I got up from the piano; a few hours later I was listening to music on a plane.
The flights from Baltimore to Beijing were somewhat arduous but uneventful; the fact that China is exactly twelve hours ahead, though, made the adjustment easier. My wife, Nirmala, and I thus began a three-week tour of China and Tibet, along with a group of dance partners and others with whom we occasionally travel. We saw the usual things tourists see, which were quite unusual for us; this article, however, due to space limitations, will emphsize the rhythms, the pitches, the music we heard.
The first day we were on our own. We visited the Temple of Heaven, a huge park which includes as its centerpiece the temple where the emperor prayed for a good harvest. There were lots of activities in the park; tai chi, for instance, and even line dancing. Needless to say, we joined right in the line dancing. We couldn't understand the words they said, but the meaning of the gracious smiles that the Chinese dancers sent in our direction were clear.
The highlight of the day was a visit to Beijing's Lama Temple, a fabulous Tibetan temple that escaped destruction during the Cultural Revolution. The temple consists of many separate buildings and courtyards. The design is linear; one enters a building, exits into a courtyard, then enters the next building. The shrines contain statues of Buddha, guardian spirits, Tara, Kwan Yin, etc. The last building, much taller than the others, contains a very impressive, gigantic statue of Mitreya, the Future Buddha. It was carved from a single sandalwood block, apparently the largest such structure in the world. We felt quite uplifted. There were many devotees; about ten percent of the population is Buddhist. (There are some religious freedoms now, although any form of proselytization is banned.) I, too, lit some incense sticks, praying (wishing?) for things close to my heart, even though I don't believe in divine intervention. Do I contradict myself? Well, then, I contradict myself.
Yes, we visited the Great Wall, and, despite being seniors, were among the very few who reached the end of the long section open to the public. (We took the difficult path.) The next day we rushed through the Forbidden City and the Summer Palace, visits which laid bare the negative side of a group tour. Felt like ants in a maze.
One evening we attended a performance of Peking Opera, which was great. The acrobats were fantastic. In one scene, two acrobatic actors depicted two soldiers trying to strike each other in the dark. Their synchronized rhythmic movements were humorous and breathtaking in their precision. And what a wonderful sword dance a woman did, playing the role of the concubine from the famous piece, "Farewell My Concubine." The music, especially the percussion, which was used to intensify moments of emotion, was very effective and similar to the use of percussive instruments in Kabuki. Peking opera singers sing at a very high pitch, which reminded me of the very distant world of Blue Grass singing, which shares this similarity. Yes, it takes a while to get used to, a difficulty made even greater during this performance, since the instrumentalists tended to drown out the singers. The performance definitely encouraged me to explore this art form.
We subsequently visited the exhibition of terracotta soldiers in Xi'An, a very polluted city. The vast exhibition hall holding hundreds of terracotta warriors was impressive, but we felt we got a more intimate view of some of the statues when an exhibition came from China to the National Gallery in Washington. I was not too impressed by the city of Xi'An. Lots of humdrum concrete high-rises that seem to have haphazardly popped up like gigantic, drab mushrooms. In Beijing, the architectural standards are much higher. The office buildings there are clean, powerful and sometimes even beautiful temples dedicated to the all-conquering god of the yuan.
After a fascinating visit to Lhasa, Tibet, we embarked on a five-dave river cruise on the Yangtze. My friend Glenn and I were the stars of the language lesson on board, since we knew a bit, a very little bit, beforehand. I don't seem to have a problem with getting the pitches of the Chinese language right, since I am so interested in music. We did enjoy, rather unexpectedly, the talent show on the riverboat. Some of the waiters and other workers were quite talented. The star of the show was a young waiter who did a really splendid job as the "Face-Changing Master," a stock character of Peking Opera. Fierce masks seemed to change as if by magic, A few seconds after having covered his face with a fan, the dancer reveals a new mask of a contrasting, bright color. He had us gasping with surprise and delight. He was a good dancer, too.
The rhythms of Shanghai, "The China of Tomorrow," are brisk. Lots of young people with lots of energy walking along the Bund with its very pleasing vistas of a river lined with skyscrapers. During our stay in Shanghai, we visited Yu Garden, a traditional Chinese garden complex built by the commissioner of Sichuan province in 1551, during the Ming Dynasty. The garden complex is quite lovely. I imagined myself living in one of the spacious dwellings--I would rise early, have tea, read for a while; have a lesson in Chinese; play the piano; have lunch; have a lesson in calligraphy and then write poetry. Then afternoon tea with my wife; a walk together; supper together; then attend a Peking Opera performance at the Garden's stage. Not a bad life--if everyone who wanted it could have it, fine--but this is of course impossible. Conscience would therefore force me to turn the garden over to the people, which is exactly what the Chinese government did.
We visited a fascinating museum at Hubei. It houses the contents of the tomb of the Marquis Yi of Zheng, who died around 433 B.C.E. Very interesting bronze artifacts, which were made by a now forgotten wax mold procedure--the liquid bronze melted the wax and took on the desired shape. The most remarkable exhibit were the 65 bells which had been used in rituals. Strike the bell in the front and the pitch is the first note of the scale, "do," technically, the tonic note. Strike the bell on the side and you get "mi," the third note of the scale, or more technically, the mediant note. The bells spanned a range of over five octaves; all the major scales of the West, including medieval, blues and jazz scales, could be played upon them. This is a fascinating discovery, since previously one had thought that the ancient Chinese used the pentatonic (five note) scale exclusively. No one knows what scales were used, though; there was apparently no musical notation at the time.
At the end of the tour we listened to a delightful concert played on replicas of the bells and on other traditional Chinese instruments. All the musical numbers used the pentatonic scale, except for the melody, Ode to Joy, by Beethoven. One Chinese pentatonic folk tune with its tonic harmonies sounded a bit like a tune from a Viennese operetta. I enjoyed the visit immensely.
