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Great Poetry: Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold

12 Thursday Jan 2017

Posted by Racer X in art, culture, poetry, religion

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The white cliffs of Dover Beach in England.

The white cliffs of Dover Beach in England.

Dover Beach is one of the great poems in the English language. Written by Mathew Arnold (1822-1888), known more for his great cultural and literary criticism rather than his poetry, this poem nevertheless is a gem of beauty. It may been known to many people, but in today’s educational and cultural environment, I would not be surprised if many students graduating from a university with a degree in English have never even read this. After all, Arnold was not a black lesbian; rather, as a white male he is officially one of the great enemies of the modern Leftist zeitgeist which dominates nearly all of academia.

Still, great poetry fortunately transcends the idiocies of modern thought. What is hauntingly beautiful about his poem is the deep melancholy expressed, a melancholy which is born from the deepening lack of religious faith that Arnold saw overtaking his society. The world in which this poem was written, that of Victorian England at its most glorious, might seem today exceedingly religious. And yet for Arnold, it was not. Imagine what he would think of today’s world.

In addition to a poem about faith, it is also a love poem. Arnold is addressing his young wife in the poem, “Ah, love, let us be true/ to one another!” and he appeals to the power of love to help overcome the dissolution of religious belief.

The beauty of great poem does wonders for the soul. Like good music, it is really not something that can be truly quantified, but rather, it is better simply to appreciate it, to let it infuse the mind and heart with whatever nuances and images and verbal rhythms and echoes it possesses. And this poem possesses all that to the full.

The sea is calm tonight.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand,
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

 

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

 

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

 

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

 

Odysseus

07 Thursday Jul 2016

Posted by Racer X in art, culture, fiction, mythology, poetry

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Odysseus and the nymph Calypso.

Odysseus and the nymph Calypso.

Odysseus was a great figure from Greek mythology: he was the king of Ithaca who fought in the Trojan War for ten years; after the war he spent the next ten years attempting to return home while enduring many trials and tribulations, not only among cannibals and cyclopes, sea monsters and sirens, but also among lovely women such as Circe and Calypso. The painting above is of Odysseus and Calypso. I am not sure who the artist is, but it looks like something from the 19th century.

There were different attitudes towards Odysseus in the ancient world: the Greeks both loved and hated him, since he was the prototype of not only a great war hero, but also of an amoral man who would say or do anything to achieve his goals. The Romans simply hated him, as they saw him as a symbol of what they considered the sleazy and duplicitous character of the Greeks in general.

There are many different depictions of Odysseus throughout the history of literature, but my favorite depiction of Odysseus is that of the Iliad and the Odyssey, the two great, ancient Greek epic poems at the fountain head of all Western literature. In these poems Odysseus is not only a great man of action but also a man of great intellect: two things which have always been prized, but especially so in the ancient Greek world. The fact that he endured many things, journeyed to many different places, and had to suffer much before he could return home from the Trojan War has always caught the imaginations of generations for over three thousand years.

There is a classic epithet used for Odysseus by Homer, the poet behind the Iliad and Odyssey: “polytropos” which roughly means “a man of many turns”. This is often interpreted as either “a man who is much traveled or wandering” or “a man who is wily and crafty”. The meaning is ambiguous, and deliberately so, since Odysseus was all of these things. Which shade of Odysseus one prefers, is usually left up to the reader of whatever work in which Odysseus is being portrayed.

What I like is that Odysseus had to go through many things in life, and although my life is certainly not as glamorous as his, the story of someone having to endure different trials is one with which most people can identify. This is one of the reasons why Odysseus has been and remains to this day one of the most enduring figures in all of literature. It is one of the reasons I have chosen to use his name as my moniker. It seems appropriate at this point in my journey of blogging.

Beautiful Poetry: John Milton’s “On His Deceased Wife”.

25 Saturday Oct 2014

Posted by Racer X in poetry

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The blind Milton reciting Paradise Lost to his daughters,

The blind Milton reciting Paradise Lost to his daughters,

This is one of my favorite little poems from one of my favorite poets, the great John Milton (1608-1674). Second only to Shakespeare in his esteem as an English poet, and best known for his Christian epic Paradise Lost, Milton was a strange, but very contemporary combination of religious, classical and sensuous thought. Now, most people do not equate Milton with “sensuousness”, yet I have always found his poetry to be some of that most luxuriantly beautiful in the English language. I sense, beneath the religious puritanism of his outward temper, lurked a man of deep passions and desire. His love of beauty was well attested throughout his poetry.

