Monday, June 09, 2008

Ebay Jesus, WTF!

Richard May headshot by Richard May

God was an agnostic with lots of self-doubt.
God sent a dude, Jesus, to straighten out the fundies on Earth,
hoping that the fundies would become atheists or even devil
worshipers. God heard Jesus praying and said, "WTF!"
The Israelites heard Jesus praying and said, "WTF!"
The Romans heard Jesus praying and said, "WTF!"
Jesus' prayers were completely dyslexic and unintelligible;
No one understood what he was praying about.

The Romans were pragmatic centrists.
At first the Romans wanted to sell Jesus on e-Bay,
with some Tibetans thrown in to sweeten the deal.
But when wood futures declined in the 2nd quarter,
they decided upon crucifiction,
as preferable to hearing Jesus' dyslexic litanies
or eating cruciform vegetables.

May-Tzu

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Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Essay: The Ode

Maria Claudia Faverio headshot by Maria Claudia Faverio

The ode is a poetry form that originated in Greece, where it was called aeidein, which simply meant "song". It was usually a choric song accompanied by a dance.

The first type of ode we will examine in this paper is of a ceremonious and dignified nature, commemorating the gods and the heroes of the past and emphasizing moral episodes, and is called the choral or Pindaric ode in honour of the Theban poet Pindar (ca 518-442 BC)1. It comprises three parts: the strophe, of a complex metrical structure, the antistrophe, mirroring the opening, and the epode, of a different length and in a different meter from the first two parts. The strophe (two or more lines repeated as a unit) was sung by the chorus, which was answered by another group in the metrically harmonious antistrophe. The two groups would then sing together in the epode (a summary line). More often it was the same group that first sang the strophe while dancing to the right, the antistrophe while dancing to the left, and the epode while standing still in the middle of the stage. More stanzas could follow patterned on the first three, in any pattern the poet wished, the pattern of the first three stanzas was then repeated at the end of the poem.

Pindar's four books of epinicion odes, rich in complex metaphors, greatly influenced the Western world since their publication by Aldus Manutius in 1513. The games themselves were to Pindar actually only a means to deal with themes of wider and deeper significance and therefore have universal value.

Grecian urn

The Pindaric ode was first adapted to the vernacular language with the publication of Pierre de Ronsard's four books of French "Odes"(1550). The first English poet who claims to have written a Pindaric ode was a certain John Soothern in a volume published in 1584. He was soon followed by others, like Michael Drayton.

Many of the great poets of the past have written Pindaric odes, although sometimes their work doesn't follow all classical rules, as is the case for example with Milton's great ode2"On the Morning of Christ's Nativity" (1629). This poem, suspended between the great events of the past and the future, dispenses with the typical triadic form; it consists of a prelude of four stanzas followed by a hymn of twenty-seven stanzas.

Only a few decades later Abraham Cowley, who will be mentioned later in this paper, went even further and gave up the metrical and stanzaic forms of the Pindaric ode, while still calling his odes Pindaric, remarking that he followed the "spirit" rather than the letter of his original. Cowley was greatly admired by John Dryden (1631-1700), who followed his example of irregular Pindarics, emphasizing that his most important rule was that "the ear must preside and direct the judgement to the choice of numbers", a principle whose most renowned achievement is "Alexander's Feast", an ode in honour of St. Cecilia in which Dryden skilfully manipulates and adapts his metres and sounds to the different emotions described in the poem. Its purpose is a combined critique of music and poetry framed in the modern idea of harmony. There are not many good irregular Pindaric odes after this in spite of many attempts.

One of the most remarkable writers of classical Pindarics was Thomas Gray (1716-71), whose greatest achievements in this form are "The Progress of Poesy" and "The Bard", poems full of oblique, sometimes intricate allusions and striking images, like Pindar's poems, and having poetry itself as their subject matter, poetry as a life-giving force subduing negative passions, and art as catharsis and sublimation. Gray also wrote Horatian odes, like the famous and light-hearted "On the Death of a Favourite Cat" and the "Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College", an ode in which childhood races past with depressing speed.

The Horatian ode, the second main type of ode, is so called in honour of the Latin poet Horace (65-8 BC), and has been of much greater impact on the English ode than the Pindaric ode. It was normally written in regular stanzas, following the pattern set in the first stanza. It dealt with reflective and intimate themes, like friendship and love, and was usually quite serene in tone. Horace himself was a keen observer and practised Epicureanism. Even when he dealt with personal problems, like the ode in which he addressed Pyrrha's inconstancy (an ode translated by Milton), he did so to universalize sorrow and certain characteristics of human nature. His odes contain unforgettable eloquence and wisdom in their simplicity.

Horace was known in the Middle Ages, but hardly imitated. One of the earliest English versions of the Horatian ode was produced by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey (1517-47). After him, Horace was imitated by many other poets. One of the most remarkable poems written after Horace in the 17thcentury was Andrew Marvell's "An Horatian Ode upon Cromwell's Return from England", a poem that imitates Horace's odes celebrating Augustus in the concision of the language and the rapid succession of the images. The stanza form used in this poem seems to have been devised by Marvell himself. He uses two four-stress lines followed by two three-stress lines to achieve an equivalent of the Horatian Alcaic strophe in the English language.

Another notable Horatian was Cowley, who seems to have influenced Pope's "Ode to Solitude". Pope said of Cowley: "Who now reads Cowley? / Forget his epic, nay Pindaric art, / Yet still I love the language of his heart." And indeed, his bombastic Pindaric odes are much inferior to his Horatian ones. The same can be said of Pope. His attempt at the Pindaric form in "Ode for Music on St. Cecilia's Day" is usually considered of quite low quality on the whole.

In more modern times, the Horatian ode was primarily revived by Matthew Prior, Mark Akenside, William Collins, who takes a middle course between a protean naturalization and a hymnal monotheism and poses a number of interlaced questions in his volume of odes (published in 1747), as well as Jonathan Swift and Samuel Johnson in the 18thcentury, a century in which poetry was deeply affected by Horace, and Matthew Arnold in the 19thcentury. In his "Horatian Echo" (1847), Arnold distances himself from the political concerns and turmoils of his time to express a gentle melancholy and subtle carpe-diem mentality.