We finished the tour with a few days extension in Hong Kong. The last time I was there was in 1974. How things have changed! Modern structures everywhere. At the hotel, we sat and had a drink at the bar while listening to a really talented pianist. No one seemed to be listening to her but me, which I guess is the way it's supposed to be. I wanted to say shhh! to some of the nosier guests, but, of course, didn't. I said to myself, you have a lot of practicing to do.
Having returned to the United States, after a wonderful trip to China, I am happily doing just that.
9.25.2011
6.21.2011
UNDER GOD, INDIVISIBLE
Recently--you've all heard about it by now--somebody at NBC edited out the words "under God, indivisible," from the Pledge of Allegiance, as recited by a group of kids and broadcasted before a golf tournament. It unleashed a firestorm of complaints. I watched--briefly, I can't take it for long--a right-wing talk show, during which the Godless left were accused of attempting to undermine our country's hallowed traditions. They were hysterical. Remove these three words, they seemed to say, and the republic is doomed. They depicted those who were responsible as dangerous subversives, and demanded that they be fired.
There are many examples of the current poisonous political climate; this is only one of them. I am sometimes amused by the nonsense, but am also saddened--after all, though some of the right-wing contumely is so far-out as to be weirdly funny, one mustn't forget that the joke is on all of us.
I would like to discuss the incident and the reaction to it in a rational way. First a little background.
The Pledge of Allegiance was written in 1892 by a man named Bellamy, who considered himself a socialist. (He toyed with the idea of adding the word "equality," but this was shot down by lawmakers since they strongly believed, well, that some races were a lot more equal than others. Incidentally, Bellamy had the children--the Pledge first appeared in a youth magazine--give a salute almost identical to the Nazi salute, which of course came into existence much later. President Roosevelt put an end to that.) There were three later changes to the Pledge. One changed "my flag" to "the flag of the United States." The second change was the addition of "of America" The now controversial phrase--it didn't result in any significant opposition at the time of its adoption-- "under God," was only added in 1954, to contrast a God-fearing America with godless communism. So for the first half of its life, the Pledge had no mention of God. (Was God discovred in 1954?)
It is interesting that the Protestant minister who lobbied Eisenhower to include this phrase reasoned that "America's greatness lies not in its arms, but in its spirit."
Now it's time to state my opinion. You might have guessed by now, if you don't know me already, that I am, for want of a better word, a liberal. You might also assume that I am just as adamant and even irrational about the Establishment Clause as liberals are wont. I would like to make it clear, I am for the strict separation of church and state. But does "under God" violate this? I think not.
I am a poet. We are known to apostrophize the moon, etc--why can't we--and everyone else--apostrophize what's best in all of us? There is no better word than "God" for this, as Martin Buber pointed out long ago. It does not necessarily mean a separate, interventionist, even a sometimes angry being called God--this deity Blake referred to as Nobodaddy, a term of which I am very fond. (To me, as a believer, if a rather heterodox one, the term goes much deeper than mere apostrophe and cannot be put into words--but can and should be put into deeds.)
My argument boils down to this: "Under God" means that there is something higher than the nation. "Under God" means that if people worship greed and power and abuse justice, they stand under judgement and risk their own true happiness, not to mention the happiness of those less powerful and "succesful" as they. It is interesting that the minister who advocated the addition of the word God thought that one nation, indivisible, under God was a fait accompli, while it is actually only a promise; something to live up to, not possess.
Mentioning God in the Pledge puts much-needed brakes on nationalism. It indicates that nationalism is good provided that one goes beyond nationalism; mere nationalism, as we know, can cause great harm. Without God, which can be viewed at the very least as the thirst for justice within us, nationalism can become demonic.
I am not passionate about this issue; I know that, whether the word is there or not, there will be little or no effect on behavior. A good example of this is the demand of some who consider themselves God's defenders that the hapless editor or editors be fired. Is this compassion? Is this love? An even sadder example: the mention of God in the Pledge hasn't stopped bombs from being dropped on people since 1954.
One might object that many use the Pledge in an idolatrous way, even with, or even more so with, the mention of God. American exceptionalism often entails viewing God as a sort of cosmic Uncle Sam, which borders on blasphemy. The world and all countries thereof, mine included, is in a fallen state; things of the spirit are very often interpreted in an idolatrous way. (A good example: Islamic terrorists often shout "God is great" before a heinous act. But that doesn't mean that God isn't great, nor does it signify that the phrase is unable to encourage the good to do better.) I hope this makes clear that statements that reflect the best within us are admittedly readily misused but are not idolatrous per se. To those who know that the love of God must be realized through wisdom and deeds of love for all beings, the Pledge can be an inspiration for just action. I therefore don't believe it should be tampered with.
For God's sake, leave it in! But if most want to remove it, remove it. But please, stop yaking and fighting about it. If you're not religious--or poetic--eschew that word, if you believe you must. The important thing is to act; to work together to bring about a world in accord with, arguably, the greatest commandment attributed to God. And we all know which one that is.
There are many examples of the current poisonous political climate; this is only one of them. I am sometimes amused by the nonsense, but am also saddened--after all, though some of the right-wing contumely is so far-out as to be weirdly funny, one mustn't forget that the joke is on all of us.
I would like to discuss the incident and the reaction to it in a rational way. First a little background.
The Pledge of Allegiance was written in 1892 by a man named Bellamy, who considered himself a socialist. (He toyed with the idea of adding the word "equality," but this was shot down by lawmakers since they strongly believed, well, that some races were a lot more equal than others. Incidentally, Bellamy had the children--the Pledge first appeared in a youth magazine--give a salute almost identical to the Nazi salute, which of course came into existence much later. President Roosevelt put an end to that.) There were three later changes to the Pledge. One changed "my flag" to "the flag of the United States." The second change was the addition of "of America" The now controversial phrase--it didn't result in any significant opposition at the time of its adoption-- "under God," was only added in 1954, to contrast a God-fearing America with godless communism. So for the first half of its life, the Pledge had no mention of God. (Was God discovred in 1954?)