This poem is a beautiful poem, not erotic, but ful of love. It is about his late wife. For those who have lost a loved one, the pain and terror of loss can be truly tortuous. Dreams are particularly painful. In this poem, Milton expresses well the sudden shock and pain that occurs when we dream of lost loved one, only to wake to realize that it was only a dream, a fleeting vision of nothingness but lost hopes and memories.

But it speaks more than anything else of love, and power of love in our lives, even for those who are no longer part of our lives, but still live on in our hearts and minds and souls. Through our belief in God and the eternal spiritual world we hope that we will someday be reunited with them.

METHOUGHT I saw my late espousèd Saint
Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave,
Whom Joves great Son to her glad Husband gave,
Rescu’d from death by force though pale and faint.
Mine as whom washt from spot of child-bed taint,
Purification in the old Law did save,
And such, as yet once more I trust to have
Full sight of her in Heaven without restraint,
Came vested all in white, pure as her mind:
Her face was vail’d, yet to my fancied sight,
Love, sweetness, goodness, in her person shin’d
So clear, as in no face with more delight.
But O as to embrace me she enclin’d
I wak’d, she fled, and day brought back my night.

“No One Loves Poetry Like A Russian”

30 Thursday Jan 2014

Posted by Racer X in poetry

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Dr. Zhivago, a great movie about love, war, political terror and art.

Dr. Zhivago, a great movie about love, war, political terror and art.

This is a famous line from an equally famous movie, Dr. Zhivago. Spoken at the end of the movie by the half brother of the poet and hero of the movie, Yuri Zhivago, it was used to demonstrate the underground passion of poetry that existed even under the most oppressive Stalinist periods. Without getting into further detail of the greatness of Dr. Zhivago as a film, one of my all time favorite movies, and one particularly nice to watch in the depths of winter, such a sentiment seems to be true even today, as the following news piece attests: a man killed another man in Russia in an argument over the merits of prose verses poetry.

http://gawker.com/poetry-vs-prose-argument-leads-to-stabbing-death-in-ru-1511468174

Passion for poetry is a wonderful thing indeed. It is nice to know Russians still possess this.

Sappho: The Great Greek Poetess of Erotic Love

27 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by Racer X in art, culture, erotica, poetry

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Sappho of Lesbos

Sappho of Lesbos

Sappho was one of the greatest of the ancient Greek poets, perhaps the greatest of all lyric poets of antiquity. Born around 630 BC on the island of Lesbos, her erotic affection for members of both sexes, especially women, is the origin of the word lesbian. Unfortunately, virtually all of her poetry has not survived antiquity (nine books were attributed to her), except for one mere complete poem and some fragments. Nevertheless, despite this great cultural misfortune, Sappho remains today one of the most well known and well beloved of all poets of Classical antiquity.

The Greek philosopher Plato refers to her as the “10th Muse” (there are nine canonical muses in Greek mythology):

Some say the Muses are nine: how careless!
Look, there’s Sappho too, from Lesbos, the tenth.

Her poetry, or what remains of it, hints of a great beauty, sense of music, a wonderful, delicate flow of thought and emotion, and love of eroticism. Little is known of her life, but she had some sort of circle of young women who were attached to her, and she to them. This is the origin of her erotic affections, and most likely affairs, with these women. There is also a legend that she committed suicide by jumping off a cliff after being spurned by a young ferryman, Pheron. It is most likely simply a myth, but there is really no way of ever knowing for sure.

A 19th century notion of Sappho's love life...

A 19th century notion of Sappho’s love life…

It was not really until the 19th century that Sappho and her poems began to be seen in a homoerotic, sexual light. There is little evidence of actual physical love in her works, but it can probably be assumed that her expressed affections for different females was erotic, and that this eroticism was ultimately expressed in a physical way. But we can never really know, which means we make what we want of Sappho, and I am more than happy to think of Sappho as a poetess of lesbian love. After all, watching two lovely girls engaging in erotic delights is itself its own delight, only to be surpassed be ultimate delight of actually joining the two girls in their sexual play and pleasures.

But, aside from all that, Sappho stands first and foremost as a great poet, one of the greatest who ever lived, and who still lives today in the paltry fragments that remain of her once magnificent creative life and world. Her works speak for themselves.

Sappho, with the lyre, and her circle...

Sappho, with the lyre, and her circle…

The following poem is the only complete poem we have from her. It is hymn to Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of sex and love.

Immortal Aphrodite, on your intricately brocaded throne,
child of Zeus, weaver of wiles, this I pray:
Dear Lady, don’t crush my heart
with pains and sorrows.

