September 18, 2012 § Leave a comment
When winter turns to spring,
Birds that were songless make their songs resound,
Flow’rs that were flow’rless cover all the ground;
Yet ’tis no perfect thing:—
I cannot walk, so tangled is each hill;
So thick the herbs I cannot pluck my fill.
But in the autumn-tide I cull the scarlet leaves and love them dear,
And let the green leaves stay, with many a tear,
All on the fair hill-side:— No time so sweet as that.
Away! Away! Autumn’s the time I fain would keep alway.
September 16, 2012 § Leave a comment
Autumn begins unnoticed. Nights slowly lengthen,
and little by little, clear winds turn colder and colder,
summer’s blaze giving way. My thatch hut grows still.
At the bottom stair, in bunchgrass, lit dew shimmers.
Meng Hao-jan (689-740)
“Autumn Begins” is a poem rich in Taoist and Chan Buddhist philosophy, important elements for classical Chinese poets and Meng Hao-jan in particular.
The poem is an act of meditation. It is concerned with the narrator’s failure to notice, and his subsequent awareness. There is no action in the poem besides observation.
By the third line, the narrator becomes “still”. This stillness is an instance of “wu wei,” the Taoist term for the emptiness and void of the universe, or the creative quietness of absence. The narrator achieves wu wei by the third line of his meditation and thus can notice the “shimmering dew,” in the fourth line, an instance of the presence of the universe, or yu, contrasted with the absence of wu wei.
Not only is the poem thematically illustrative of Taoist cosmology, but also both the poem and the poet are exemplars. To help demonstrate how the poem in its structure and composition reflects this absence/presence wu/yu duality of the universe, we need to look at the original classical Chinese version:
These characters translate literally to:
not aware beginning autumn night gradually long, clear wind gently gently double icy cold
blaze blaze summer heat withdraw thatch study quiet, stairs below clump grass see dew radiance
While this sounds nonsensical in its pure form, in Chinese classical tradition the words are not meant to create coherent phrases but to evoke images based on the original pictographic classical Chinese characters. The image, as a physical written character and as an image conjured by association with a particular character, is a representation of yu, or the presence of the universe, within the poetry. The absent grammar, such as missing prepositions, conjunctions and verbs to link these images together, represents the wu of the poetry- the space between the presence of the physical images.
Rereading the above English exact translation, we experience “presence” in the concise and economical words and “absence” in the missing links.
The poet is a microcosm of this universe too. We feel his powerful presence in his self-reflection, but we miss him because of his absent, almost hidden words.
In this poem the empty space and the missing words are just as important as the actual words in the poem, a perfect way to demonstrate the equitable dichotomy of wu and yu in Taoist thought. The poet and the reader commune with the universe by invoking both aspects.
Lastly, autumn is symbolic of that descent into wu, or emptiness, as it marks the beginning of the seasonal change towards the dead of winter- the “wu” half of the year according to Taoism.
September 14, 2012 § Leave a comment
In Beauty May I Walk
In beauty may I walk;
All day long may I walk;
Through the returning seasons may I walk.
Beautifully will I possess again
On the trail marked with pollen may I walk;
With grasshoppers about my feet may I walk;
With dew around my feet may I walk.
With beauty before me may I walk
With beauty behind me may I walk
With beauty above me may I walk
With beauty all around me,
may I walk.
In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, lively;
In old age, wandering on a trail of beauty, living again…
It is finished in beauty.
It is finished in beauty.
“In Beauty May I Walk” is a Navajo prayer that I have come to love. It is simply asking to do all things in life with beauty, illustrated through the metaphor of walking.
Walking is a powerful image despite being a commonplace verb. This prayer is actually a chant, and the act of chanting mimics the repetition of walking- each chanted line is like one step on the poem’s walk, and the word “walk” repeated over and over again at the end of each line starts to sound onomatopoeic, like the heavy thud of a foot on a dirt path. The imagery of walking and the action of chanting sentences that end in “walk” fit comfortably together.
I wish I could find the Navajo word for “beauty” because the word is so crucial here. “Beauty” is such a complex word, and it would be interesting to see a more detailed translation of the original Navajo term.
I love the repetitious sentence structure as well. It reminds me of Whitman.
No hidden meaning here. Just let the eternal message of the desire for beauty in one’s life envelop you, and chant it out loud for full effect.
September 14, 2012 § Leave a comment
They Say That Hope is Happiness
(Felix qui potuit rerum cognoscere causas –Virgil)
They say that Hope is happiness—
But genuine Love must prize the past;
And mem’ry wakes the thoughts that bless
They rose the first—they set the last.