It is interesting that the Protestant minister who lobbied Eisenhower to include this phrase reasoned that "America's greatness lies not in its arms, but in its spirit."
Now it's time to state my opinion. You might have guessed by now, if you don't know me already, that I am, for want of a better word, a liberal. You might also assume that I am just as adamant and even irrational about the Establishment Clause as liberals are wont. I would like to make it clear, I am for the strict separation of church and state. But does "under God" violate this? I think not.
I am a poet. We are known to apostrophize the moon, etc--why can't we--and everyone else--apostrophize what's best in all of us? There is no better word than "God" for this, as Martin Buber pointed out long ago. It does not necessarily mean a separate, interventionist, even a sometimes angry being called God--this deity Blake referred to as Nobodaddy, a term of which I am very fond. (To me, as a believer, if a rather heterodox one, the term goes much deeper than mere apostrophe and cannot be put into words--but can and should be put into deeds.)
My argument boils down to this: "Under God" means that there is something higher than the nation. "Under God" means that if people worship greed and power and abuse justice, they stand under judgement and risk their own true happiness, not to mention the happiness of those less powerful and "succesful" as they. It is interesting that the minister who advocated the addition of the word God thought that one nation, indivisible, under God was a fait accompli, while it is actually only a promise; something to live up to, not possess.
Mentioning God in the Pledge puts much-needed brakes on nationalism. It indicates that nationalism is good provided that one goes beyond nationalism; mere nationalism, as we know, can cause great harm. Without God, which can be viewed at the very least as the thirst for justice within us, nationalism can become demonic.
I am not passionate about this issue; I know that, whether the word is there or not, there will be little or no effect on behavior. A good example of this is the demand of some who consider themselves God's defenders that the hapless editor or editors be fired. Is this compassion? Is this love? An even sadder example: the mention of God in the Pledge hasn't stopped bombs from being dropped on people since 1954.
One might object that many use the Pledge in an idolatrous way, even with, or even more so with, the mention of God. American exceptionalism often entails viewing God as a sort of cosmic Uncle Sam, which borders on blasphemy. The world and all countries thereof, mine included, is in a fallen state; things of the spirit are very often interpreted in an idolatrous way. (A good example: Islamic terrorists often shout "God is great" before a heinous act. But that doesn't mean that God isn't great, nor does it signify that the phrase is unable to encourage the good to do better.) I hope this makes clear that statements that reflect the best within us are admittedly readily misused but are not idolatrous per se. To those who know that the love of God must be realized through wisdom and deeds of love for all beings, the Pledge can be an inspiration for just action. I therefore don't believe it should be tampered with.
For God's sake, leave it in! But if most want to remove it, remove it. But please, stop yaking and fighting about it. If you're not religious--or poetic--eschew that word, if you believe you must. The important thing is to act; to work together to bring about a world in accord with, arguably, the greatest commandment attributed to God. And we all know which one that is.
6.16.2011
"HAS ANYONE HERE COMPLETELY TRANSCENDED EGO?"
1.
That was the question that was recently asked during a philosophy discussion group. OK, to be honest, the name of the group--it has been in existence for decades--is "Modern Mystics." A student of arts and music but also a student of science as well, I am uncomfortable with the title. I don't know what a mystic is and am not too interested in finding out; if ours is a mystic group, however, we are a strange group of mystics indeed. I belong to two other book discussion groups and two music performance groups, and I must say that without a doubt the mystic one is the most cantankerous group of them all. (All of us, especially the men, have been at fault to varying degrees.) One of the members, a good friend, referred to us in his Christmas card poem (in the shape of a holiday tree) as "a bunch of mystic buffs who levitate through fisticuffs."
I am not sure what the motive was of the member who asked the ego-transcendence question. He is a good man, who does a lot of good things--we are all quite fond of him--but he is arguably the most belligerent member of the group. The question might have been rhetorical, but more likely was asked as a trap--if someone answered that he or she has transcended the ego, I am sure the questioner would retort with something like the Dana Carvey Church Lady's famous ego-smashing comment, "Isn't that special?"
We all kept quiet, having no desire to be levitated through fisticuffs. But I thought about the question, and decided to answer it in this essay. It contains information that I hope will be of use to young and old alike.
Before we discuss ego-transcendence, we must first address what the ego is. I have written at length in previous essays about the origin of the ego, so I will only give a brief summary here. In short, the ego is a fantastic software program during the playing of which the self forgets that it is "merely" pixels among pixels on a screen. When, during the course of evolution, our bodies became sufficiently complex, we began to think of ourselves as more and more separate from our environment. Self-consciousness, a chance byproduct of our genes, provided an enormous improvement in our ability to adapt to the environment, and has been passed on and gradually improved upon by our genes ever since. As most scientists would agree, there is no separation between ourselves and the environment. It is obvious that a sense of, and a belief in, individuality is necessary for our survival as a species. And since there are so many competing individuals, without a considerable degree of "me first" behavior there would soon be no "me" left to seek out the "you." Simone Weil put it beautifully: Those who live by the sword die by the sword; but those who put it down die on the Cross." A good way for a group to disappear is to really turn the other cheek and not just talk about it.
But wait a minute. We are fascinating creations of our genes, not the genes themselves. Good people always appreciate those who act relatively selflessly, and as George Price's scientific formula indicates, there is undoubtedly a genetic component to altruism. And what if someone acts so strongly for the common good as to risk his/her own life? Fowler, in his great book, "Five Stages of Faith," reserves the fifth stage for those who understand religion symbolically, but are not only tolerant as in stage four but are readily willing to face death for a great cause. I cannot imagine a good human being who is not awed by the sacrifice of self for the greater good as exemplified by the likes of Martin Luther King and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
However impressed we are by them, we are not able to concede that they have completely transcended their ego. They had weaknesses--a fact, I think, that makes them all the more inspiring.
