People in the middle ages didn't think they were living
Between two more important and enlightened eras;
Nor did they see themselves as the players
In act three of a tragedy in five acts.
It was not always late winter in the middle ages.
People in the middle ages were not all middle-aged
Though it is enjoyable on occasion to assume that they were.
The sun was as bright in the dark ages
As it is now - maybe a fraction brighter, in fact.
Think of the middle ages and what do you see:
Gloomy cathedrals, students dressed like monks in the rain,
Or a band of drunken pilgrims telling obscene jokes,
Or heroes embarking for the nearest wilderness come April?
Your answer will reveal yourself to yourself
But you may not know it - may choose to hide
In hazy visions of a serene and indescribable paradise.
And paradise, as we all know, may be paradise when we're dead,
But it is boredom on earth, alas.
We never think of ennui in relation to the middle ages.
Should we? Did Thomas Aquinas never get bored
Cooking up elaborate refutations of diminutive heresies?
No, and you shouldn't either. Nor did the clerks
of Oxford tire of the sin against the Holy Ghost,
Trying to figure out what it was.
On chill September mornings when
I smoked too much the night before
And I drank too much the night before
And a sinister cough rises up
From the depths of the belly of my being,
I like to imagine living in Provence
Or even in Rheims during the middle ages.
It's one of my least favorite common cultural assumptions that the Dark Ages or Middle Ages were somehow dreary or stagnant in terms of achievement. Some of the greatest architectural feats of that time are still proudly standing, well-deservedly drawing attention and admiration. The flowering of literature and philosophical thought in those centuries was also profound, as was the development of social orders, nations, and commerce. It's a silly notion to assign them the name "The Middle Ages" as if there was nothing much going on and that time period just acted as a bridge to the Renaissance.
Lehman does a good job making the reader feel ridiculous for the assumptions they likely hold. I like his imaginative exercise, wherein you are asked to envision what life was life back then. I also like the not so subtle reference to Chaucer with the "band of drunken pilgrims telling obscene jokes." Bringing Chaucer, who is considered one of the figureheads of English literature into the mix is a good way to remind the reader that the middle ages were hardly the bland, uneducated time we often assume them to be.
I too like to imagine what daily life must have been like in the past. What were the hopes and fears of the average person? They loved, had kids, wept, worked, feared, and played like anyone else. It's easy to forget the human aspect of history amidst the myriad list of dates and achievements.
Monday, March 31, 2014
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Not Ideas About the Thing but the Thing Itself - Wallace Stevens
At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier mâché...
The sun was coming from outside.
That scrawny cry - it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
This poem, a prelude to spring heralded by one scraggly bird's squawk, offers a vivid image of the cusp of seasons' change. In a way, it's a hopeful look towards a brighter future, literally and figuratively. We always think of spring as a season of beginnings, growth, and life, and that's presaged here mainly with the image of the sun, and with a sort of music of nature.
The description of the sun as a battered panache (decoration) above the snowy landscape is very humanistic. How many times have you looked out at a wintry landscape in March and felt somewhat weary? It's as if the sun, that massively hot thing so far away, somehow holds no power over winter. But the bird's cry, which was not a hallucination, as Stevens first wonders ("a scrawny cry from outside seemed like a sound in his mind.") is the first signal of what is to come. It was actually outside, not merely a dream, which is described as "sleep's faded papier mâché."
The "colossal sun" which is "surrounded by its choral rings" is the life giving force at work in this poem's world and indeed in our own world. The idea of music coming with the sun makes me think of the antique concept of the music of the spheres, with a celestial music being created in the great and unfathomable order of Creation. Here, it's nothing so grand, but rather, one cry of a bird, like "a chorister whose c preceded the choir." At the same time, is there anything so grand as the chirp of a bird after a long winter?
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry at daylight or before,
In the early March wind
The sun was rising at six,
No longer a battered panache above snow...
It would have been outside.
It was not from the vast ventriloquism
Of sleep's faded papier mâché...
The sun was coming from outside.
That scrawny cry - it was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.
It was part of the colossal sun,
Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away. It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
This poem, a prelude to spring heralded by one scraggly bird's squawk, offers a vivid image of the cusp of seasons' change. In a way, it's a hopeful look towards a brighter future, literally and figuratively. We always think of spring as a season of beginnings, growth, and life, and that's presaged here mainly with the image of the sun, and with a sort of music of nature.