And all that mem’ry loves the most
Was once our only hope to be:
And all that hope adored and lost
Hath melted into memory.
Alas! it is delusion all—
The future cheats us from afar,
Nor can we be what we recall,
Nor dare we think on what we are.
Lord Byron, 1816
I stumbled upon this poem after flipping through the poet’s Hebrew Melodies, a series of poems Byron wrote and set to music with his friend Isaac Nathan, a British Jewish composer. Byron, ever the rebel, not only collaborated with a devout Jew at a time when this was taboo in British society, but indulged Jewish themes in his Melodies. This poem ends the series, and in a rather clever way.
The poem begins with an epigraph from Virgil, which translates to “Happy is he who has been able to learn the causes of things.” This sentiment, with its emphasis on experience and knowledge, is in stark contrast to the title’s innocent optimism of hope. Byron has already indicated he will be mocking the “hope is happiness” concept by designating it as something “they say.”
The superficial message is simple. Happiness doesn’t come from hoping for the future, because all of the hopes we have had have either failed, or if they have been achieved, have faded into mere memory. He even goes further than simply denigrating the happiness of hope. Every phase of time, whether past, present, or future is “delusion.” It seems there is no hope for happiness at all.
While this is Byron’s seemingly depressing resolution, a theme consistent with the Romantics’ notion of loss of innocence, he does give us some beautiful poetry. I love how in the second stanza he uses personification and capitalization to give us the warm image of “Memory” as an active lover, only to revert this personification back into the cold, abstract noun that feels so distant, as memory often does.
For further pessimism, the narrator sees memory as the ultimate catch-22 of human experience. Not only does memory remind us of all of our lost hopes, but all of our happy memories are just that- memories, that can’t be relived, since we “can never be what we recall.”
If there is any hope for happiness in a poem about how hope isn’t happiness, it seems we can find it in the first stanza, wherein the narrator meditates on the goodness of memory before he takes a turn to negative-town. “Love prizes the past,” he says, and “mem’ry wakes the thoughts that bless.” In other words, the past, rather than the future and hope, is the seat of love and goodness.
Even though it seems at face value a very pessimistic poem which only offers a few glimpses of positivity, there is much more to it.
What Byron cleverly does in “They Say That Hope is Happiness” is use the structure of his poem as a microcosm of his message. The poem is demarcated very definitively into two sections by the punctuation of the colon in line 6. The first section, from beginning to the colon, is hopeful and optimistic, and evokes feelings of happiness in the reader. The second is the complete opposite- pessimistic and depressing, and full of longing for the misbegotten hope of the previous six lines.
The act of reading the poem, then, is an experience of the narrator’s message. We start off hopeful and optimistic, but as we continue reading that hope soon becomes a memory. Byron pokes fun at his reader and boasts of his cleverness as he says “nor dare we think on what we are,” knowing that some readers will miss the meaning of the poem and the way he has manipulated his readers. For those who will think on “what we are,” they will take the time not only to digest the meaning of the poem, but to think on how the structure of the poem has influenced their conclusions.
If we take his message, then, and look to the “past” of the poem (the not-too-distant first six lines) for “thoughts that bless,” we go back to thoughts of hopeful happiness- thoughts that the poem is going to espouse a happy message by the end. Remember, everything up until the colon of the second stanza was priming us for a happy poem experience. And I, for one, was happy back then, back in those six lines full of hope. Thus, we have learned, through the clever structure of Byron’s poem, that hope is indeed happiness, at least in our experience of reading this poem.
Now, to further uncover his message, we must ask ourselves- Is Byron “one of them” who preaches things like “hope is happiness”? Is he saying that words- what people say, or how they put together a poem- are “delusions,” like the way public speakers can delude people with pathos or ethos? Isn’t Byron one of the “they”- one of the people who tells us how to think?
Hope and memory aren’t just tricks of the mind- they are tricks of the trade for public speakers, writers and of course, poets! Another great example of the “they” that use abstractions like “hope” and “memory” to influence people in communications are our politicians (see the use of the word “hope” in the last election cycle if you feel like targeting the Democrats, or see the way Republicans reconstruct “memory” if you lean to the left)
Perhaps happiness isn’t hope after all, or memory either, but rather “thinking on what we are”- thinking of the ways we are manipulated and tricked and deceived, not just by memory and hope in our own minds, but by formats and structures that deliver and serve us these packaged and manipulated memories and hopes. Memory and hope are deceptive enough within our own heads- how much more lethal can they be in the hands of someone else with an agenda?
