Gerard Manley Hopkins, an Opening Passage

The following is the opening passage from The Wreck of the Deutschland, by Hopkins:

“Thou mastering me

God! giver of breath and bread;

World's strand, sway of the sea;

Lord of living and dead;

Thou hast bound bones & veins in me, fastened me flesh,

And after it almost unmade, what with dread,

Thy doing: and dost thou touch me afresh?

Over again I feel thy finger and find thee”

Hopkins was an artist of unique skill, humour and insight. There is much meaning and talent, for example, contained in this short passage.

By using phrases like “giver of breath and bread”, Hopkins playfully encourages the reader to reflect on the language being used, by using similar sounding but differently meaning words together. Hopkins did this frequently, as did James Joyce and Dylan Thomas later on.

Hopkins evokes a strong sense of dynamism, where there is a brilliant use of verbs such as “sway”, “bound” and “fastened”. Significantly, these verbs are also used alliteratively, again showing awareness of the poem's syntax. In Hopkins there is as much awareness of syntax as there is content.

His insight, in recognising the dual nature of reality, is contained in the line “lord of living and dead”, understanding that to be lord of life, one has to be lord of death. Hopkins, as far as I'm concerned, intuited the world accurately.

Presciently, there is a strong expression of physical embodiment in this passage, “thou hast bound bones and veins in me, fastened me flesh”. In a similar way that God constructs Hopkins the poet, Hopkins constructs his poetry. Hopkins understands that all insight and life, and consequently his poetry, begins with the embodied person, not with some abstract notion of transcendence. Around the same time Friedrich Nietzsche also understood this

Hopkins talks about almost being “unmade”, maybe referring to a period of life where he lost sight of the divine, a period of darkness and stagnation. Hopkins is then “touched afresh” by his maker, his insight returning. “Over again” is another frequent example of dynamism in Hopkins, implying a cyclical motion of reaching an end and returning to a beginning. Hopkins reached the end of his dark period and returned to clarity, again aligned with the universe. So begins his poem.

The Realisation of Aeneas During the Fall of Troy

..."Parting words. She vanished into the dense night.

And now they all come looming up before me,

terrible shapes, the deadly foes of Troy,

the gods gigantic in power..."

What struck me when reading the Aeneid, after reading the Iliad, was the view taken on the gods. The Aeneid represents the next and more subtle development of the Greek epic poems. In the Iliad the Trojan war was not between Greeks and Trojans, but between the feuding gods. This doesn't, however, diminish the power and resonance of the human characters, and it must be admitted that they do have agency. For example, the Greek warrior Diomedes, through sheer will, or one could say obstinacy, wounds the goddess Aphrodite, implying that the gods are not infallible. But not once in the Iliad, or the Odyssey, do we see a clear reflection on the fact that the gods are manipulating the show.

Beautifully rendered, the fall of troy is an incredibly powerful, dynamic and intense scene of the Aeneid; we see the highest degree of ruthlessnes that can be inflicted on another group of people; we see a great city, brimming with history and emotion, blaze and crumble; we see a king and his son mercilessly slaughtered in front of their family. In terms of dynamism and power, the description of the action is reminiscent of Achilles' careering, rampaging onslaught against the Trojans in the Iliad.

To me, the climax of the action in the fall of Troy, and the ultimate realisation that emerges from the scene, and perhaps the whole book, is found in this passage:

“Parting words. She vanished into the dense night.

And now they all come looming up before me,

terrible shapes, the deadly foes of Troy,

the gods gigantic in power"

I think Goethe also recognises the power of this passage, who executes his own version of it in Faust part 2: 

"Fleeing, I saw through the smoke and heat

And the blaze of the writhing flames

Gods approaching in hideous rage:

Figures of wonder striding

Giant-tall through the darksome

Reek that swirled in the fire's glow" (Goethe, 130, David Luke translation)

From his mother, Aeneas realises with great force and clarity that it is the gods who are behind the carnage of Troy's fall; thus the responsibility of the carnage falls squarely on them, the shadowy figures emerging from the smoke. Questions worth reflecting on, what do these shadowy figures represent? And how does their description indicate this?

