William Blake (1757 - 1827) had an early and directive impact on my view of poetry, and is rivaled only by Shakespeare and Milton for the crown of British poets. Though my first exposure was surely The Tyger I first learned of Blake through his Songs of Innocence and of Experience, which I loved for their sharp, precise language and the juxtaposition of good and evil, fantasy and reality, idealism and pragmatism.
Discovering that Blake had illuminated his poetry was like an awakening, for I had always loved art as a child, and Blake’s dramatic illustrations were an apt helpmate for poetry’s sensual qualities, and hinted at Blake’s own supernaturally visionary and prophetic powers of philosophy. I remember as I became interested in bookbinding at the end of my high school days one of my first projects was to dissect the sewn sections of a paperback edition of Songs with full-color plates, and rebind them to boards.
So here are a few poems from Songs of Experience by William Blake, with color images of his illustrations (a full collection of Blake’s works, including illustrations, is available at The William Blake Archive):
A flower was offered to me,
Such a flower as May never bore;
But I said, ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’
And I passed the sweet flower o’er.
Then I went to my pretty rose tree,
To tend her by day and by night;
But my rose turned away with jealousy,
And her thorns were my only delight.
Ah Sunflower
Ah Sunflower, weary of time,
Who countest the steps of the sun;
Seeking after that sweet golden clime
Where the traveller's journey is done;
Where the Youth pined away with desire,
And the pale virgin shrouded in snow,
Arise from their graves, and aspire
Where my Sunflower wishes to go!
The Lilly
The modest Rose puts forth a thorn,
The humble sheep a threat’ning horn:
While the Lilly white shall in love delight,
Nor a thorn nor a threat stain her beauty bright.
The Sick Rose
O rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
Thomas Carew (1595 – 1640) is another favorite 17th century English poet of mine, and is particularly well-known for his bold, sexual imagery. Carew seemed to have problems fitting in during his early life, including being let go from jobs for “levity and slander”. Carew eventually found favor in the king’s court. This is exemplified in one incident wherein Carew was leading King Charles I into the Queen’s chamber when Carew caused to stumble, extinguishing the candle he held, and preventing the king from spotting Lord St Albans in the room with “his arm round her majesty’s neck”. Thanks to Carew’s quick thinking, “the king suspected nothing, and the queen heaped favours on the poet.”
Carew has been called representative of his time, and like many of his contemporaries sometimes showed in his verse a preoccupation with convincing women to succumb to the temptations of the flesh. It’s amazing to me how, after four hundred years, Carew’s lyrics are still ripe with sensuality and blush. I tried not to get carried away in these three audio recordings, but I admit that after listening to A Rapture I was a little self-conscious (what can I say? Carew is Saucy!).
I BURN ; and cruel you, in vain
Hope to quench me with disdain ;
If from your eyes those sparkles came
That have kindled all this flame,
What boots it me, though now you shroud
Those fierce comets in a cloud ?
Since all the flames that I have felt
Could your snow yet never melt ;
Nor can your snow, though you should take
Alps into your bosom, slake
The heat of my enamour'd heart.
But, with wonder, learn Love's art :
No seas of ice can cool desire,
Equal flames must quench Love's fire.
Then, think not that my heat can die,
Till you burn as well as I.
Song - To My Inconstant Mistress
WHEN thou, poor excommunicate
From all the joys of love, shalt see
The full reward and glorious fate
Which my strong faith shall purchase me,
Then curse thine own inconstancy.
A fairer hand than thine shall cure
That heart, which thy false oaths did wound ;
And to my soul a soul more pure
Than thine shall by Love's hand be bound,
And both with equal glory crown'd.
Then shalt thou weep, entreat, complain
To Love, as I did once to thee ;
When all thy tears shall be as vain
As mine were then, for thou shalt be
Damned for thy false apostacy
A Rapture
I WILL enjoy thee now, my Celia, come,
And fly with me to Love's Elysium.