Has anyone in the history of humanity transcended ego completely? Such is attributed to Jesus of Nazareth, Gautama Siddhartha (the Buddha) and various sages such as India's great twentieth century sage, Ramana Maharshi. Maybe they did, I'm not sure; the records which attribute this transcendence to them were written by followers and are full of historical inaccuracies. (Less so in the case of Ramana Maharshi, since he is roughly a contemporary, and I must say, he seems to have come very close to the transcendent ideal.) My belief is that utter perfection--that is what complete self-transcendence would entail-- is a goal which the line of humanity, as it were, can in some cases come very close to, but never touch. Certainly Jesus of Nazareth is miles ahead of the farthest point on the path than you or I will reach in this lifetime! When individuals like Ramana Maharshi get so close to ego-transcendence, our minds might be unable to appreciate the small distance that remains between the actual and the ideal, and thus convince ourselves that the goal has been reached. This gives those who are so inclined an object of worship. That is how I see it.
Since perfection, if it ever occurs, is rarer than the geniuses we know and love, we get an idea of how inappropriate the question, the title of this essay, is. If our friend had asked, "Has anyone here written better operas than Mozart?" or "Does anyone here write better than Shakespeare?," everyone would realize the fatuousness of the question. The likelihood of a positive--and accurate--response among us to these two questions, though extremely low, is much more likely than a positive--and accurate--response to the ego question, which is virtually impossible.
2.
Although utter transcendence is impossible for the vast majority of us, it can, as I have discussed, be approached. All of us, in fact, could and should come a lot closer to this ideal. We can readily imagine what this ideal would entail as well as we are able to imagine a perfect sphere. So it would help to discuss what mystics have called "self-realization" which I will do now. For the self-realized, there is no separation--the game (lila) of self is what Hindus call maya, illusion. Having gone beyond duality, the 'person" at this stage identifies with the world, nay, has become the whole universe. He or she will indeed turn the other cheek, much as a tree will "turn the other leaf," as it were, to a voracious caterpillar. Now we can appreciate the ridiculousness of the transcendence question. Since the sage has become the world, it is just as likely that another component of the world, say, a stone, would reply. Stones are silent, God is silent, sages are silent.
The question is asked by one individual of another. Having transcended individuality, how could a sage respond? Even we, wordlings that we are, know better. It would be like someone (consciousness) in a house (the body) looking at the world through an open window with utter delight. A neighbor in the next house asks, "Have you overcome the ego?" Saying yes would be like closing the window, getting on a footstool in a rather dark room and telling one's dusky reflection in the mirror, "Oh, I knew it! You're a sage." It is ridiculous enough if a young person exhibits such vanity; in an old person such adolescent self-absorption is truly farcical.
As an older person, I think I am much more practical and much more realistic. It is very difficult to maintain a sense of false pride when one realizes that next year--who knows? one might become an urnfull of ash. My advice to the young and the old is this: forget about idle questions. You will never make progress through chatter. Develop a balanced sense of self--don't ever accept anyone's attempt to make you feel inferior since the aggressor is trying to aggrandize himself and thus find relief from his own sense of inferiority. Develop wisdom and practice compassion. The way to do this was beautifully expressed by Freud: the most important things in life are work and love. Stop all the ego talk! Work as hard as you can at something that you are interested in and in which you, with much effort, can and will develop a just sense of pride. (Make sure it's something that at the very least does no harm.) And love. And love. And love!
That was the question that was recently asked during a philosophy discussion group. OK, to be honest, the name of the group--it has been in existence for decades--is "Modern Mystics." A student of arts and music but also a student of science as well, I am uncomfortable with the title. I don't know what a mystic is and am not too interested in finding out; if ours is a mystic group, however, we are a strange group of mystics indeed. I belong to two other book discussion groups and two music performance groups, and I must say that without a doubt the mystic one is the most cantankerous group of them all. (All of us, especially the men, have been at fault to varying degrees.) One of the members, a good friend, referred to us in his Christmas card poem (in the shape of a holiday tree) as "a bunch of mystic buffs who levitate through fisticuffs."
I am not sure what the motive was of the member who asked the ego-transcendence question. He is a good man, who does a lot of good things--we are all quite fond of him--but he is arguably the most belligerent member of the group. The question might have been rhetorical, but more likely was asked as a trap--if someone answered that he or she has transcended the ego, I am sure the questioner would retort with something like the Dana Carvey Church Lady's famous ego-smashing comment, "Isn't that special?"
We all kept quiet, having no desire to be levitated through fisticuffs. But I thought about the question, and decided to answer it in this essay. It contains information that I hope will be of use to young and old alike.
Before we discuss ego-transcendence, we must first address what the ego is. I have written at length in previous essays about the origin of the ego, so I will only give a brief summary here. In short, the ego is a fantastic software program during the playing of which the self forgets that it is "merely" pixels among pixels on a screen. When, during the course of evolution, our bodies became sufficiently complex, we began to think of ourselves as more and more separate from our environment. Self-consciousness, a chance byproduct of our genes, provided an enormous improvement in our ability to adapt to the environment, and has been passed on and gradually improved upon by our genes ever since. As most scientists would agree, there is no separation between ourselves and the environment. It is obvious that a sense of, and a belief in, individuality is necessary for our survival as a species. And since there are so many competing individuals, without a considerable degree of "me first" behavior there would soon be no "me" left to seek out the "you." Simone Weil put it beautifully: Those who live by the sword die by the sword; but those who put it down die on the Cross." A good way for a group to disappear is to really turn the other cheek and not just talk about it.
But wait a minute. We are fascinating creations of our genes, not the genes themselves. Good people always appreciate those who act relatively selflessly, and as George Price's scientific formula indicates, there is undoubtedly a genetic component to altruism. And what if someone acts so strongly for the common good as to risk his/her own life? Fowler, in his great book, "Five Stages of Faith," reserves the fifth stage for those who understand religion symbolically, but are not only tolerant as in stage four but are readily willing to face death for a great cause. I cannot imagine a good human being who is not awed by the sacrifice of self for the greater good as exemplified by the likes of Martin Luther King and Dietrich Bonhoeffer.