The description of the sun as a battered panache (decoration) above the snowy landscape is very humanistic. How many times have you looked out at a wintry landscape in March and felt somewhat weary? It's as if the sun, that massively hot thing so far away, somehow holds no power over winter. But the bird's cry, which was not a hallucination, as Stevens first wonders ("a scrawny cry from outside seemed like a sound in his mind.") is the first signal of what is to come. It was actually outside, not merely a dream, which is described as "sleep's faded papier mâché."
The "colossal sun" which is "surrounded by its choral rings" is the life giving force at work in this poem's world and indeed in our own world. The idea of music coming with the sun makes me think of the antique concept of the music of the spheres, with a celestial music being created in the great and unfathomable order of Creation. Here, it's nothing so grand, but rather, one cry of a bird, like "a chorister whose c preceded the choir." At the same time, is there anything so grand as the chirp of a bird after a long winter?
Thursday, March 27, 2014
Seikilos Epitaph - Seikilos
[inscription] I am a tombstone, an image. Seikilos placed me here as an everlasting sign of deathless remembrance.
While you live, shine
have no grief at all
life exists only for a short while
and time demands its toll.
While not strictly poetry, the epitaph of Seikilos as it is called, is an ancient Greek tombstone inscription, likely placed between 200 BC and 100 AD, located in modern day Turkey, near ancient Ephesus. It is notable for being the first whole notated piece of music in human history. Earlier notated fragments survive, but this is the first complete piece of music yet found. It is a song, presumably written by Seikilos, to his wife, who had passed on. On the tombstone itself, alongside the text, is the musical notation, which has been reconstructed into actual music by scholars.
The text itself is an enduring message of peace and love, containing wisdom that even two thousand years ago must have seemed ancient and timeless. Life is short, time marches on, and all we can really ever hope to do in our brief time is shine. Live without grief. I love that image of life, not to live, but to shine. Be radiant. It's the kind of message that inspires hope and peace, and seeing it in an ancient source makes it feel almost sacred.
The light, shining, feel of the poem is reflected in the melody, which pierces through time with crisp brilliance. It refreshes in a way that is difficult to describe. The melody is diatonic, and plays in the modern Dorian mode (ancient Greek Phrygian mode). The opening interval, a perfect fifth, underscores the feeling of light. It's a beautiful melody, and I often find myself humming or whistling it without intending to. I hope it can lift your spirits.
Imagine yourself, two thousand years ago, feeling a Mediterranean breeze, mourning the death of a loved one. The sun is upon you, and you sing. The most fitting tribute you know is to live with radiance, to honor the memory of the departed with love and clarity. You write this inscription in the hopes that someday, it may bring peace to some other grieving soul. Let the melody fill you. For your enjoyment, here is the song, first spoken, then sung.
While you live, shine
have no grief at all
life exists only for a short while
and time demands its toll.
While not strictly poetry, the epitaph of Seikilos as it is called, is an ancient Greek tombstone inscription, likely placed between 200 BC and 100 AD, located in modern day Turkey, near ancient Ephesus. It is notable for being the first whole notated piece of music in human history. Earlier notated fragments survive, but this is the first complete piece of music yet found. It is a song, presumably written by Seikilos, to his wife, who had passed on. On the tombstone itself, alongside the text, is the musical notation, which has been reconstructed into actual music by scholars.
The text itself is an enduring message of peace and love, containing wisdom that even two thousand years ago must have seemed ancient and timeless. Life is short, time marches on, and all we can really ever hope to do in our brief time is shine. Live without grief. I love that image of life, not to live, but to shine. Be radiant. It's the kind of message that inspires hope and peace, and seeing it in an ancient source makes it feel almost sacred.
The light, shining, feel of the poem is reflected in the melody, which pierces through time with crisp brilliance. It refreshes in a way that is difficult to describe. The melody is diatonic, and plays in the modern Dorian mode (ancient Greek Phrygian mode). The opening interval, a perfect fifth, underscores the feeling of light. It's a beautiful melody, and I often find myself humming or whistling it without intending to. I hope it can lift your spirits.
Imagine yourself, two thousand years ago, feeling a Mediterranean breeze, mourning the death of a loved one. The sun is upon you, and you sing. The most fitting tribute you know is to live with radiance, to honor the memory of the departed with love and clarity. You write this inscription in the hopes that someday, it may bring peace to some other grieving soul. Let the melody fill you. For your enjoyment, here is the song, first spoken, then sung.
Wednesday, March 26, 2014
And Then It Was Less Bleak Because We Said So - Wendy Xu
Today there has been so much talk of things exploding
into other things, so much that we all become curious, that we
all run outside into the hot streets
and hug. Romance is a grotto of eager stones
anticipating light, or a girl whose teeth
you can always see. With more sparkle and pop
is the only way to live. Your confetti tongue explodes
into acid jazz. Small typewriters
that other people keep in their eyes
click away at all our farewell parties. It is hard
to pack for the rest of your life. Someone is always
eating cold cucumber noodles. Someone will drop by later
to help dismantle some furniture. A lot can go wrong
if you sleep or think, but the trees go on waving
their broken little hands.