The giant, Honour, that keeps cowards out,
Is but a masquer, and the servile rout
Of baser subjects only bend in vain
To the vast idol ; whilst the nobler train
Of valiant lovers daily sail between
The huge Colossus' legs, and pass unseen
Unto the blissful shore. Be bold and wise,
And we shall enter : the grim Swiss denies 10
Only to tame fools a passage, that not know
He is but form and only frights in show
The duller eyes that look from far ; draw near
And thou shalt scorn what we were wont to fear.
We shall see how the stalking pageant goes 15
With borrow'd legs, a heavy load to those
That made and bear him ; nor, as we once thought,
The seed of gods, but a weak model wrought
By greedy men, that seek to enclose the common,
And within private arms empale free woman. 20
Come, then, and mounted on the wings of Love
We'll cut the flitting air and soar above
The monster's head, and in the noblest seats
Of those blest shades quench and renew our heats.
There shall the queens of love and innocence, 25
Beauty and Nature, banish all offence
From our close ivy-twines ; there I'll behold
Thy bared snow and thy unbraided gold ;
There my enfranchised hand on every side
Shall o'er thy naked polish'd ivory slide. 30
No curtain there, though of transparent lawn,
Shall be before thy virgin-treasure drawn ;
But the rich mine, to the enquiring eye
Exposed, shall ready still for mintage lie,
And we will coin young Cupids. There a bed 35
Of roses and fresh myrtles shall be spread,
Under the cooler shade of cypress groves ;
Our pillows of the down of Venus' doves,
Whereon our panting limbs we'll gently lay,
In the faint respites of our active play : 40
That so our slumbers may in dreams have leisure
To tell the nimble fancy our past pleasure,
And so our souls, that cannot be embraced,
Shall the embraces of our bodies taste.
Meanwhile the bubbling stream shall court the shore, 45
Th' enamour'd chirping wood-choir shall adore
In varied tunes the deity of love ;
The gentle blasts of western winds shall move
The trembling leaves, and through their close boughs breathe
Still music, whilst we rest ourselves beneath 50
Their dancing shade ; till a soft murmur, sent
From souls entranced in amorous languishment,
Rouse us, and shoot into our veins fresh fire,
Till we in their sweet ecstasy expire.
Then, as the empty bee that lately bore 55
Into the common treasure all her store,
Flies 'bout the painted field with nimble wing,
Deflow'ring the fresh virgins of the spring,
So will I rifle all the sweets that dwell
In my delicious paradise, and swell 60
My bag with honey, drawn forth by the power
Of fervent kisses from each spicy flower.
I'll seize the rose-buds in their perfumed bed,
The violet knots, like curious mazes spread
O'er all the garden, taste the ripen'd cherry, 65
The warm firm apple, tipp'd with coral berry :
Then will I visit with a wand'ring kiss
The vale of lilies and the bower of bliss ;
And where the beauteous region both divide
Into two milky ways, my lips shall slide 70
Down those smooth alleys, wearing as they go
A tract for lovers on the printed snow ;
Thence climbing o'er the swelling Apennine,
Retire into thy grove of eglantine,
Where I will all those ravish'd sweets distil 75
Through Love's alembic, and with chemic skill
From the mix'd mass one sovereign balm derive,
Then bring that great elixir to thy hive.
Now in more subtle wreaths I will entwine
My sinewy thighs, my legs and arms with thine ; 80
Thou like a sea of milk shalt lie display'd,
Whilst I the smooth calm ocean invade
With such a tempest, as when Jove of old
Fell down on Danaë in a storm of gold ;
Yet my tall pine shall in the Cyprian strait 85
Ride safe at anchor and unlade her freight :
My rudder with thy bold hand, like a tried
And skilful pilot, thou shalt steer, and guide
My bark into love's channel, where it shall
Dance, as the bounding waves do rise or fall. 90
Then shall thy circling arms embrace and clip
My willing body, and thy balmy lip
Bathe me in juice of kisses, whose perfume
Like a religious incense shall consume,
And send up holy vapours to those powers 95
That bless our loves and crown our sportful hours,
That with such halcyon calmness fix our souls
In steadfast peace, as no affright controls.