Modern odes in the English language usually have an irregular pattern, but they do have a rhyming and stanza scheme. They also have some common characteristics, such as a) a dignified, elaborate subject matter; b) emotion and imagination; c) the subject in whose honour the poem is written is usually addressed directly (less frequently than formerly though); d) they are written to be read aloud; and they are of e) a lyrical nature originating in personal impulses and rising to more general reflections.

From the Romantic period onwards, no clear distinction is usually made any more between Pindaric and Horatian odes in the English language, and since the late 19thcentury, poets seem to be reluctant to call their poems odes, even when they show distinctive ode-like qualities, like Arnold's "Dover Beach" and Hopkins's "The Wreck of the Deutschland".

Some of the greatest modern odes include Wordsworth's "Ode: Intimations of Immortality", Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind", Keats's "Ode to the Nightingale" and Tennyson's "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington".

In his ode, which is essentially a free Pindaric poem as established by Cowley and perfected by Dryden, Wordsworth addresses an emotional crisis of his own life, ageing, which gives him occasion to reflect upon immortality. He starts with a clear definition of his personal problem and then expands this view by referring to two Platonic notions of immortality and by applying them to life in general, pondering that life has only apparently been impoverished by the loss of the "visionary gleam" of childhood. The recollection of such pure experience can renew its awareness in us, taking us back to a childhood state of bliss and faith in a moral order for which Nature can provide appropriate symbols. Coleridge based his "Dejection: An Ode", whose sixth stanza was described by Eliot as "one of the saddest confessions that I have ever read", on Wordsworth's "Immortality Ode", to which it was partly intended to be a reply. Coleridge's poem is much stormier than Wordsworth's and is also set in a more violent natural environment.

Shelley's "Ode to the West Wind" is a political poem that should be read with relaxed attention rather than analysed word for word. Much more important in this poem are the sound and the connotation of each word and phrase, as well as the feelings it evokes. It is a poem written in the Italian terza rimaand using the wind as a symbol of inspiration (like Coleridge's "Dejection"), as well as the Romantic image of the Aeolian harp. In addition, again like Coleridge's "Dejection", it uses the image of the renovation of the spirit to depict the renovation of society. The wind, which for Shelley can enforce continuity between the natural imperialism of the past and the natural republicanism of the future, can also be compared to Keats's nightingale as a symbol of continuity and omnipresence. "To a Skylark" is written in the same evocative, suggestive mood.

Keats wrote odes universally regarded as above criticism and, like Shelley's odes, far more traditional in their structure of argument than those of Wordsworth or Coleridge. The themes of his poetry are the themes to which poets have returned again and again and again. The nightingale's song in "Ode to a Nightingale"3suggests a realm of ideal beauty and blissful immortality as contrasted with "the weariness, the fever, and the fret" of life. The rejection of the real world in favour of an ideal one are also to be intensely felt in "Ode on a Grecian Urn" (a poem representing the Romantic ideal of Hellenism) and in "Ode to Melancholy", although in a less resolute way, in a mood overshadowed by a melancholic acceptance.

According to many critics, Keats's best ode is "To Autumn", a poem rich in not only visual, but also kinaesthetic and tactile images as well as onomatopoeia, and a poem in which Keats rejoices in the meaning of autumn, the acceptance of change and decay as part of life: "Thou hast thy music too". It is striking that there are no leaves in this poem dedicated to autumn, a season traditionally associated with the falling of leaves, while there are leaves in three of his other odes.

Here is the ode "To Autumn" in full:

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or, by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,-
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Tennyson called his "Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington" "a fine rolling anthem" with a recurrent rhyming on low, dark-toned vowels echoing like a tolling bell and thus reinforcing the message of the poem. It is written in a Victorian tone, not the nostalgic tone of the Romantic poets we have just examined, and its reflections and imagery are clearly those of the author of "In Memoriam".

Other poets of the Victorian age include Landor, Swinburne, Thompson and Patmore.

The best ode of the 20thcentury is most probably the "Ode to the Confederate Dead" by Allen Tate, in which we feel the autumnal desolation of the graveyard and the poet's grief accentuated by his reserve.

Another ode worthy of mention is Louis MacNeice's "Ode", written in the form of a prayer for his son in a quite simple, casual style, a poem that accepts the limitations of human life and sadly also acknowledges the imminence of the war.

There have been many more odes written in the 20thcentury, although many of them were not called as such in their titles, as has already been mentioned. Auden, Yeats, Dylan Thomas and many others all wrote odes, in spite of their reluctance to call their poems odes, mainly because they didn't want to commit themselves to a dignified style and because of a certain aversion to classification typical of our time.


References:

Britannica 2002 Deluxe Edition

Fry, P., The Poet's Calling in the English Ode, Yale University Press, New Haven and London 1980

Hamilton, E. and Livingston J., Form and Feeling, Longman, Melbourne 1981

Heath-Stubbs, J., The Ode, Oxford University Press, London 1969

Jump, J., The Ode, Methuen & Co. Ltd., London 1974

Stillman, F., The Poet's Manual and Rhyming Dictionary, Thames and Hudson (1978)

www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/5784


1 Pindar had adopted this form from Stesichorus (7th-6th centuries BC).

2 Milton didn't actually call any of his poems odes.

3 Keats conceived a new kind of ode in his "Ode to the Nightingale", based on a ten-line stanza in iambic pentameter except for the eighth line, in iambic trimeter. The rhyme scheme is ababcdecde.



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Friday, December 07, 2007

Keynote

by Paul Maxim

Albinone wrote fifty-three operas,
none of which survived,
while Beethoven wrote only one,
all of which survived,
including four overtures,
three entr'actes, two intermezzi,
and one horrendous climax,
in which a caste of singers clambers back onstage,
and helps extract the tenor from his queasy cage.

But Rossini, nimble tunesmith,
outdid them all
by writing only half an opera
- called Semiramide* -
about an ancient Babylonian Princess
(or maybe she was just a Quean)
who thought she could reshape the course of history -
but why she thought so still remains a mystery.