"Whirling words—I was swept away by fury now

when all of a sudden there my loving mother stood

before my eyes, but I had never seen her so clearly,

her pure radiance shining down upon me through the night,

the goddess in all her glory, just as the gods behold

her build, her awesome beauty. Grasping my hand

she held me back, adding this from her rose-red lips:

‘My son, what grief could incite such blazing anger?

Why such fury? And the love you bore me once,

where has it all gone? Why don’t you look first

where you left your father, Anchises, spent with age?

Do your wife, Creusa, and son Ascanius still survive?

The Greek battalions are swarming round them all,

and if my love had never rushed to the rescue,

flames would have swept them off by now or

enemy sword-blades would have drained their blood.

 "Think: it’s not that beauty, Helen, you should hate,

not even Paris, the man that you should blame, no,

it’s the gods, the ruthless gods who are tearing down

the wealth of Troy, her toppling crown of towers.

Look around. I’ll sweep it all away, the mist

so murky, dark, and swirling around you now,

it clouds your vision, dulls your mortal sight.

You are my son. Never fear my orders.

Never refuse to bow to my commands.

“‘There,

yes, where you see the massive ramparts shattered,

blocks wrenched from blocks, the billowing smoke and ash—

it’s Neptune himself, prising loose with his giant trident

the foundation-stones of Troy, he’s making the walls quake,

ripping up the entire city by her roots.

“‘There’s Juno,

cruelest in fury, first to commandeer the Scaean Gates,

sword at her hip and mustering comrades, shock troops

streaming out of the ships.

“‘Already up on the heights—

turn around and look—there’s Pallas holding the fortress,

flaming out of the clouds, her savage Gorgon glaring.

Even Father himself, he’s filling the Greek hearts

with courage, stamina—Jove in person spurring the gods

to fight the Trojan armies!

“‘Run for your life, my son.

Put an end to your labors. I will never leave you,

I will set you safe at your father’s door.’

“Parting words. She vanished into the dense night.

And now they all come looming up before me,

terrible shapes, the deadly foes of Troy,

the gods gigantic in power" (Virgil, 93-94, Fagles translation)

All the Stars Shine Down Through Human Eyes

"Blake, on the world alighting, holds the skies,
And all the stars shine down through human eyes" (Vernon Watkins)

Discoveries, Vernon Watkins

The poles are flying where the two eyes set:
America has not found Columbus yet.

Ptolemy's planets, playing fast and loose,
Foretell the wisdom of Copernicus.

Dante calls Primum Mobile, the First Cause:
'Love that moves the world and the other stars.'

Great Galileo, twisted by the rack,
Groans the bright sun from heaven, then breathes it back.

Blake, on the world alighting, holds the skies,
And all the stars shine down through human eyes.

Donne sees those stars, yet will not let them lie:
'We're tapers, too, and at our own cost die.'

The shroud- lamp catches. Lips are smiling there.
'Les flammes-déjà?-The world dies, or Voltaire.

Swift, a cold mourner at his burial-rite,
Burns to the world's heart like a meteorite.

Beethoven deaf, in deafness hearing all,
Unwinds all music from sound's funeral.

Three prophets fall, the litter of one night:
Blind Milton gazes in fixed deeps of light.

Beggar of those Minute Particulars,
Yeats lights again the turmoil of the stars.

Motionless motion! Come, Tiresias,
The eternal flies, what's passing cannot pass.

'Solace in flight,' old Heraclitus cries;
Light changing to Von Hugel's butterflies.

Rilke bears all, thinks like a tree, believes,
Sinks in the hand that bears the falling leaves.

The stars! The signs! Great Angelo hurls them back.
His whirling ceiling draws the zodiac.

The pulse of Keats testing the axiom;
The second music when the sound is dumb.

The Christian Paradox, bringing its great reward
By loss; the moment to Kierkegaard.

The Garden of Love, William Blake

"I went to the Garden of Love,
And saw what I never had seen:
A Chapel was built in the midst,
Where I used to play on the green.

And the gates of this Chapel were shut,
And "Thou shalt not" writ over the door;
So I turn'd to the Garden of Love
That so many sweet flowers bore;

And I saw it was filled with graves,
And tomb-stones where flowers should be;
And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds,
And binding with briars my joys and desires"

Not to be misinterpreted as nostalgic, Blake's poem is a reflection on the oppression of institutional religion.