There, no rude sounds shake us with sudden starts ;
No jealous ears, when we unrip our hearts, 100
Suck our discourse in ; no observing spies
This blush, that glance traduce ; no envious eyes
Watch our close meetings ; nor are we betray'd
To rivals by the bribed chambermaid.
No wedlock bonds unwreathe our twisted loves, 105
We seek no midnight arbour, no dark groves
To hide our kisses : there, the hated name
Of husband, wife, lust, modest, chaste or shame,
Are vain and empty words, whose very sound
Was never heard in the Elysian ground. 110
All things are lawful there, that may delight
Nature or unrestrained appetite ;
Like and enjoy, to will and act is one :
We only sin when Love's rites are not done.
The Roman Lucrece there reads the divine 115
Lectures of love's great master, Aretine,
And knows as well as Lais how to move
Her pliant body in the act of love ;
To quench the burning ravisher she hurls
Her limbs into a thousand winding curls, 120
And studies artful postures, such as be
Carved on the bark of every neighbouring tree
By learned hands, that so adorn'd the rind
Of those fair plants, which, as they lay entwined,
Have fann'd their glowing fires. The Grecian dame, 125
That in her endless web toil'd for a name
As fruitless as her work, doth there display
Herself before the youth of Ithaca,
And th' amorous sport of gamesome nights prefer
Before dull dreams of the lost traveller. 130
Daphne hath broke her bark, and that swift foot
Which th' angry gods had fasten'd with a root
To the fix'd earth, doth now unfetter'd run
To meet th' embraces of the youthful Sun.
She hangs upon him like his Delphic lyre ; 135
Her kisses blow the old, and breathe new fire ;
Full of her god, she sings inspired lays,
Sweet odes of love, such as deserve the bays,
Which she herself was. Next her, Laura lies
In Petrarch's learned arms, drying those eyes 140
That did in such sweet smooth-paced numbers flow,
As made the world enamour'd of his woe.
These, and ten thousand beauties more, that died
Slave to the tyrant, now enlarged deride
His cancell'd laws, and for their time mis-spent 145
Pay into Love's exchequer double rent.
Come then, my Celia, we'll no more forbear
To taste our joys, struck with a panic fear,
But will depose from his imperious sway
This proud usurper, and walk as free as they, 150
With necks unyoked ; nor is it just that he
Should fetter your soft sex with chastity,
Whom Nature made unapt for abstinence ;
When yet this false impostor can dispense
With human justice and with sacred right, 155
And, maugre both their laws, command me fight
With rivals or with emulous loves that dare
Equal with thine their mistress' eyes or hair.
If thou complain of wrong, and call my sword
To carve out thy revenge, upon that word 160
He bids me fight and kill ; or else he brands
With marks of infamy my coward hands.
And yet religion bids from blood-shed fly,
And damns me for that act. Then tell me why
This goblin Honour, which the world adores, 165
Should make men atheists, and not women whores?
When I started my grad studies in English lit I very nearly chose to focus on 17th and 18th century English literature. Amongst my favorite minor poets was Thomas Campion, and so I’ve recorded three favorites here:
There is a Garden in her face,
Where Roses and white Lillies grow ;
A heau'nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy
Till Cherry ripe themselues doe cry.
Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row ;
Which when her louely laughter showes,
They look like Rose-buds fill'd with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry ripe themselues doe cry.
Her Eyes like Angels watch them still ;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand,7
Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry ripe themselues doe cry.
A Booke of Ayres - VI
When to her lute Corrina sings,
Her voice reuiues the leaden stringes,
And doth in highest noates appeare,
As any challeng'd eccho cleere ;
But when she doth of mourning speake,
Eu'n with her sighes the strings do breake.
And as her lute doth liue or die,
Led by her passion, so must I,
For when of pleasure she doth sing,
My thoughts enioy a sodaine spring,
But if she doth of sorrow speake,
Eu'n from my hart the strings doe breake.
A Booke of Ayres - XX.