However impressed we are by them, we are not able to concede that they have completely transcended their ego. They had weaknesses--a fact, I think, that makes them all the more inspiring.
Has anyone in the history of humanity transcended ego completely? Such is attributed to Jesus of Nazareth, Gautama Siddhartha (the Buddha) and various sages such as India's great twentieth century sage, Ramana Maharshi. Maybe they did, I'm not sure; the records which attribute this transcendence to them were written by followers and are full of historical inaccuracies. (Less so in the case of Ramana Maharshi, since he is roughly a contemporary, and I must say, he seems to have come very close to the transcendent ideal.) My belief is that utter perfection--that is what complete self-transcendence would entail-- is a goal which the line of humanity, as it were, can in some cases come very close to, but never touch. Certainly Jesus of Nazareth is miles ahead of the farthest point on the path than you or I will reach in this lifetime! When individuals like Ramana Maharshi get so close to ego-transcendence, our minds might be unable to appreciate the small distance that remains between the actual and the ideal, and thus convince ourselves that the goal has been reached. This gives those who are so inclined an object of worship. That is how I see it.
Since perfection, if it ever occurs, is rarer than the geniuses we know and love, we get an idea of how inappropriate the question, the title of this essay, is. If our friend had asked, "Has anyone here written better operas than Mozart?" or "Does anyone here write better than Shakespeare?," everyone would realize the fatuousness of the question. The likelihood of a positive--and accurate--response among us to these two questions, though extremely low, is much more likely than a positive--and accurate--response to the ego question, which is virtually impossible.
2.
Although utter transcendence is impossible for the vast majority of us, it can, as I have discussed, be approached. All of us, in fact, could and should come a lot closer to this ideal. We can readily imagine what this ideal would entail as well as we are able to imagine a perfect sphere. So it would help to discuss what mystics have called "self-realization" which I will do now. For the self-realized, there is no separation--the game (lila) of self is what Hindus call maya, illusion. Having gone beyond duality, the 'person" at this stage identifies with the world, nay, has become the whole universe. He or she will indeed turn the other cheek, much as a tree will "turn the other leaf," as it were, to a voracious caterpillar. Now we can appreciate the ridiculousness of the transcendence question. Since the sage has become the world, it is just as likely that another component of the world, say, a stone, would reply. Stones are silent, God is silent, sages are silent.
The question is asked by one individual of another. Having transcended individuality, how could a sage respond? Even we, wordlings that we are, know better. It would be like someone (consciousness) in a house (the body) looking at the world through an open window with utter delight. A neighbor in the next house asks, "Have you overcome the ego?" Saying yes would be like closing the window, getting on a footstool in a rather dark room and telling one's dusky reflection in the mirror, "Oh, I knew it! You're a sage." It is ridiculous enough if a young person exhibits such vanity; in an old person such adolescent self-absorption is truly farcical.
As an older person, I think I am much more practical and much more realistic. It is very difficult to maintain a sense of false pride when one realizes that next year--who knows? one might become an urnfull of ash. My advice to the young and the old is this: forget about idle questions. You will never make progress through chatter. Develop a balanced sense of self--don't ever accept anyone's attempt to make you feel inferior since the aggressor is trying to aggrandize himself and thus find relief from his own sense of inferiority. Develop wisdom and practice compassion. The way to do this was beautifully expressed by Freud: the most important things in life are work and love. Stop all the ego talk! Work as hard as you can at something that you are interested in and in which you, with much effort, can and will develop a just sense of pride. (Make sure it's something that at the very least does no harm.) And love. And love. And love!
6.09.2011
SUFI WISDOM
1.
I've been reading a collection of Sufi sayings--I belong to a book club that reads such things on occasion--and have been favorably impressed. (The book is "Essential Sufism," edited by James Fadiman, HarperOne, 1997.) Many of the terse sayings are familiar to me, some are new. I would like to discuss one of them, which has gotten me thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
First a few words about Sufi sayings in general. They have been a source of wisdom for almost a thousand years. The roots are in Islam, but they go so deep that they reach an area of bedrock which is the foundation of the wisdom common to all cultures. They take up elements of this bedrock from the depths and bring it through the surface, into ordinary stems and leaves; truly extraordinary flowers are a frequent result. The basic tenet of Sufism--similar to the advaita school of Hinduism which has influenced it--is that once one transcends the ego, ecstasy--Oneness with God--is attained. The fact that this wisdom surrounds us like the air we breathe--we need only figure out who (or what?) is doing the breathing--is beautifully expressed by a saying of Kabir included in this anthology: "I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water is thirsty."
Although the roots are multicultural, the flowers are definite products of Islamic soil--and I do mean this as a compliment. There is a tension, though, between faith in a Creator-God and the belief that All is One. I would like to illustrate this tension with two quotes from the book. One, by Sheikh Muzaffer, ends with the following: "Abraham said, 'My Lord is the one who changes things and brings them back. My Lord is the one behind all changes'." A theist of any culture would have no problem with this statement. But what can a theist make of the following: "The same eye which you see God is the same eye which God sees you?" The goal is absolute self-transcendence, but I enjoy how the Sufis play duality both ways. Sometimes they talk of an apparent God who intervenes. This makes sense to many and addresses the needs for the vast majority of humanity for which the ego is an insoluble enigma, resulting in a good deal of pain-and, it must be admitted, when things go right for a while, resulting in (temporary) joy, too. It seems to me that a sense of God and a sense of Ego developed at the same time, thousands and thousands of years ago. They go together, which means that when the ego is transcended, so is God. A Sufi philosopher once summed up the ultimately illusory nature of dichotomies by stating that free will exists on our relative, human plane, but not on the absolute, divine plane. This is, of course, in agreement with the view of most scientists. Separation is illusory. We and our entire world might indeed, according to the latest theories, only exist as holographic representation of information on the surface of a very distant sphere.
2.