“Thinking on what we are” is true happiness. Knowledge of the self, in other words, gives us truth, which leads us to happiness. And yet true self-reflection and observation of ourselves in the present is so fleeting, as Byron, describes it as “daring” to do so.
The epigraph says it all- true happiness comes from knowing the causes of things. If we knew the causes of things, we would have honest assessments of the past (not swayed by the unreliability of memory), a rational approach to the future (not allured by the fallacies of blind hope), and functionality in the present.
At the very least, understanding the causes of things will help you know what just happened to you when you simply read this poem…
Very clever, Byron.
September 13, 2012 § Leave a comment
A Valediction of My Name, In the Window
MY name engraved herein
Doth contribute my firmness to this glass,
Which ever since that charm hath been
As hard, as that which graved it was ;
Thine eye will give it price enough, to mock
The diamonds of either rock.
‘Tis much that glass should be
As all-confessing, and through-shine as I ;
‘Tis more that it shows thee to thee,
And clear reflects thee to thine eye.
But all such rules love’s magic can undo ;
Here you see me, and I am you.
As no one point, nor dash,
Which are but accessories to this name,
The showers and tempests can outwash
So shall all times find me the same ;
You this entireness better may fulfill,
Who have the pattern with you still.
Or if too hard and deep
This learning be, for a scratch’d name to teach,
It as a given death’s head keep,
Lovers’ mortality to preach ;
Or think this ragged bony name to be
My ruinous anatomy.
Then, as all my souls be
Emparadised in you—in whom alone
I understand, and grow, and see—
The rafters of my body, bone,
Being still with you, the muscle, sinew, and vein
Which tile this house, will come again.
Till my return repair
And recompact my scatter’d body so,
As all the virtuous powers which are
Fix’d in the stars are said to flow
Into such characters as gravèd be
When these stars have supremacy.
So since this name was cut,
When love and grief their exaltation had,
No door ‘gainst this name’s influence shut.
As much more loving, as more sad,
‘Twill make thee ; and thou shouldst, till I return,
Since I die daily, daily mourn.
When thy inconsiderate hand
Flings open this casement, with my trembling name,
To look on one, whose wit or land
New battery to thy heart may frame,
Then think this name alive, and that thou thus
In it offend’st my Genius.
And when thy melted maid,
Corrupted by thy lover’s gold and page,
His letter at thy pillow hath laid,
Disputed it, and tamed thy rage,
And thou begin’st to thaw towards him, for this,
May my name step in, and hide his.
And if this treason go
To an overt act and that thou write again,
In superscribing, this name flow
Into thy fancy from the pane ;
So, in forgetting thou rememb’rest right,
And unaware to me shalt write.
But glass and lines must be
No means our firm substantial love to keep ;
Near death inflicts this lethargy,
And this I murmur in my sleep ;
Inpute this idle talk, to that I go,
For dying men talk often so.
I came across this poem because the fifth stanza is used in the dedication of Thomas Wolfe’s Look Homeward, Angel, a novel I just started. The theme of the poem fits the theme of the novel- the things we leave behind and that we use to identify ourselves can only come so close to giving us true understanding of who we are.
Wolfe’s narrator’s fear is that we never really know others–“Which of us has known his brother? Which of us has looked into his father’s heart? Which of us is not forever a stranger and alone?” he repeats throughout the novel. A powerful image he uses to convey this is that of the mother and unborn baby, who live together for nine months without ever making eye contact. Language and symbols and the things we create help us make sense of our strangeness to each other, but can they really elucidate the core identities of those around us?
Similarly, the narrator in “A Valediction” is on his deathbed and must leave behind some memory for his lover. Will the invocation of his name, a label of language, engraved upon a window, be enough to conjure his spirit? The narrator insists that this should be enough for his lover’s mourning and memory, but soon realizes the absurdity.
Like all of Donne’s work this is incredibly rich with phrases and words multiple meanings (“engraved”, “firmness”, “hard and deep”, etc). I especially love the use of the word “cut” in the seventh stanza.
I would like to believe that Wolfe saw hope and salvation from the strangeness he so staggeringly felt in Donne’s fifth stanza. Consistent with Donne’s masterful metaphor, and hopefully without being too cheesy, the meaning that I see Wolfe achieving here is that love is the window that allows us to see each other clearly and utterly- to give us that understanding and knowledge of each other that we all so desperately want.