When thou must home to shades of vnder ground,
And there ariu'd, a newe admired guest,
The beauteous spirits do ingirt thee round,
White Iope, blith Hellen, and the rest,
To heare the stories of thy finisht loue
From that smoothe toong whose musicke hell can moue ;
Then wilt thou speake of banqueting delights,
Of masks and reuels which sweete youth did make,
Of Turnies and great challenges of knights,
And all these triumphes for thy beauties sake :
When thou hast told these honours done to thee,
Then tell, O tell, how thou didst murther me.
As I mentioned on Halloween, I'm ambitious enough to want to
record and post my readings of various short stories and poems. I
start the poetry cycle with four poems from Leaves of Grass, by Walt Whitman, with the hope that I will continue to post readings of the Great Gray Poet well into the future.
There’s not much I think I can say about Whitman that will add to the experience of reading (and, perhaps, hearing) the poems. For now, I offer the dedication and following first four poems from the first book of Leaves of Grass, “Inscriptions:
Come, said my soul,
Such verses for my Body let us write, (for we are one,)
That should I after return,
Or, long, long hence, in other spheres,
There to some group of mates the chants resuming,
(Tallying Earth's soil, trees, winds, tumultuous waves,)
Ever with pleas'd smile I may keep on,
Ever and ever yet the verses owning—as, first, I here and now
Signing for Soul and Body, set to
them my name,
Walt Whitman
One's-Self I Sing
One's-self I sing, a simple separate person,
Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-Masse.
Of physiology from top to toe I sing,
Not physiognomy alone nor brain alone is worthy for the Muse, I say
the Form complete is worthier far,
The Female equally with the Male I sing.
Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,
Cheerful, for freest action form'd under the laws divine,
The Modern Man I sing.
As I Ponder'd in Silence
As I ponder'd in silence,
Returning upon my poems, considering, lingering long,
A Phantom arose before me with distrustful aspect,
Terrible in beauty, age, and power,
The genius of poets of old lands,
As to me directing like flame its eyes,
With finger pointing to many immortal songs,
And menacing voice, What singest thou? it said,
Know'st thou not there is but one theme for ever-enduring bards?
And that is the theme of War, the fortune of battles,
The making of perfect soldiers.
Be it so, then I answer'd,
I too haughty Shade also sing war, and a longer and greater one than any,
Waged in my book with varying fortune, with flight, advance
and retreat, victory deferr'd and wavering,
(Yet methinks certain, or as good as certain, at the last,) the
field the world,
For life and death, for the Body and for the eternal Soul,
Lo, I too am come, chanting the chant of battles,
I above all promote brave soldiers.
In Cabin'd Ships at Sea
In cabin'd ships at sea,
The boundless blue on every side expanding,
With whistling winds and music of the waves, the large imperious waves,
Or some lone bark buoy'd on the dense marine,
Where joyous full of faith, spreading white sails,
She cleaves the ether mid the sparkle and the foam of day, or under
many a star at night,
By sailors young and old haply will I, a reminiscence of the land, be read,
In full rapport at last.
Here are our thoughts, voyagers' thoughts,
Here not the land, firm land, alone appears, may then by them be said,
The sky o'erarches here, we feel the undulating deck beneath our feet,
We feel the long pulsation, ebb and flow of endless motion,
The tones of unseen mystery, the vague and vast suggestions of the
briny world, the liquid-flowing syllables,
The perfume, the faint creaking of the cordage, the melancholy rhythm,
The boundless vista and the horizon far and dim are all here,
And this is ocean's poem.
Then falter not O book, fulfil your destiny,
You not a reminiscence of the land alone,
You too as a lone bark cleaving the ether, purpos'd I know not
whither, yet ever full of faith,
Consort to every ship that sails, sail you!
Bear forth to them folded my love, (dear mariners, for you I fold it
here in every leaf;)
Speed on my book! spread your white sails my little bark athwart the
imperious waves,
Chant on, sail on, bear o'er the boundless blue from me to every sea,
This song for mariners and all their ships.
To Foreign Lands
I heard that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle the New World,
And to define America, her athletic Democracy,
Therefore I send you my poems that you behold in them what you wanted.
I was listening first to Blur, then Shostakovitch, then Beethoven, then John Coltrane when this snuck up on me. It was a long drive.