Now let us introduce the saying, which is the subject of this essay. It is deceptively simple:
He who knows three things is saved from three things:
Who knows that the Creator made no mistakes at Creation is saved from petty fault finding.
Who knows that He made no favoritism in allotting fortune is saved from jealousy.
Who knows of what he is created is saved from pride.
--Ansari
Deceptively simple, no? If it sounds to you almost like a cliche, remember that a profound saying becomes a cliche only when spoken by someone who doesn't practice it. For instance, "Love your Neighbor" spoken by Leona Helmsley is a cliche; spoken by Martin Luther King it is an astonishing fact that we ignore at our peril.
Yes, the above is the Sufi saying that got me to think and think;
but first, as a student of wisdom traditions, I needed to translate this from theistic into secular terms. Thus translated, the maxim reads as follows:
He who knows three things is saved from three things:
Who knows that the universe follows inexorable laws, is saved from petty fault finding.
Inexorable laws are incompatible with favoritism; who realizes this is saved from jealousy.
Who knows of what he is made of is saved from pride.
Let's discuss the three parts. Regarding the first part, I am reminded of an incident about forty years ago. I was listening to Handel's marvelous oratorio--his last--Jephthah. At the end of the first part is one of the best choruses Handel ever wrote--and that is indeed saying something. The main words of the chorus is "Whatever is is right." I loved the music, but I was furious. So much suffering in the world, and there I was having a tough time of it, too. How can anyone ever believe that, in a world of rampant injustice, whatever is is right? Once again, we have the absolute plane in conflict with the relative plane of life as the ego experiences it. But when one realizes that inner laws, psychological laws, are just as inexorable as physical laws, one puts things into perspective. The universe is the way that it is, and we are the way that we are. Sure it is our nature to try to change things--it is a glorious part of our nature--but that has more to do with software "games" rather than hardware reality. What drives us to make things better, what drives us to make things worse? Our nature, not us; more correctly, nature alone. So the first step toward wisdom is accepting things the way they are. After this is done, there is no petty fault finding, no fault finding at all. What if we perceive our situation to be intolerable? This problem is answered by the second part of the saying.
Who knows that there is no favoritism is saved from jealousy, (better: envy). Envy is a very personal reaction, so let's discuss first the origin of the person. Life has been present on the planet for over three billion years; for all but a tiny fraction of that time, envy, to say the least, was not a problem. To be envious, matter first had to say "I." When and how did this occur? It might antedate humans, but certainly not our hominid ancestors. How did it occur? When nervous systems became more complex, the brain began to get more and more information from internal stimuli. We developed a very sophisticated system of proprioception, which made the organism more and more aware of its position in space. We began to store memories of what our senses presented, very extensive memories. Since nerves can exchange information with many other nerves, we began to think. At a critical point we became "aware" that we are separate from the environment, i.e. individuals. Remember this did not involve any decisions on our part. This "pseudo" separation was a great biological advantage that greatly increased our chances of survival--we could think, create, build--and destroy. Our consciousness is the product of our genes; since we became more adapted to our environment, our genes survived better--and this, from a Darwinian perspective, is what it is all about. Once we thought of ourselves as separate from the environment, we viewed the world as an extension of our selves--and thus were able to create God in our own image. But all this is a choiceless process of our adaptive genes--there is no favoritism here. (Luck and chance are our interpretations of an objective process.) Our sense of competition, will to power and will to love are all biological drives. But for those without power and love--or who imagine themselves so-are, without wisdom, in a very painful state. Jealousies arise--genes are selfish--that can destroy the object of jealousy or, more often, destroy the envious individual form the inside. It is indeed painful, but it helps a great deal when we know it is a natural process. But it also helps to know how we can transcend it--as Freud wonderfully put it, what really matters is work and love. The more we work at something worthwhile and the more we love, the more empowered we feel and the more envy dissipates. But we must remember that the latter is a normal process and not our fault. Not blaming ourselves for our negative emotions, such as jealousy, is an important first step toward wisdom. Once again, there is nothing but nature and her laws; there is no real reason to be jealous.
Let's finish with the last part of the maxim. What are we made of? Nietzsche wrote that God is dead, which many believe. But the soul--the personal self--must die when God as a factual King dies; as discussed before, the two go together. Most scientists do not believe that we are more than matter. Sure, our software is fantastic, but the programs are what Indians call maya. If the show we are watching is so richly complex that we think we are one of the characters of the very earthly play our software presents, this does not make that thought a fact. We should also recall that we are made of elements, and no atom that is within us is different from an atom of the same element that occurs on the outside. Once we realize that we are conscious vehicles created and driven by our genes, pride vanishes.
All this might sound a bit reductionist to you. But recall the purpose of Buddhist reductionism: Buddhists, Sufis, and others like them deconstuct the ego to become gloriously united with something that cannot be put into words, the very opposite of reductionism. If I am a reductionist, I am definitely one of the Buddhist--Hindu--Sufi sort.
What a profound Sufi saying this is! I hope it is making you think and think, too! I am reminded of a poem I wrote years ago, with which I will close:
STONE AND RIVER
Metaphors that help us live here
are chiefly two: stone and river.
Aware of change, afraid to be alone,
most opt for the permanence of stone.
"A boulder at the center reigns;
however fast the current, it remains;
countless unique pebbles at each side
retain their shapes, even if dislodged."
I, I, this is the language of rock.
But everything is swirl and flux:
despite appearance all is sea;
no Me. Fluid all reality.
Nothing to transcend our going?
Everything is water flowing?
Nothing but fate, nothing but chance,
nothing but change? And ecstasy: dance.
I've been reading a collection of Sufi sayings--I belong to a book club that reads such things on occasion--and have been favorably impressed. (The book is "Essential Sufism," edited by James Fadiman, HarperOne, 1997.) Many of the terse sayings are familiar to me, some are new. I would like to discuss one of them, which has gotten me thinking. And thinking. And thinking.