Now, had that tunester only written
one whole Ramide
- it might have seemed a trifle overlong,
- it might have lacked a dance to fleshify its song,
but still most likely it would not have made him smirk
(as rumor swears he did):
"Half an opera she is better than none,
and mine have coined more lira than yours
have ever done!'


* Pronounced Seh.mee.RAH .mi.day

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Wednesday, November 14, 2007

The Haibun

Maria Claudia Faverio headshot by Maria Claudia Faverio

According to the Haiku Society of America (HAS), “A haibun is a terse, relatively short prose poem in the haikai style, usually including both lightly humorous and more serious elements. A haibun usually ends with a haiku. Most haibun range from well under 100 words to 200 or 300. Some longer haibun may contain a few haiku interspersed between sections of prose. In haibun the connections between the prose and any included haiku may not be immediately obvious, or the haiku may deepen the tone, or take the work in a new direction, recasting the meaning of the foregoing prose, much as a stanza in a linked-verse poem revises the meaning of the previous verse.”

Japanese haibun apparently developed from brief prefatory notes occasionally written to introduce individual haiku, but soon grew into a distinct genre. The word haibun is sometimes applied to longer works, such as the memoirs, diaries, or travel writings of haiku poets, though technically they are parts of the separate and much older genres of journal and travel literature (nikki and kikôbun). [From the HSA Definitions Web site]

As we can see, the haibun is a combination of prose and haiku, a “narrative of epiphany”, as Bruce Ross called it.

It was introduced by the haiku master Basho in 1690 in a letter to a friend, that concluded with a haiku (“Genjuan no ki”, “The Hut of the Phantom Dwelling”).

Makoda Ueda names the following characteristics of the haibun:

  1. the brevity and conciseness of haiku, in which each word carries rich layers of meaning;
  2. a deliberately ambiguous use of certain particles and verb forms in places where the conjunction 'and' would be used in English;
  3. a dependence on striking imagery;
  4. the writer's detachment.

In the tradition of haiku (Basho himself spoke of “haikai no bunsho”, “writing in the style of haiku”), the present tense is used to convey a stream of sensory impressions as well as the feeling of universality and timelessness, at the same time eschewing abstractions and conceptualizations. Everyday experiences are given universal values, as in the haiku, allowing access to divine revelations, hence the epithet “narrative of epiphany”.

The haiku that accompany the prose can be of two types: haiku summarizing the prose (juxtapositions), and haiku that are not connected to the prose but rather add to it. The transition occurs in renku style. The prose itself shouldn’t be too prosaic or sentimental. Together, they provide a unified poetic expression. It is difficult to determine which comes first, as they are both of equal importance and form a unity, almost like yin and yang.

A wide variety of subjects is acceptable, from nature to travels, diary, dreams, love, death, etc. Haibun can also be written in a wide variety of styles, from the bombastic style of William M. Ramsey in his “Prayer for the Soul of a Mare” to Sally Secor’s simple, colloquial style in “A Garden Bouquet”.

Haibun are now written in all countries and in all languages, like haiku, but the USA is the country that has most experimented with the form. Bruce Ross's “Journey to the Interior: American Versions of Haibun”, published in 1998, gives deep insight into American haibun.

One of the best known haibun in English is Vincent Trippi's “Haiku Pond: A trace of the trail... and Thoreau” (1987), a meditation on Walden.

To conclude, a classical example from Basho’s “Narrow Road to the Deep North”, the “Departure”:

It was early on the morning of March the twenty-seventh that I took to the road. There was darkness lingering in the sky, and the moon was still visible, though gradually thinning away. The faint shadow of Mount Fuji and the cherry blossoms of Ueno and Yanaka were bidding me a last farewell. My friends had got together the night before, and they all came with me on the boat to keep me company for the first few miles. When we got off the boat at Senju, however, the thought of three thousand miles before me suddenly filled my heart, and neither the houses of the town nor the faces of my friends could be seen by my tearful eyes except as a vision.
The passing spring
Birds mourn,
Fishes weep
With tearful eyes.
With this poem to commemorate my departure, I walked forth on my journey, but lingering thoughts made my steps heavy. My friends stood in a line and waved good-bye as long as they could see my back.

References:

http://darkwing.uoregon.edu/~kohl/basho/index.html
http://www.raysweb.net/haibun
http://www.worldhaikureview.org/

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Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Survival

Jolanda Dubbeldam by Jolanda Dubbeldam

Tropical heat violently beats my head
bouncing up from white crust
underneath my feet.
Eyes clenched behind sunglasses
not good enough protection
not helping stem streams of sweat
stinging eyes and skin.

I sink slowly to crouch
reach fingers to touch
tiny white grains attach
I bring them to my lips
Salt. Salt of the earth.

Later, when heat dissipates
sun’s fierce heat cools to orange
fellow visitors arrive
to crouch and lap with tongues
smooth or rough.
Peace will reign a while as
lion shares space with gazelle.

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Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Outsourcing the Messiah and the Gray Nanobot Slime

Richard May headshot by Richard May

The God of the Bible is more-than-a-little like an
American Republican. Consequently the redemptive role
of the Messiah was outsourced to reduce expenditures
in the last quarter of some ancient year. The stand-in Messiah
came near the end of the first century C.E. But no one
even noticed Her. She also said that the Kingdom is here and now.
Again, no one had "ears to hear."

Men didn't even bother to crucify Her. They were
busy getting ahead and it wouldn't have been cost effective anyway,
with the high price of wood. The entire Age of Universal World Peace,
which She would have ushered in, was reduced to a commercial break
followed by ten seconds of silence.

Now humanity, itself, is being outsourced in a move to increase
productivity. What had been our job of gathering up sparks
of the Divine, creating souls and repairing the world
has been re-assigned to a sea of nanobots, which presumably will work on
this task far more harmoniously and efficiently.
Finally humankind will be replaced - by gray nanobot slime.

May-Tzu

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Friday, September 07, 2007

Games

Fred Vaughan headshot by Fred Vaughan

I'm tired of Old;
Let's quit this game.
Let's play something else
Like Doctor.