Ba'al with a Battleaxe
Beowulf's pride battened down
the hatches in the hall.
Grendel's bride, bedded by
a stranger, lay
in the shadow of Babel's wall.
O, Abraham, the gall of
Ba'al with a battleaxe,
stiffening to the smash!
of shared and sculpted brethren.
The goblets emptied, the
seeds are spilt.
Bash!
A fog of fuzz,
two magpies black
and whites aloof, in gray,
against a bearded veil of rain
their forked feet peck and kiss
the ashen leaves that stuff the iron drain.
And gutters flood the graveled road, frame
a fog of fur the magpies cluck at;
pull out a red steam worm.
We break through the storm
from opposite directions meeting for tea,
to pick and scrape at words. And how
can I describe this to you
like it was, like it is
my lover's love
for you.
Must have been some miles
through cringing and crunches on a winter sidewalk
this guy comes in and orders coffee black
bits of ice hanging stuck in his silver beard,
his breath still warm enough
to fog in his glasses completely.
I noticed. He nodded.
“They're mirrors on the inside,” he says,
“but I can see my whole face twice in them.
Imagine, seeing your self up close
each time you come in where people are,
every flaw, every scar, every
unshaven needle of hair.
All the time.
It'll drive a man to kill, if he doesn't
find a way out.
“But if I take these glasses off
I'll trip over the chair just sitting down,
straitjacket and entangle myself just
getting this damn coat off.
I'd even miss my mouth when
I mean to sip the mug, and then
sue you for making the coffee too hot."
I smile, he grins. Then blows his heat up
refills himself with fog, and explains,
"So I keep them on, I try to ignore myself,
and stare at the glass itself,
the gray ghost wrapper
that I control.
It fades away again and again."
I’ve been drafting an alternate ending for A Mason’s Grip. This ending is considerably longer, which troubles me, but it is a draft, and I post it only to act as a tightly bound string to constrict and swell my thinking finger.
A Mason's Grip
We have signs that we two know
and no one else can recognize.
The Odyssey, Book XIII
This paper is torn in two:
My two mason’s hands grip
the larger scrap which still retains my name.
Your half is between bent fingers torn
bit by bit until
there is nothing to hold onto, nothing
to fear but your perforated palms.
This paper which joined our hands
let scatter, the white flakes of ash
breathed throughout the darkening park,
and eaten by the wind, who stomachs
a nightmare yell, comes back with claws
at my throat, begging me to choose:
to chase the scraps, or cherish
what remains within my reach;
neither path is guaranteed.
I coagulate in indecision
as empty-handed you
grow bored, turn,
and walk the tv on.
This was one of those thrilling middle-of-the-night scribbles which I spent some time on this morning.
A Mason's Grip
We have signs that we two know
and no one else can recognize.
The Odyssey, Book XIII
This paper is lacerated in two:
My two mason's hands grip
the larger scrap which still retains my name.
Your half is between bent fingers torn
bit by bit until
there is nothing to hold onto, nothing
to fear but your perforated palms
knuckles, cuticles, and fingertips
flicking off the shreds like a farewell bid.
The white flakes of ash
breathed throughout the darkening park
to be buried in the wind.
Of course, when Hinkes writes “nobody’s reading C++ debugging output on a lark” I daresay nobody’s reading poetry on a lark, either (presuming anybody’s reading poetry at all anymore — the 2006 Poetry in America study found that only 23% of adults who self-identified as literary readers acknowledged reading poetry regularly. An earlier NEA study, Reading at Risk, suggests that only 47% of US adults read at least 1 work literature, and 12% read at least 1 poem in 2002.).
More as a curiosity than a revelation, the column points to the possibility of computer-generated poetry as well, which reminds me of the Martian Report episode by Howard Rheingold wherein he visits a science fiction writing teletype. This prompted me to wonder how much we can learn about the nature of poetry–particularly it’s meaningful/less-ness–by studying random or instructed poetics produced in machin-generated “texts”.
P.S. I’m happy to say the Ashbery stanza didn’t quite fool me. It was too good at the end to be generated!