What I get from this poem is that in tragedy, or in the collision of two forces, be they things, ideals, people, there is always generation and destruction. The first two lines, "things exploding into other things" makes me think of the tragedy of 9/11, particularly as it continues on to say "we all run outside into the streets and hug." Tragedy brings people together, fueled by some innate human desire to love in the face of adversity.
The metaphors for romance here are provocative. Imagining the way a stone heats up in the sun is like the feeling one gets in the pit of the stomach when thinking about a loved one. "Your confetti tongue explodes into acid jazz" to me is a statement on just how varied and wonderful our speech can be, and to me also contains all of the thrills of a kiss with a lover. The idea that we write our goodbyes with our eyes, as if we have typewriters is novel, because it's commonly held that we speak with our eyes, so why not write with them? All of these images have a sense of the bizarre about them, but are also generative images, productive images.
I think my favorite aspect of the poem is the way time goes on, regardless of how things turn out. "A lot can go wrong if you sleep or think" to me seems to caution against over-thinking, No matter what we do, "the trees go on waving their broken little hands." Even broken things go on, and everything is alright. It seems quietly reassuring to think that even in the wake of tragedy, the wind will still stir the trees, and our hearts will still stir with emotions, and love.
The title is also very encouraging, to me. It's a statement of determination, of dictating one's own reality. It has a stubbornness to it that I find very endearing. Why is it less bleak? Because we said so! It's a refusal to let the good things in life be buried by tragedy, and bolsters the idea that happiness comes from within and is something one chooses.
Re-posted from www.poetryfoundation.org with permission from the author.
into other things, so much that we all become curious, that we
all run outside into the hot streets
and hug. Romance is a grotto of eager stones
anticipating light, or a girl whose teeth
you can always see. With more sparkle and pop
is the only way to live. Your confetti tongue explodes
into acid jazz. Small typewriters
that other people keep in their eyes
click away at all our farewell parties. It is hard
to pack for the rest of your life. Someone is always
eating cold cucumber noodles. Someone will drop by later
to help dismantle some furniture. A lot can go wrong
if you sleep or think, but the trees go on waving
their broken little hands.
What I get from this poem is that in tragedy, or in the collision of two forces, be they things, ideals, people, there is always generation and destruction. The first two lines, "things exploding into other things" makes me think of the tragedy of 9/11, particularly as it continues on to say "we all run outside into the streets and hug." Tragedy brings people together, fueled by some innate human desire to love in the face of adversity.
The metaphors for romance here are provocative. Imagining the way a stone heats up in the sun is like the feeling one gets in the pit of the stomach when thinking about a loved one. "Your confetti tongue explodes into acid jazz" to me is a statement on just how varied and wonderful our speech can be, and to me also contains all of the thrills of a kiss with a lover. The idea that we write our goodbyes with our eyes, as if we have typewriters is novel, because it's commonly held that we speak with our eyes, so why not write with them? All of these images have a sense of the bizarre about them, but are also generative images, productive images.
I think my favorite aspect of the poem is the way time goes on, regardless of how things turn out. "A lot can go wrong if you sleep or think" to me seems to caution against over-thinking, No matter what we do, "the trees go on waving their broken little hands." Even broken things go on, and everything is alright. It seems quietly reassuring to think that even in the wake of tragedy, the wind will still stir the trees, and our hearts will still stir with emotions, and love.
The title is also very encouraging, to me. It's a statement of determination, of dictating one's own reality. It has a stubbornness to it that I find very endearing. Why is it less bleak? Because we said so! It's a refusal to let the good things in life be buried by tragedy, and bolsters the idea that happiness comes from within and is something one chooses.
Re-posted from www.poetryfoundation.org with permission from the author.
Tuesday, March 25, 2014
Barter - Sara Teasdale
Life has loveliness to sell,
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.
Despite all of the "loveliness" of this poem's imagery, it's met with an undercurrent of sacrifice and cost. Life does have loveliness, but it's for sale, and nothing is free. Your peace may come at the price of years of struggle. However, it's all worth it, in the opinion of Teasdale, as she exhorts us to, "for a breath of ecstasy, give all you have been, or could be."