The author and patient at home
The author and patient at home.

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Thursday, September 06, 2007

Fragments

Richard May headshot by Richard May

Nothingness dances dreams of the dead,
soul-eyed shadows of devouring moon.
Star mind feasts upon Orphean strains,
alchemical food of Endless sun.

May-Tzu

crow moon snow

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Wednesday, September 05, 2007

"As I Walked Out One Evening"

A Walk

Ron Penner headshot by Ron Penner

W. H. Auden
W. H. Auden

This poem, by Wystan Hugh Auden I have known for years and always considered it to be one of the most remarkable of poems, written in the English language in the twentieth century. There were always images in it that eluded me as to their origin, and still do, but the magic, the word magic of the poem was such that this did not matter. They all seemed right, even as I could not say why and this made the poem even more magical and wondrous. Then one insomniac night in January, I determined to wrestle with this poem, to analyze it as far as possible and extract its deeper meaning and the source of its unforgettable appeal. But I misremembered much of it, so I reread it the next morning and began refining a coherent interpretation that could do some measure of justice to this great work. The interpretation lies not on the surface and would not be evident, I believe, to a casual reader of the poem, and I thought that perhaps this type of analysis might be of some interest. I recall a television program on Auden long ago in which he walked out of his house into his Bentley and drove off, all the while nonchalantly reciting this poem. I thought, he could have chosen from among scores of his poems for this charade, but he chose this one. Ergo, one of the greatest poets of the century chose this poem as possibly his best work. For future reference, the poem is included in full on the next page.

Several assumptions need to be made. There may be several levels of interpretation of a poem; to seek the deepest one is, I would argue, to also seek the most internally consistent, and this latter has been my aim. I take it for granted that the poem means what its author intended. Deconstructing a poem or any work of literature is akin to an attempt to cure a patient by an operation to rearrange bodily organs. The patient dies! And if the creators take this seriously, nothing but trivia remains. I assume that all imagery in the poem ultimately relates to evolving mental and spiritual states that progress from a wild, headless Romanticism to a deep understanding and acceptance of Reality with Time serving metaphorically as a mediator. And if this poem is about changing inner realities, the lover and lovers of the poem must arise from that inner reality and not be independent of it. Whether this poem is autobiographical in nature or an Everyman poem, I do not know. I suspect that it is neither, but refers to the Artistic Age in which Auden fully participated, ending with the sobering and somber realities and realizations of World War II. In support of this as addressing his own between-the-wars' generation one can quote a famous, earlier concluding stanza from "September 1, 1939." (See previous page.) These lines suggest, not so much a refusal to accept reality as an isolation from reality, although both I believe are present, and thus make the "lover's song"---the poem is actually titled "Song: As I Walked Out One Evening"---more understandable. For lovers, in the deepest moments of their romance, can be almost oblivious to all else the is going on around them. This should then be considered, I believe, as transferred to the generation between the wars, the generation which slept through history, with all the tragedy that that ultimately entailed. Just as Romeo and Juliet seemed perfectly oblivious to the problems that they were causing their respective families and the entire city of Verona.

As I Walked One Evening

by W. H. Auden

As I walked out one evening,
     Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
     Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
     I heard a lover sing
Under the arch of the railway
     "Love has no ending.

I'll love you, dear, I'll love you
     Till China and Africa meet
And the river jumps over the mountain
     And salmon sing in the street.

I'll love you till the ocean
     Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
     Like geese about the sky.

The years shall run like rabbits
     For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages
     And the first love of the World."

But all the clocks in the city
     Began to whirr and chime:
"O let not Time deceive you,
     You cannot conquer Time."

In the burrows of the Nightmare
     Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
     And coughs when you would kiss.

In headaches and in worry
     Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
     To-morrow or today.

Into many a green valley
     Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
     And the diver's brilliant bow.

The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
     The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
     A lane to the land of the dead.

Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
     And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white boy is a Roarer
     And Jill goes down on her back.

O plunge your hands in water,
     Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
     And wonder what you've missed.

O look, look in the mirror,
     O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
     Although you cannot bless.

O stand, stand at the window
     As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
     With your crooked heart."

It was late, late in the evening,
     The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming
     And the deep river ran on.


September 1, 1939

by W. H. Auden

Faces along the bar
     Cling to the average day:
The lights must never go out,
     The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
     To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
     Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
     Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

There are two long quotations in the poem of about equal length, but they are totally different. The first, with a headlong romanticism, treats Reality as whatever you choose or want it to be; the second is a painful coming to terms with Reality and with the wisdom that is thereby gained. The first is symbolized by the brimming river, about to overflow its banks and leave havoc and destruction in its wake and the deep river, no longer a threat but useful to all Mankind. And the second quotation not only delineates painful aspects of Reality which must be accepted, but delineates three stages of spiritual regeneration necessary for the deep wisdom of the deep river to "flow on." Finally, that the poem seems to encapsulate the experiences of a lifetime, yet only a few moments had passed - "the clocks had ceased their chiming" - and that this sense, does or should add an element of depth to the poem which lifts it far beyond the ordinary. Auden was a meteor of his generation, a satirical and despairing poet of his Age who yet wrote the conclusion of "In Memory of W. B. Yeats."

With the farming of a verse
     Make a vineyard of the curse,
Sing of human unsuccess
     In a rapture of distress;

In the deserts of the heart
     Let the healing fountain start,
In the prison of his days
     Teach the free man how to praise."