Blake looks back to childhood, "where I used to play on the green", and a more a primal phase of humanity, by evoking the Garden of Eden. These were purer, more fertile times, where emotions and thoughts would blossom freely.

My only concern with the poem is its' stance on death. I don't feel death should be associated with the toxicity of institutional oppression.

I Alone Don't Know

The world seems clear and categorisable for many people. Situations easily explained, positions tightly held.

This is not the case for me. For me the world is muddy and confusing.

Adrift, I cannot hold to one perspective.

And I might use words, but they do not capture my meaning.

"Other people are excited,
as though they were at a parade.
I alone don't care,
I alone am expressionless,
like an infant before it can smile. Other people have what they need;
I alone possess nothing.
I alone drift about,
like someone without a home.
I am like an idiot, my mind is so empty. Other people are bright;
I alone am dark.
Other people are sharper;
I alone am dull.
Other people have a purpose;
I alone don't know.
I drift like a wave on the ocean,
I blow as aimless as the wind. I am different from ordinary people.
I drink from the Great Mother's breasts" (Lao Tzu)

Alice Coltrane Turiyasangitananda - Keshava Murahara

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lKUJdFsmzpQ&list=RDlKUJdFsmzpQ&start_radio=1&t=581
 

A Dream Within a Dream (Edgar Allan Poe)

"Take this kiss upon the brow!

And, in parting from you now,

Thus much let me avow —

You are not wrong, who deem

That my days have been a dream;

Yet if hope has flown away

In a night, or in a day,

In a vision, or in none,

Is it therefore the less gone? 

All that we see or seem

Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar

Of a surf-tormented shore,

And I hold within my hand

Grains of the golden sand —

How few! yet how they creep

Through my fingers to the deep,

While I weep — while I weep!

O God! Can I not grasp

Them with a tighter clasp?

O God! can I not save

One from the pitiless wave?

Is all that we see or seem

But a dream within a dream?"

The desperation of trying to grasp just one grain of golden sand, one meaningful moment of life, to save it from the pitiless waves of a surf-tormented shore, the overwhleming and illimitable passage of time, is an incredibly powerful and relatable image.

Walt Whitman, What is the Grass?

"I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer 

grass....

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any
more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green
stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,

Bearing the owner's name someway in the corners, that we may
see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the
vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,

Growing among black folks as among white,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I
receive them the same.

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves"

Walt Whitman's meditation on grass, in his poem Song of Myself, shows the various perspectives one can adopt when viewing something. This kind of perspectivism and open mindedness, this recognition of the multi-dimensional nature of things, is prescient of many developments in society and culture that came after it, such as Quantum Mechanics and Cubism. I also find his use of the word "heiroglyphic" interesting, implying that reality is information or code; this is particularly prescient. Whitman was clearly a deep mystic, who experienced reailty in a raw way.

Full Fathom Five (Sylvia Plath)

Old man, you surface seldom.
Then you come in with the tide's coming
When seas wash cold, foam-

Capped: white hair, white beard, far-flung,
A dragnet, rising, falling, as waves
Crest and trough. Miles long

Extend the radial sheaves
Of your spread hair, in which wrinkling skeins
Knotted, caught, survives

The old myth of orgins
Unimaginable. You float near
As kneeled ice-mountains

Of the north, to be steered clear
Of, not fathomed. All obscurity
Starts with a danger:

Your dangers are many. I
Cannot look much but your form suffers
Some strange injury

And seems to die: so vapors
Ravel to clearness on the dawn sea.
The muddy rumors

Of your burial move me
To half-believe: your reappearance
Proves rumors shallow,

For the archaic trenched lines
Of your grained face shed time in runnels:
Ages beat like rains

On the unbeaten channels
Of the ocean. Such sage humor and
Durance are whirlpools

To make away with the ground-
Work of the earth and the sky's ridgepole.
Waist down, you may wind

One labyrinthine tangle
To root deep among knuckles, shinbones,
Skulls. Inscrutable,

Below shoulders not once
Seen by any man who kept his head,
You defy questions;

You defy godhood.
I walk dry on your kingdom's border
Exiled to no good.

Your shelled bed I remember.
Father, this thick air is murderous.
I would breathe water.

Hope (Emily Dickinson)

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me

If I can stop.. (Emily Dickinson)

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.