First a few words about Sufi sayings in general. They have been a source of wisdom for almost a thousand years. The roots are in Islam, but they go so deep that they reach an area of bedrock which is the foundation of the wisdom common to all cultures. They take up elements of this bedrock from the depths and bring it through the surface, into ordinary stems and leaves; truly extraordinary flowers are a frequent result. The basic tenet of Sufism--similar to the advaita school of Hinduism which has influenced it--is that once one transcends the ego, ecstasy--Oneness with God--is attained. The fact that this wisdom surrounds us like the air we breathe--we need only figure out who (or what?) is doing the breathing--is beautifully expressed by a saying of Kabir included in this anthology: "I laugh when I hear that the fish in the water is thirsty."
Although the roots are multicultural, the flowers are definite products of Islamic soil--and I do mean this as a compliment. There is a tension, though, between faith in a Creator-God and the belief that All is One. I would like to illustrate this tension with two quotes from the book. One, by Sheikh Muzaffer, ends with the following: "Abraham said, 'My Lord is the one who changes things and brings them back. My Lord is the one behind all changes'." A theist of any culture would have no problem with this statement. But what can a theist make of the following: "The same eye which you see God is the same eye which God sees you?" The goal is absolute self-transcendence, but I enjoy how the Sufis play duality both ways. Sometimes they talk of an apparent God who intervenes. This makes sense to many and addresses the needs for the vast majority of humanity for which the ego is an insoluble enigma, resulting in a good deal of pain-and, it must be admitted, when things go right for a while, resulting in (temporary) joy, too. It seems to me that a sense of God and a sense of Ego developed at the same time, thousands and thousands of years ago. They go together, which means that when the ego is transcended, so is God. A Sufi philosopher once summed up the ultimately illusory nature of dichotomies by stating that free will exists on our relative, human plane, but not on the absolute, divine plane. This is, of course, in agreement with the view of most scientists. Separation is illusory. We and our entire world might indeed, according to the latest theories, only exist as holographic representation of information on the surface of a very distant sphere.
2.
Now let us introduce the saying, which is the subject of this essay. It is deceptively simple:
He who knows three things is saved from three things:
Who knows that the Creator made no mistakes at Creation is saved from petty fault finding.
Who knows that He made no favoritism in allotting fortune is saved from jealousy.
Who knows of what he is created is saved from pride.
--Ansari
Deceptively simple, no? If it sounds to you almost like a cliche, remember that a profound saying becomes a cliche only when spoken by someone who doesn't practice it. For instance, "Love your Neighbor" spoken by Leona Helmsley is a cliche; spoken by Martin Luther King it is an astonishing fact that we ignore at our peril.
Yes, the above is the Sufi saying that got me to think and think;
but first, as a student of wisdom traditions, I needed to translate this from theistic into secular terms. Thus translated, the maxim reads as follows:
He who knows three things is saved from three things:
Who knows that the universe follows inexorable laws, is saved from petty fault finding.
Inexorable laws are incompatible with favoritism; who realizes this is saved from jealousy.
Who knows of what he is made of is saved from pride.
Let's discuss the three parts. Regarding the first part, I am reminded of an incident about forty years ago. I was listening to Handel's marvelous oratorio--his last--Jephthah. At the end of the first part is one of the best choruses Handel ever wrote--and that is indeed saying something. The main words of the chorus is "Whatever is is right." I loved the music, but I was furious. So much suffering in the world, and there I was having a tough time of it, too. How can anyone ever believe that, in a world of rampant injustice, whatever is is right? Once again, we have the absolute plane in conflict with the relative plane of life as the ego experiences it. But when one realizes that inner laws, psychological laws, are just as inexorable as physical laws, one puts things into perspective. The universe is the way that it is, and we are the way that we are. Sure it is our nature to try to change things--it is a glorious part of our nature--but that has more to do with software "games" rather than hardware reality. What drives us to make things better, what drives us to make things worse? Our nature, not us; more correctly, nature alone. So the first step toward wisdom is accepting things the way they are. After this is done, there is no petty fault finding, no fault finding at all. What if we perceive our situation to be intolerable? This problem is answered by the second part of the saying.
Who knows that there is no favoritism is saved from jealousy, (better: envy). Envy is a very personal reaction, so let's discuss first the origin of the person. Life has been present on the planet for over three billion years; for all but a tiny fraction of that time, envy, to say the least, was not a problem. To be envious, matter first had to say "I." When and how did this occur? It might antedate humans, but certainly not our hominid ancestors. How did it occur? When nervous systems became more complex, the brain began to get more and more information from internal stimuli. We developed a very sophisticated system of proprioception, which made the organism more and more aware of its position in space. We began to store memories of what our senses presented, very extensive memories. Since nerves can exchange information with many other nerves, we began to think. At a critical point we became "aware" that we are separate from the environment, i.e. individuals. Remember this did not involve any decisions on our part. This "pseudo" separation was a great biological advantage that greatly increased our chances of survival--we could think, create, build--and destroy. Our consciousness is the product of our genes; since we became more adapted to our environment, our genes survived better--and this, from a Darwinian perspective, is what it is all about. Once we thought of ourselves as separate from the environment, we viewed the world as an extension of our selves--and thus were able to create God in our own image. But all this is a choiceless process of our adaptive genes--there is no favoritism here. (Luck and chance are our interpretations of an objective process.) Our sense of competition, will to power and will to love are all biological drives. But for those without power and love--or who imagine themselves so-are, without wisdom, in a very painful state. Jealousies arise--genes are selfish--that can destroy the object of jealousy or, more often, destroy the envious individual form the inside. It is indeed painful, but it helps a great deal when we know it is a natural process. But it also helps to know how we can transcend it--as Freud wonderfully put it, what really matters is work and love. The more we work at something worthwhile and the more we love, the more empowered we feel and the more envy dissipates. But we must remember that the latter is a normal process and not our fault. Not blaming ourselves for our negative emotions, such as jealousy, is an important first step toward wisdom. Once again, there is nothing but nature and her laws; there is no real reason to be jealous.