If this poem is, to some extent, autobiographical, it traces that evolution. Now to a brief review and comment upon some of the lines of the poem. The poem begins with the most arresting and extraordinary image; the prosaic Bristol Street upon which were a crowd that was "a field of harvest wheat." How does that opening image serve the poem as a whole? First, it serves to signal to the reader that this is no ordinary poem. But the image stands alone, and it is the only one that can definitely be ascribed to the one who is experiencing this journey of the spirit, everything else could be ascribed to the lover and "all the clocks in the city" or to Time itself. So what does it portend? This is a hallucination of a kind that might be induced by a rare and benign LSD trip. This is intended to herald that the first quote deals with Unreality and the effort of the mind to create its own Reality and the destructive consequences of that, no matter how lovely they may appear. The lover's 'song' knows no limits and creates an impossible Universe and Time thunders its rebuke, despite the nobility of his intentions. Those two lines: "But all the clocks in the city began to whirr and chime:" First, prosaically, one cannot possibly hear "all the clocks in the city" and this poem is experiential. This indicates both an illusory state of mind and a heightened sense of perception. "Whirr and chime?" Whirr signifying disorder, chime signifying order in three words and one perception seems to presage a divided Mind which perceives opposites as a whole, but without synthesis.

Suddenly everything changes, very abruptly. That thundering proclamation: "O let not Time deceive you, You cannot conquer Time." intervenes and severs the poem into two parts. I remember a Shakespearean scholar once saying that whenever you see, in reading, time capitalized by Shakespeare, you should pause and reflect, for he always then has something profound to impart. I imagine Auden remembering that when he wrote these lines. Yet here time is capitalized not once, but four times in the short space of a few lines. Is this an excess of profundity? profundity running amok? profundity on holiday? I think not, for Time itself has its lessons to teach and part of coming to terms with Reality, in the first part of the second quotation is coming to terms with time. And when you capitalize time, you are not referring to quotidian time, but to eternal time or something akin to it. Thus in this very subtle way he introduces questions of the Ultimate, for I imagine that the last thing Auden wanted to be considered was another Eliot.

Then follow three stanzas of negative aspects of Reality that this life must come to terms with. The first is disillusionment, the second dissipation, and lastly sorrow and loss. Consider the second and its second line, "Vaguely life leaks away."

"The sound must echo of the sense" wrote Pope, and this line magnificently fulfills that dictum through the velocity of language, i. e., 'vaguely life leeeeaks awway.' The line slows to an appropriate crawl. And, "You cannot conquer Time." and "Time will have its fancy..." There are many realities, many events you cannot control, unlike your attempts to control it through you own recreation of it. I must pause to note those marvelously evocative two lines:

"Into many a green valley drifts the appalling snow."(Let them stand without comment.) And Time even brings to an end Siva's many dances. The next two stanzas introduce real Evil and dread. The second stanza is curious but very effective, for it introduces evil from English nursery rhymes, thus evil hiding under a thin veneer of innocence, a sugarcoated evil which makes it all the more nightmarish.

After all of these negative aspects of reality that must be accepted for growth to occur comes tasks for spiritual regeneration. In three brief stanzas, three stages of such a regenerative process are limned. The first involves cleansing, the second unflinching self-examination, the third a deep measure of regret. Consider how strongly the second line of both the first and second stanzas reinforces the first lines. "O plunge your hands in water, Plunge them up to the wrist." "O look, look in the mirror, O look in your distress."

Then comes that lofty yet down to earth denouement, all so unexpected: "You shall love your crooked neighbour with your crooked heart." By twice using the adjective 'crooked' Auden escapes from any charge of didacticism or pious moralizing and ends the second quotation on Reality with an uncompromising adjective, twice given. But as with any such valid moral injunction, it extends beyond itself to alter whatever it touches, thus these two denouement lines can be read as branching out to all of the ethical life of Man.

The final stanza says more, I believe, than any of the others. Each line has a significant message to tell and each integrates with the rest of the poem. "It was late, late in the evening."

It was late in life when this evolution or series of transformations began and ultimately were realized. Perhaps it is always late, or seems so. "The lovers they were gone:"

This is the most complex line to interpret, and I do not want the interpretation to seem forced, so I would only ask that it be considered only in the light of all the rest. I wrote at the beginning that this was a poem of only a unitary consciousness, that the images were ultimately intended to indicate mental and spiritual states and stages of growth and evolution. If this be so, then there can be no outside voices, they all come from within one consciousness. Then, the lover who speaks the first quote is part of that unitary consciousness. But lovers?! Yes, for this symbolizes or indicates a divided self, the divided self of the first part of the poem. The reception of that speech is divided from the speech itself. That self was badly fractured and a significant part of the growth and healing of the second part of the poem, though unstated, was the unification of that self. But the "lovers... were gone." 'Gone' has a finality to it meant to imply that that aspect of the self had not just been transformed, it had died. "The clocks had ceases their chiming." How long does it take clocks to chime? What seemed like half a lifetime had passed in only a few moments. "And the deep river ran on." The river of life which this represents, was now a very different river from the brimming river of the first part of the poem. Now it was on an altogether different plane, secure within its banks, its depth signifying all the hard won wisdom that had been gained, a benefit and no longer a threat to the plain, flowing securely on to eventually join the ocean. But all that the ocean implies lies beyond the scope of this poem, for it is not spoken of, therefore neither shall I speak of it.

Thus the central problem of this poem is how to account for the sudden need for repentance and atonement, for regeneration and reform which so dramatically and suddenly divides this poem into two parts. Some might say that I have been grasping at straws. I would reply that I have been grasping, but only for any clues and interpretations from the poem that might provide a holistic and well-rounded rationale for those needs.

Ron Penner and Bob Seitz
The author and his friend Bob Seitz converse

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Friday, August 31, 2007

Ride

Maria Claudia Faverio headshot by Maria Claudia Faverio

Wind stirring trees…
Harnessing my horse,
I think of blossoms
tossed up,
falling
on the Way.

horse wind way Creative Commons Licensed Photo by flickr user 'Katie@!'. Some rights reserved.

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Monday, August 27, 2007

Vista Everywhere

Maria Claudia Faverio headshot by Maria Claudia Faverio

Morning chimes…
Waving my dancing sleeve
in the breeze,
I behold butterflies
delving blossoms,
light pouring in unrestrained
on golden spores –
vista everywhere.

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Tuesday, July 17, 2007

Fragile theatre

Maria Claudia Faverio headshot by Maria Claudia Faverio

When night steps down
and wild flowers recede
into the blessed calm of oblivion
like a hand forsaking desire, -
pallid under the cracked moon
shot with hints of blue,
the world resembles a pastoral
alien to tension of light
and gods
drunk with distillation of thunder.