But come here, if ever before,
when you heard my far-off cry,
you listened. And you came,
leaving your father’s house,                   

yoking your chariot of gold.
Then beautiful swift sparrows led you over the black earth
from the sky through the middle air,
whirling their wings into a blur.

Rapidly they came. And you, O Blessed Goddess,
a smile on your immortal face,
asked what had happened this time,
why did I call again,

and what did I especially desire
for myself in my frenzied heart:
“Who this time am I to persuade
to your love? Sappho, who is doing you wrong?

For even if she flees, soon she shall pursue.               
And if she refuses gifts, soon she shall give them.
If she doesn’t love you, soon she shall love
even if she’s unwilling.”

Come to me now once again and release me
from grueling anxiety.
All that my heart long
fulfill. And be yourself my ally in love’s battle.

-Tranlsated by Julia Dubnoff

Great Poetry: W.B. Yeats

15 Thursday Aug 2013

Posted by Racer X in poetry

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W.B Yeats was one of, if perhaps not the finest, poets of the modern world. His verse is a nice mixture of more traditional English rhymes and rhythms with a more contemporary flexibility. His themes and imagery are always haunting and spiritual. Like all good poets, his verse possesses a gentle music that underlies and supports the words and sense. I came across this poem recently on another blog, and thought I should post it here. A good poem is always worth posting.

The Second Coming

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

Poetry: Dreamy Lust

14 Friday Jun 2013

Posted by Racer X in poetry

≈ 2 Comments

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I love to feel some soft, sweet pleasures;
the touch of lips, the lovely glances
of delight. Now, as night returns
and all my dreams seem true, I feel
the heat of love within my soul
as I search for God among my thoughts.
And where is lust? She is there too,
waiting to be embraced by me
and fed her due, until satiated
I fall asleep amid my dreams.

–Racer X.

Acis and Galatea

13 Monday May 2013

Posted by Racer X in art, literature, nymphs, poetry

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image

I wrote a post a few months ago on the great French landscape painter, Claude Lorraine. This is a nice work of his: Landscape with Acis and Galatea.

The story is found in Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Galatea, a Nereid, fell in love with a young man, Acis. The Cyclops Polyphemous, however, was already in love with Galatea and in a fit of jealousy he killed Acis with a giant boulder. Galatea in her sorrow then transformed the blood of Acis into the river Acis. The whole scene takes place on Sicily.

Like all Claude paintings, this piece is infused with a certain lazy, dream like atmosphere. Although not tropical, it conveys the often other-wordliness of a tropical landscape. It is a land of pleasure, fantasy and mythology. Anyone who has sat beneath the warm canopy of a palm tree sipping a pina colada, surrounded by beautiful, bikini clad nymphs frolicking in the turquoise surf of a white sand beach, knows what I am talking about.

Even Dostoevsky felt the beauty of this painting. Apparently it inspired his description of the Golden Age in his “Raw Youth” and “The Devils”.

The world of the sea nymphs, the Nereids, although quite dangerous, is indeed quite wonderful.

Rumi and the Beauty of Erotic Love

04 Thursday Apr 2013

Posted by Racer X in art, beauty, culture, erotica, poetry, spirituality

≈ 11 Comments

Good art and poetry can truly capture the beauty of erotic love...

Good art and poetry can truly capture the beauty of erotic love…

Lovers find secret
places inside this
violent world
where they make
transactions with
beauty.

I found this nice little poetic tidbit from the always interesting Forgetful Muse:http://forgetfulmuse.tumblr.com/. Check out her site. An old blogger friend of mine, she posts a lot of nice images, poetry and her own personal observations on life, especially spiritual matters. This particular poem is from the great Persian poet, Rumi, who lived between 1207-1273. Persia, now known as Iran, is an ancient country with a long and rich cultural tradition. Rumi is considered the greatest of all Persian poets, and even today in Iran, his birthday is a national holiday. Unlike most Americans, who could not tell the difference between Shakespeare and Walt Whitman, Rumi is well known by most Iranians today. Ask anyone of Persian descent living in the West who Rumi is, and most likely they will be able to tell you. The West once had a rich poetic culture that infused most of life, but sadly that has been largely lost. It is nice to see that some societies, even those that I would consider as dangerous and hostile as Iran, continue to preserve their great poetic heritages.

The great Persian poet Rumi, 1207-1273.

The great Persian poet Rumi, 1207-1273.