The poem is an ardent plea to fight for your happiness, to seize that loveliness life has to offer. The images in the first two stanza are extremely evocative. I found myself wistfully remembering the scent of the big pine tree in my old front yard. "Music like a curve of gold" perfectly captures those wondrous moments in life when something so piercingly beautiful carries you away, you become lost in the beauty of it. Imagining the eyes of one who loves you, the arms of one who has held you dearly, it's such a wonderful feeling. We need to remember that these things are not free, but that, as the title suggests, we must barter, and give our all for these precious moments.
All beautiful and splendid things,
Blue waves whitened on a cliff,
Soaring fire that sways and sings,
And children's faces looking up
Holding wonder like a cup.
Life has loveliness to sell,
Music like a curve of gold,
Scent of pine trees in the rain,
Eyes that love you, arms that hold,
And for your spirit's still delight,
Holy thoughts that star the night.
Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.
Despite all of the "loveliness" of this poem's imagery, it's met with an undercurrent of sacrifice and cost. Life does have loveliness, but it's for sale, and nothing is free. Your peace may come at the price of years of struggle. However, it's all worth it, in the opinion of Teasdale, as she exhorts us to, "for a breath of ecstasy, give all you have been, or could be."
The poem is an ardent plea to fight for your happiness, to seize that loveliness life has to offer. The images in the first two stanza are extremely evocative. I found myself wistfully remembering the scent of the big pine tree in my old front yard. "Music like a curve of gold" perfectly captures those wondrous moments in life when something so piercingly beautiful carries you away, you become lost in the beauty of it. Imagining the eyes of one who loves you, the arms of one who has held you dearly, it's such a wonderful feeling. We need to remember that these things are not free, but that, as the title suggests, we must barter, and give our all for these precious moments.
Lines Written in Early Spring - William Wordsworth
I heard a thousand blended notes,
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such me Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
I am always somewhat annoyed at poetry that decries the current age as the nadir of humanity, at how doomed we are. It's an awfully tired notion that we are doomed and that things are worse than they've ever been. Wordsworth sets that notion against perfect images of Nature, where all things seem to be a thrill of ecstasy. Birds hopping and playing, with every "least motion...a thrill of pleasure." What bothers me about this image is the injection of human terms into the actions of Nature. Wordsworth decries how man lives out of joint with Nature, but that seems deceptive to me.
It's very romantic, the image of sitting in a glade, hearing the lovely sounds of birds, and admiring the way the "periwinkle trailed its wreaths" but it seems that the melancholy Wordsworth injects is very forced. He is in "that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind." I can understand this. Imagine, sitting in a park, enjoying the sounds of the birds in the trees, when suddenly, an acrid cloud of smog rises over the park, a stark reminder of mankind's presence on the landscape. What's missing here is "what man has made of man." We can easily assume that Wordsworth speaks of the march of technology, and the idea of city life and the way we've moved away from pastoral living. However, it is the luxury of modernity, of some degree of security, that allows Wordsworth to sit and wax poetic about how we've ruined the world, and to foppishly sigh over the state of the world.
Wordsworth's affected degree of indignation at our separation from Nature has never won me over. I find the imagery of the poem lovely, and I can certainly understand the sentiment within, but it just rings so hollow to me. Every generation is doomed, we're beset by the modern world, we've lost all our ties to sacred Nature, we're doomed for real this time. Maybe I'm a bit too optimistic, but I like to think that every "doomed" generation contains all the potential of greatness as any other, and we've not yet destroyed our world.
While in a grove I sate reclined,
In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts
Bring sad thoughts to the mind.
To her fair works did Nature link
The human soul that through me ran;
And much it grieved my heart to think
What man has made of man.
Through primrose tufts, in that green bower,
The periwinkle trailed its wreaths;
And 'tis my faith that every flower
Enjoys the air it breathes.
The birds around me hopped and played,
Their thoughts I cannot measure:-
But the least motion which they made
It seemed a thrill of pleasure.
The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
If this belief from heaven be sent,
If such me Nature's holy plan,
Have I not reason to lament
What man has made of man?
I am always somewhat annoyed at poetry that decries the current age as the nadir of humanity, at how doomed we are. It's an awfully tired notion that we are doomed and that things are worse than they've ever been. Wordsworth sets that notion against perfect images of Nature, where all things seem to be a thrill of ecstasy. Birds hopping and playing, with every "least motion...a thrill of pleasure." What bothers me about this image is the injection of human terms into the actions of Nature. Wordsworth decries how man lives out of joint with Nature, but that seems deceptive to me.