Shakes of leaves abate,
the unattainable perfection of thought
relaxes into the breathless peace
of void of mind,
whose positivity consists
in the negation of the will.

Impartial to things of stone
losing their stoniness
in the black stringency of night,
images dwell in the untextured air
like replicas of reality,
and yet the real imitation
is reality,
not the images.

At the edge of night,
the fragile theatre of life
crumbles to dust of light
and dark,
embracing each other
like Chinese symbols
uncaged into being.

Dawn at North Wollongong Beach
Dawn at North Wollongong Beach painting by Maria Claudia Faverio

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Monday, July 16, 2007

The Selfish Shellfish

by Frank Luger

Frank Luger in Montreal

Once upon a time in a deep blue sea
In a bay of beauty that’s rare to see
Among a myriad colorful shellfish
There lived an oyster- resentful, selfish…

He thought he was just an ugly scallop
Of course he got wallop after wallop
Imitating the majestic lobsters
Irritating the domestic oysters…

Fed up with mockery he could not stand
He tried to burrow deep into the sand
Until near-suffocation forced him back
Onto his usual self-torture track…

Then he tried to run away but failed
Thus with painful self-disgust he ailed
So much that his shell remained tightly shut
All his life lacking pride with which to strut.

Tho' a grain of sand bothered him inside
And his neighbors kept on chiding outside
He stubbornly refused to be of use
And preferred to clam up without excuse.

He knew that wasting life is a sad crime
And that selfishness gave him a bad time
Yet he kept wallowing in self-pity
While dreaming about his divine city.

Slowly washing ashore he dreamed away
But one day he awoke to a sunray
The radiant heat of which meant his death
Unless he repented with his last breath.

His grain of sand, grown into a tumor
Suddenly cracked his dry shell and humor;
There burst forth a pearl such as never seen
To delight God forever with brilliant sheen.

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Friday, July 13, 2007

The Senecan Ramble

Ron Penner headshot by Ron Penner

Let us, for a moment, seriously consider the Senecan ramble; it flourished for a period in English literature, especially in essays, so it must have much to recommend itself. I have guessed -- merely guessed -- that some may not write because they feel that they ought to write about only one subject at a time with internal consistency throughout. I would hope to be among the last to denigrate this, but why should not a Senecan ramble -- a series of loosely connected insights and/or observations with no central theme be equally valued if the quality of thought therein were of equal value with more tightly organized writing? As one would go for a walk in the country and comment upon what one saw with no predetermined plan in mind, so one could gather together the treasured insights of a month into a ramble for the edification of us all. And as this is about the Senecan ramble, I intend herein to ramble. (One will notice little connection between the first paragraph and the second.)

One poem that I have always remembered and ever shall is "The Soul and Body of John Brown" by Muriel Rukeyser, subtitled, "Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision!" from the book of Joel. The poem, in a most profound way, attempts to recapture to experience of a nation in the summer of 1940, still dazed by the Depression and bewilderingly trying to face a future of awesome responsibilities and global effort, of massive deaths and sufferings. The poem, which I highly recommend, is a highly complex interweaving of strands and a magnificent ramble! I will quote one stanza which, in its own way, sums up the entire poem and which I have always regarded as one of the most evocative and memorable in all of the English literature encountered in a lifetime.

"White landscapes emphasize his nakedness
reflected in countries of naked who shiver and stare at fires,
their backs to the face that unrolls new worlds around them.
--They go down the valleys. They shamble in the streets.
Blind to the sun-storming image echoed in their eyes.
--They dread the surface of their victim life,
lying helpless and savage in shade parks,
asking the towers only what beggars dare:
food, fire, water, and air."

We need not shamble, but we can ramble.

stream

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Sunday, July 08, 2007

Happy dog

Maria Claudia Faverio headshot by Maria Claudia Faverio

It was hot on the bus
in mid-December,
and the bus was crowded with people
wedged into immobility,
heads buzzing with thoughts
of hurried love, pre-wrapped parcels
with cloned angels and Santa Clauses
on glossy paper.

Banned from the unalloyed
happiness of the masses
unable to identify meanings
behind the ohs and ahs,
I looked out of the airtight window
and suddenly saw a dog in a car,
his snout leisurely laid on the frame
of the wound-down window,
eyes shut, ears and hair
waving in the streaming air.

I turned around almost instantly,
somewhat disturbed by that image
of unattainable freedom.
And there they were again,
the sweating faces,
high-flown elbows, buffeting feet
and blank eyes unwillingly
mirroring
the unstoppable summer
sun outside.

“Excuse me,” I stuttered.
The person next to me swerved
on the faded seat
to let me through,
and I ran out
into the grotesque freedom
of the garish street.

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Wednesday, June 27, 2007

The Man Who Died Twice

A Tribute

Ron Penner headshot by Ron Penner

E. A. Robinson

"The Man Who Died Twice" by Edwin Arlington Robinson is the most unforgettable poem I have ever read; the kind of poem which once read, remains with you for the rest of ones life. Nor, apparently, is this opinion unique to me, for it received the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1925, his "Collected Works" —which in the book I have in front of me runs to 1488 pages — won the same prize in 1922.

The poem attempts what must be almost impossible, to make a character with the most improbable name of Fernando Nash come alive and be believable in a very long poem. For he was "meant" to be one of the Immortals of musical composition, to rank along with Bach, Beethoven, and Mozart, yet he never achieved this — his daimon. He destroyed his first two symphonies, and he died unknown, save for the narrator of the poem.

Robinson presaged this poem in three other poems that I am aware of. In "George Crabbe" a sonnet in honor of the 17th and 18th century English metaphysical poet he had written in the sestet:

From time to time the vigor of his name
Against us like a finger for the shame
And emptiness of what our souls reveal
In books that are as altars were we kneel
To consecrate the flicker, not the flame."

E. A. Robinson
A younger E. A. Robinson

And in "Flammonde", the man who came to play the Prince of Castaways, he wrote these lines:

"Rarely at once will nature give
The power to be Flammonde and live."
And in "The Man Against the Sky" he catalogues all of the ways a man may meet an inevitable fate.
"Rarely at once will nature give
The power to be Flammonde and live."