Again, the fusion of beauty and eroticism is as old and universal as anything in this world. This small poem on erotic love and beauty by a Persian poet and Muslim Sufi mystic who lived 800 years ago is a testament to that.

“In Certain Ways Writing is a Form of Prayer,” Denise Levertov as the Spiritual Poet.

23 Saturday Mar 2013

Posted by Racer X in art, poetry, religion, spirituality

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King David of Israel wrote some of the greatest religious poetry of all time...

King David of Israel wrote some of the greatest religious poetry of all time…

One of my great loves is poetry. I have written in the past about the traditional links between poetry and masculinity. For most of history, the poet was considered one of the supreme spokesman of and for whatever society he lived in. From the earliest bards of oral tradition, the men who handed down the stories, usually heroic, of their own people from generation to generation, to modern statesmen or generals who pursued a passion for poetry, this ancient art form as always been a part of our world. A great example of the old bard would be Homer, the author of the Iliad and Odyssey, the two great epic poems of ancient Greece. A modern man of action who enjoyed poetry would be someone such as General George Patton, as much a man of action if ever there was one. Poetry is the ultimate use of the spoken or written word to express things that are often inexpressible.

As a medium for things that are inexpressible, there is an old link between poetry and spirituality. As far as I am concerned, most good poetry has some sort of spiritual element. Poetry, unlike most prose or fiction, speaks of things that are hard to define, more ephemeral yet permanent, spiritual yet concrete. A good poem, like a good song or good food or a good lover, stays with you long after you have finished reading, or listening to it. Perhaps the greatest spiritual poetry of all time are the Psalms. The fact that they were written nearly three thousand years ago, yet still speak intimately to us today, is proof of the timeless beauty that all good poetry possesses.

Some time ago I came across an interview with Denise Levertov (1923-1997) in Poets and Writers, May/June 1998. Levertov was a poet whose spiritual journey took her from agnostic Jew to Catholic and her later poetry is infused with spiritual themes. She once described her last book of poetry as a work to, “trace my slow movement from agnosticism to Christian faith, a movement incorporating much doubt and questioning as well as affirmation.” Doubt, questioning and affirmation, are not these things that all people on a spiritual journey experience? Faith in God is not necessarily an easy thing. And for me art, rather than theology, is the best way to explore, ponder and express the nuances and difficulties of faith.

In this particular interview, her last, she talks about the relationship between her Christian faith and her life and work as a poet.

When I started writing explicitly Christian poems, I thought I’d lost part of my readership. But I haven’t actually…This sense of spiritual hunger is something of a counterforce or unconscious reaction to all that technological euphoria.

I like her description of a “sense of spiritual hunger”. This is something I experience quite often myself.

Denise Levertov, whose life's journey took her from agnostic to Catholic.

Denise Levertov, whose life’s journey took her from agnostic to Catholic.

She then draws a nice comparison between the act of writing poetry and prayer. In response to the question, “Did your understanding of poetic inspiration help to imagine what it would be like to have religious faith,” she answers:

That’s one way of putting it. When you’re really caught up in writing a poem, it can be a form of prayer. I’m not very good at praying, but what I experience when I’m writing a poem is close to prayer. I feel it in different degrees and not with every poem. But in certain ways writing is a form of prayer.

I find this to be quite true. There is a powerful similarity between writing poetry and prayer. She then goes on to elaborate this connection:

I was really amazed at how close the exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola were to a poet or a novelist imagining a scene. You focus your attention on some particular aspect of the life of Christ. You try to compose that scene in your imagination, place yourself there. If it’s the Via Dolorosa, you have to ask yourself, are you one of the disciples? Are you a passerby? Are you a spectator that likes to watch from the side, the way people used to watch hangings? You establish who you are and where you stand and then you look at what you see.

I have a deep and abiding belief in the relationship between art and spirituality. It is a relationship as old as art itself. Whether in poetry, painting, sculpture, music or whatever artistic genre is used, throughout all of cultural history the great forms of artistic endeavor almost always have some sort of spiritual dimension. They speak of things that touch our innermost beings and lives, that reflect our deepest hopes and fears and longings. Many people think that most modern poetry is devoid of all spiritual themes, but as Levertov shows, this is certainly not the case. As the end of Lent nears, and Easter comes closer, those in the Catholic faith know all too well the great liturgical drama that is being played out, and how powerful a drama it is. It is one of the finest fusions of both art and religion.

Whether we are reading the Psalms or a poet like Levertov, the link between poetry and spirituality is an unbroken one as old as art and religion themselves.

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