It's very romantic, the image of sitting in a glade, hearing the lovely sounds of birds, and admiring the way the "periwinkle trailed its wreaths" but it seems that the melancholy Wordsworth injects is very forced. He is in "that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind." I can understand this. Imagine, sitting in a park, enjoying the sounds of the birds in the trees, when suddenly, an acrid cloud of smog rises over the park, a stark reminder of mankind's presence on the landscape. What's missing here is "what man has made of man." We can easily assume that Wordsworth speaks of the march of technology, and the idea of city life and the way we've moved away from pastoral living. However, it is the luxury of modernity, of some degree of security, that allows Wordsworth to sit and wax poetic about how we've ruined the world, and to foppishly sigh over the state of the world.
Wordsworth's affected degree of indignation at our separation from Nature has never won me over. I find the imagery of the poem lovely, and I can certainly understand the sentiment within, but it just rings so hollow to me. Every generation is doomed, we're beset by the modern world, we've lost all our ties to sacred Nature, we're doomed for real this time. Maybe I'm a bit too optimistic, but I like to think that every "doomed" generation contains all the potential of greatness as any other, and we've not yet destroyed our world.
Sunday, March 23, 2014
The Broken Fountain - Amy Lowell
Oblong, its jutted ends rounding into circles,
The old sunken basin lies with its flat, marble lip
An inch below the terrace tiles.
Over the stagnant water
Slide reflections:
The blue-green of coned yews;
The purple and red of trailing fuchsias
Dripping out of marble urns;
Bright squares of sky
Ribbed by the wake of a swimming beetle.
Through the blue-bronze water
Wavers the pale uncertainty of a shadow.
An arm flashes through the reflections,
A breast is outlined with leaves.
Outstretched in the quiet water
The statue of a Goddess slumbers.
But when Autumn comes
The beech leaves cover her with a golden counter-pane.
The thing I like most about Imagist poetry is how it merely presents, often in enchanting imagery, a scene, without seeking to add narrative or morality. Here, as the title implies, lies a broken fountain, sunken from its days of glory, but still exceeding in beauty.
I'm sure we can inject a lot of morality into the scene if we wish, almost like Shelley's "Ozymandias" in which all man-made works one day turn to dust, reclaimed by nature, but I don't see any judgment in these lines. The ruins of the fountain are beautiful, with the fountain and Goddess statue within lying enchanting, enhanced by "bright squares of sky" and covered with "a golden counter-pane."
I think moralizing the scene would be to do it a disservice. This is a scene, almost like a panoramic photo that can somehow span seasons. We see the summer sun reflected in water disturbed only lightly by the passing of a beetle. The leaves lie softly, outlining the sunken statue, covering it enticingly, inviting us to look about the scene. The fountain's ragged edges end in smooth marble circles, beautiful in its ruin. I like to think that this is the sort of poem which lets you walk around it. The scene is so vivid that you can create a picture in your head through which you can take a leisurely mental walk. See, in your mind's eye the scene described. Read the poem aloud and let the scene take root in your mind. It's a wonderful place to be.
The old sunken basin lies with its flat, marble lip
An inch below the terrace tiles.
Over the stagnant water
Slide reflections:
The blue-green of coned yews;
The purple and red of trailing fuchsias
Dripping out of marble urns;
Bright squares of sky
Ribbed by the wake of a swimming beetle.
Through the blue-bronze water
Wavers the pale uncertainty of a shadow.
An arm flashes through the reflections,
A breast is outlined with leaves.
Outstretched in the quiet water
The statue of a Goddess slumbers.
But when Autumn comes
The beech leaves cover her with a golden counter-pane.
The thing I like most about Imagist poetry is how it merely presents, often in enchanting imagery, a scene, without seeking to add narrative or morality. Here, as the title implies, lies a broken fountain, sunken from its days of glory, but still exceeding in beauty.
I'm sure we can inject a lot of morality into the scene if we wish, almost like Shelley's "Ozymandias" in which all man-made works one day turn to dust, reclaimed by nature, but I don't see any judgment in these lines. The ruins of the fountain are beautiful, with the fountain and Goddess statue within lying enchanting, enhanced by "bright squares of sky" and covered with "a golden counter-pane."
I think moralizing the scene would be to do it a disservice. This is a scene, almost like a panoramic photo that can somehow span seasons. We see the summer sun reflected in water disturbed only lightly by the passing of a beetle. The leaves lie softly, outlining the sunken statue, covering it enticingly, inviting us to look about the scene. The fountain's ragged edges end in smooth marble circles, beautiful in its ruin. I like to think that this is the sort of poem which lets you walk around it. The scene is so vivid that you can create a picture in your head through which you can take a leisurely mental walk. See, in your mind's eye the scene described. Read the poem aloud and let the scene take root in your mind. It's a wonderful place to be.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)