What did Robinson mean by these lines and how do they provide a window into this poem. "The Man Who Died Twice," first to all died to the vast creative powers that were within him, and then died physically. When I was sixteen, a man whom I shall never forget came to direct the play "McBeth" and act as the character McDuff in the play for a private school I attended on Vancouver Island. The headmaster, in my opinion, used this man to publicize the school. He had taught there previously as a rest cure from alcoholism for two or three years, although I did not attend then. He would regularly scandalize much of the staff by his unorthodox behavior. I remember that I felt like shouting to them, 'Stop criticizing this man! What right have you to do so? Do you not have a conception of how difficult it is for Ian Thorne simply to be Ian Thorne?' But I must say that I never had the temerity to utter those words. For I sensed someone in whom searing fires of creativity were burning either to destruction or remarkable creativity. And although, thereafter, he wrote, directed and acted in major productions for the CBC and the BBC, the world barely knows of him, and I cannot but believe that for all of his attainments he ultimately failed to achieve his potential. And this is echoed in this poem in these lines:

"But there he shook his head
In hopeless pity — not for the doomed, I saw,
But rather for the sanguine ordinary
That has no devil and so controls itself,
Having nothing in especial to control."
How could Robinson possibly have made this character come alive and become believable, a being so remote from all the rest of humanity? Could he have faced a greater challenge? The answer is complex and various. First there is Robinson's almost flawless use of poetic diction and symbolic imagery and rhythm, although in this poem he creates a strange poetic imagery, all his own, of which you should only ask that it all coheres and attains to an integrated whole, which it does. (Robinson was never one to believe that the simplest word is best; he utilized the full diapason of the English language to remarkable effect.) To give but one tiny example:
"And he was too far sundered from his faith
And his ambition, buried somewhere together
Behind him to go stumbling back for them,
Only to find a shadowy grave that held
So little and so much."
"sundered", "stumbling back", "a shadowy grave". I would have to quote much more to really indicate why these are just the right words in the right place. Then in the middle of the poem there are a series a terrible maledictions which Fernando Nash hurls at himself until prevented from going further by sheer exhaustion. And as he lies dying, having not eaten in three weeks and barely able to move, a whole series of hallucinations and visions come over him in a titanic effort to perceive his final fate. There is no thought there, only experience from the depths of the Unconscious. And if there are hallucinations, it matters not, for they are milestones on a spiritual journey that knows the heights of ecstasy alternating with the depths of despair, the sublime and utter degradation. And they are holistic with their own internal logic. As when Mozart composed "Don Giovanni" or his "Requiem" did he pause at various stages to ask 'Now what comes next?' No! For such works would never have been written if he had not, somehow, seen them in their entirety from the beginning. Just so, Fernando Nash experiences his final hours as though a great work of Art were unfolding before him. He experiences a series of mystic visions of terrible intensity which seem natural to him but which are denied to all but the very few. Thus Robinson somehow makes this extraordinary character come alive. And I recall a televised review of the life and oeuvre of Ezra Pound in which the literary critic remarked that it was not enough to have arresting and glittering lines and phrases sparkle through his Cantos, but that he had to sustain it from the beginning to the very end, not to deviate or wander to any length from a sure path that he had set but to continually maintain the continuity of the whole. This Robinson also achieves in this poem.

MacDougal Alley, Greenwich Village
MacDougal Alley, Greenwich Village where Robinson lived

And there is another element of his life that transcends ordinary human experience. He "knew" from boyhood that he was destined to write his Symphony Number Three, that would come down like 'choral fire from heaven to still those drums of death' and 'that thereafter all would be a toil of joy for Immortality' and the floodgates of his vast creative abilities would open and he would realize his daimon, if only he would wait. And, of course, not merely wait, but wait in a state akin to that of creative Grace. But he did not wait and the choral fire of that symphony never came until it was too late, and thus he failed himself and all Mankind for countless generations and the God who had given him this gift, for there is a religious element to this poem, but it never intrudes but only proceeds naturally from the narrative. But he does at last hear strains of that symphony in one of his last days and this is enough to reconcile himself to his fate, to know real peace, probably for the first time in his life and to die in peace after the destructive fires of his arrogance and disdain and greed for life had burnt away everything that was gross in him. For it has often been inferred that renunciation must always accompany true genius, and this he lacked or had an insufficiency of. Robinson describes that moment in only eight lines, thus:

"With blinding tears of praise and of exhaustion
Pouring out of his eyes and over his cheeks,
He groped and tottered into the dark hall,
Crying aloud to God, or man, or devil,
For paper — not for food. It may have been
The devil who heard him first and made of him.
For sport, the large and sprawling obstacle
They found there at the bottom of the stairs."

So the poem begins with Fernando Nash discovered after years of absence by the narrator:

"beating a bass drum
And shouting Hallelujah with a fervor
At which, as I remember, no man smiled."
He is, from the beginning, a ruined hulk of a man, or of a personality, seeming to be a maniac or megalomaniac, shouting "Glory to God, I had it — once!" But slowly the poem begins to surround you and to envelop you, and slowly you begin to see the vastness of the man and of the poem, and finally it overwhelms you. And a whole cathedral of images and symbols emerge — the drums of life, the drums of death, the daimon and the demon of genius, 'the grapes of heaven' which are golden grapes, 'and golden dregs which are the worst dregs of all' the choral fire, the messengers who came again and again and always found him absent, the leering symphony that seventy rats dressed in coat and tails performed for his unwilling ears, images of ruin and decay and self-immolation and finally a sublime clarity and peace.

