who one is without shame; to shine always with His light. But the path of salvation is dark because people tend to love themselves almost to the exclusion of everything else. So it is through darkness that we arrive at light, although as we travel, God's light is all around--so brilliant one calls it darkness.
Later: One is lead to wonder as well whether the first lines of this section of East Coker are not meant to hearken back to a previous poet. Tennyson seems to be referred to, particularly with reference to this poem:
Break, Break, Break
Break, break, break
On thy cold grey stones, O Sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boy,
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad,
That he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go on
To their haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break
At the foot of thy crags, O Sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
But following the rule of three, one would have to find other correspondences before anything so bold could be asserted. Notes for a future consideration of the two.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 10:30 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 7, 2006
Theodore Roethke--In a Dark Time
I've been thinking about this poem for much of the afternoon. A friend and I were talking about Paul's "thorn in the flesh" and for some reason, this came to mind. I've probably posed it before, but here it is again.
In a Dark Time
Theodore RoethkeIn a Dark Time
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 4:42 PM | Comments (0) | TrackBack
April 6, 2006
Little Surprises Everywhere
Reading Eliot's Four Quartets: East Coker prior to reading Howard's study of the East Coker section of the poem. I stumble onto this very interesting, very surprising passage.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
The entire poem is a meditation on time (among other things). Here is an interesting moment of becoming "unstuck in time." When I first encountered "In daunsinge" I was ready to run for the dictionary again (Eliot can do that to one.) And then I read"signifying matrimonie," and I started to be clued in. With "A dignified and commodiois sacrament" I knew that I had been transported back into time, most likely to the glorious 17th century, the century of Eliot's beloved metaphysical poets.
Eliot can do that to one, can turn one around and deliver new shocks and surprises in the language. It's both the pleasure and the panic of reading Eliot. Is this a new word, is this made up, or does this have some other meaning? The answer might be all three at once. And yet the poetry is tight and strong and far more interesting that those who followed in imitation, because Eliot still had something to say. Most of his imitators do not.
Posted by Steven Riddle at 9:13 AM | Comments (0) | TrackBack