Robinson upon Fernando Nash's demise has the narrator attempt to sum up his experience of him with these closing words:

"There was in the man,
With all his frailties and extravagances.
The caste of an inviolable distinction
That was to break and vanish only in fire
When other fires that had so long consumed him
Could find no more to burn; and there was in him
A giant's privacy of lone communion
With other giants who made a music
Whereof the world has not impossibly heard
Not the last note; and there was in him always,
Unqualified by guile and unsubdued
By failure and remorse, or by redemption,
The grim nostalgic passion of the great
For glory all but theirs. And more than these,
There was the nameless and authentic seal
Of power and of ordained accomplishment —
Which may not be infallibly forthcoming,
Yet in this instance came. So I believe,
And shall, till admonition more disastrous
Than any has yet imperiled it
Invalidates conviction. …
To be the giant of his acknowledgment.
Crippled and cursed and crucified, the giant
Was always there, and always will be there.
For reasons less concealed and more sufficient
Than words will ever make them, I believe him
Today as I believed him while he died,
And while I sank his ashes in the sea."

E. A. Robinson portrait

By now it should be clear that I have set myself an impossible task in attempting to render for you the essence of this poem. This poem may seem from what I have written, apart from being very confused, which it assuredly is not, dark and grim almost beyond endurance, yet it is a tragedy until the very end, and like all true tragedies, as Aristotle has assured us, purges with catharsis. This is a parable of the Talents told in strange and unfamiliar dress and with a terrible intensity. I fail to see how anyone who reads this poem slowly and meditatively, savoring every line, as one must, cannot fail to ask themselves, 'What was my daimon and how far have I wandered from it amidst the quotidian demands of life.

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Wheat

Patrick Williams headshot by Patrick Williams

This page and these words grow as each day passes.
Thoughts are a grain of wheat attached heartily to the stalk.
Each word I write moves with the blink of my cursor
Growing and changing with the work of my hands.

I am the one who plants each seed in this field.
Otherwise your mind will starve--- I don’t care if I’m the farmer,
        Just wish I got paid more for feeding you.
Don’t think I’m starving though. I get my food from that same field of wheat.
My brain is the soil and the ideas seed themselves deep each season.
They don’t grow out of my head though. Not much does as you can see.
Stop looking at my balding head! It just makes me look distinguished.
No…my thoughts are planted deep in my brain and need weeding just the same.
Otherwise they become overgrown with information that suck out the nourishment.

Let us see…the sun would be my wife shining down and providing nutrients for my crop.
The moon? My daughter who gently pulls at my heart each day.
The rain that waters my field would be the community I live in; washing away the rot.

I hate weeding, but if I want things to grow, I had better make sure my roots are strong. Like every harvest, the plants that grow may seem the same, but they mature
In different patterns from season to season. I must also keep rotating the ideas, much the same as rotating the fields. Letting some ideas replenish, and others die back during the fallow season.

No one can eat just one grain of wheat and be content.
Mash them into a flour with millions of other grains to make a bread.
The words I write have to be digested with the stanza that you read.
Each person digests these words differently to become full.
Can you see the field of wheat moving in the wind?
This paragraph is a group of words dealing with the same topic.
So I make sure the rows are nice and straight.

        Finally, I have to make my produce look appetizing for you to buy it.
Just like an apple, it needs to be polished and displayed. Don’t worry
about pesticides, my thoughts are certified organic.

Come into my store, take what you like. The price is negotiable.

foggy morning farm

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Tuesday, June 26, 2007

The child and the dog

Maria Claudia Faverio by Maria Claudia Faverio

He sat there, on the sun-pocked
little wall surrounding the school playground,
watching his chow run after
a child on a bicycle.

The child was discovering the world
on his turquoise bike
he was riding for the first time
at 6 o’clock in the morning,

before streets were flooded
with busy feet
and voices changing language
like loudspeakers
at an international airport.

He was learning to taste somewhat
of life, following a path
less predictable than Lebesgue’s integral.
That child was riding into freedom,

he was learning what it means
to be a walker of edges,
to run into enormous distances
behind the horizon.

And the little dog barking
after him, turning the air
to follow the child who laughed
and shouted for joy
on his new sparkling bicycle.

The little cripple on the sun-pocked
wall watched in silence,
like a songless bird,
while the day was starting
to unravel and the shadows of morning
swept over the child and the dog
who were discovering the world.

beach beagle

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Friday, June 22, 2007

Dating

Jolanda Dubbeldam by Jolanda Dubbeldam

I’m everything you ever dreamed
your hopes your joys your fantasies
new memories
your child will bloom in me.
When grief, pain, hate, rage
fill dark days
you’ll turn to me
I’m everything you ever dreamed.
Expectations.
Too bad a year from now
Or more or less
I’ll go back to being
Just me.

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Wednesday, June 20, 2007

An Age-old Story

Charmaine Frost headshot by Charmaine Frost

It was just the age-old story
Of men vying and dying for an instant's glory.

Asphalt basking in the sun
Held the heat like a secret weapon;
The mephitic caged-in air
Spat out sparks and prepared
To roar and screech when let loose.
All trembled in the molten glare
That in milliseconds would ignite
Every shriveled leaf, each gnarled bough,
Every millimeter of parched soil,
Even the most pacifist of human souls.

Wasn't it just the same old story
Of men vying for some petty glory?
It always began as mere debate:
Is man good or evil?, can cats think?,
Is character learned or innate?
But debate was more than a semantic game.
It was a war of egos never tamed
Of the tiger's lawless fury,
Of the eagle's paranoid insistence
That he was most far-sighted.
Each scoff burned with dramatic fire;
The contenders never tired
Of proving they were right
To a sighing jury
Of their fellows and the gods.

A dragon lurked in every soul
Impatiently bating its lethal breath.
Words would clash, planes would crash,
Nations would battle unto death
Until even the galaxies would know
Who most deserved earth's penny spoils.
The flames would dance as they destroyed,
Cackle triumphant as they burned
Every rose, every momento,
Every culture ever raised,
Every prize ever earned,
The science and art of every age.
Hot cyclones would bluster round and round
In a vicious circle never ending
While the anger of men contending
Would devour the planet from pole to pole.

No, not just some lunatic's fable
That many would perish in the fray
To prove who among men was most able
And set Earth ablaze -
Supernova sparking in holocaust rage
Before it shrank to a lifeless cinder
Adrift in an indifferent, endless night.

town sky cloud perspective

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