Let's finish with the last part of the maxim. What are we made of? Nietzsche wrote that God is dead, which many believe. But the soul--the personal self--must die when God as a factual King dies; as discussed before, the two go together. Most scientists do not believe that we are more than matter. Sure, our software is fantastic, but the programs are what Indians call maya. If the show we are watching is so richly complex that we think we are one of the characters of the very earthly play our software presents, this does not make that thought a fact. We should also recall that we are made of elements, and no atom that is within us is different from an atom of the same element that occurs on the outside. Once we realize that we are conscious vehicles created and driven by our genes, pride vanishes.
All this might sound a bit reductionist to you. But recall the purpose of Buddhist reductionism: Buddhists, Sufis, and others like them deconstuct the ego to become gloriously united with something that cannot be put into words, the very opposite of reductionism. If I am a reductionist, I am definitely one of the Buddhist--Hindu--Sufi sort.
What a profound Sufi saying this is! I hope it is making you think and think, too! I am reminded of a poem I wrote years ago, with which I will close:
STONE AND RIVER
Metaphors that help us live here
are chiefly two: stone and river.
Aware of change, afraid to be alone,
most opt for the permanence of stone.
"A boulder at the center reigns;
however fast the current, it remains;
countless unique pebbles at each side
retain their shapes, even if dislodged."
I, I, this is the language of rock.
But everything is swirl and flux:
despite appearance all is sea;
no Me. Fluid all reality.
Nothing to transcend our going?
Everything is water flowing?
Nothing but fate, nothing but chance,
nothing but change? And ecstasy: dance.
4.26.2011
Rilke, Roethke, Lessetier: Three Poems About Alcohol
1.
My mentor in poetry, the renowned Philippine poet Jose Garcia Villa, once told me about his visit to a famous painter--I forget who--(This was over forty years ago.) A guest at the painter's remarked about a "delightful" painting on the wall--"How happy those bright colors look," the guest effused. "It's a good example of how art can lift one's spirits!" "Oh, that one," the painter replied, "I painted that during the time I was contemplating suicide."
This, I think, is a good example of why we should not assume that every work of art is autobiographical. An artist is like a mansion; a mansion has many rooms. The belief that art is merely confessional is especially pernicious in respect to poetry, since poetry is a very intimate medium. Many readers, who probably had written bad confessional poetry when young, forget that good poetry is good fiction. Poetry, I believe, should be autobiographical in the broadest sense, that is, having to do with inner and outer aspects of being human. No, I'm not advocating essays in verse--in poetry, language is always primary. This does not mean that meaning is not important.
In this essay I will discuss three poems about alcholism. They are the best poems about this affliction that I know. I'm not sure that any of them are autobiograpical; the best one is by Rilke, who certainly did not have a drinking problem. Substance abuse has been a problem for centuries; these poems address the issue in different ways and are, in their respective ways, profound. First of all, though, as poems must, they delight us as poems. Both form and content will be discussed, as is appropriate when writing criticism.
Let's start with Rilke.
2. Das Lied des Trinkers
Es war nicht in mir. Es ging aus und ein.
Ich wollte es halten. Da hielt es der Wein.
(Ich weiss nicht mehr, was es war.)
Dann hielt er mir jenes und hielt mir dies
bis ich mich ganz auf ihn verliess.
Ich Narr.
Jetzt bin ich in seinem Spiel und er streut
mich veraectlich und verliert mich noch heut
an dieses Vieh, an den Tod.
Wenn der mich, schmutzige Karte, gewinnt,
so kratzt er mit seinem grauen Grind
und wirft mich fort in den Kot.
Prose translation:
It wasn't in me. It came and it went.
I wanted to keep it. Wine did that.
(I don't know any more what it was.)
Then wine held this and wine held that
until I became wine's tool--
what a fool!
Now I'm part of his card game. He deals me out
with disdain and just might lose me tonight
to that beast, Death.
If that one wins me, a filthy card,
he'll scratch a gray scab with me
then throw me off into muck.
Needless to say, the German is vastly superior to the English version; since I do not assume much, if any, knowledge of German among readers of this article, I won't descant on the poem's verbal virtues. The impressive understament of the poem--always a plus in poetry--and the psychological depth is apparent even in translation. (One should recall that Lou Andras Solome, Rilke's longtime friend and sometime lover, introduced him to Frued, literally and figuratively.) A lot is said in this short poem. The pre-addict did not feel good, did not feel normal. He or she is like a lizard, cold-blooded, at the mercy of the elements, lacking means to provide himself with inner warmth. An intolerable situation that finds temporary relief by getting drunk. Remember the medieval sculptures on certain European cathedrals in which a handsome prince--the devil--proffers a delicious apple? Look at the back of the statue and you see writhing serpents. In this case, the prince offers a chalice full of wine. How beautifully Rilke sums up the entire sitiuation in the last line of the first stanza! But, as this line informs, it is too late. Now wine is in complete control. In the second stanza, it becomes apparent that wine is a buddy of death. They are now two Bruegel monsters playing cards. The protagonist has lost his humanity; he now is nothing but a dirty thing, a soiled card. Death scratches a scab with the card that was once a human being, and throws it into a pile of filth.
I know of no other poem that depicts the horror of addiction better than this one. The last lines in German have an extremely powerful impact; they are truly chilling. The rhythm and the words of these lines form an incomparable expression of a human being having become a thing in the hands of an indifferent beast, oblivion.
3. MY PAPA'S WALTZ
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unform itself.
The hand that held my wrist
We battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
--Theodore Roethke
I like to think of the poem as one written by the drunkard of Rilke's poem, when he was at the point in his life depicted by the last line of the first stanza--alcohol has taken over his life and has begun to poison his family. This poem is also a great example of understatement, making the horror all the more harrowing. The father has a wound on his hand, perhaps from falling while drunk. He is unaware that the buckle of his belt is scraping his son's ear--something that a father should indeed be aware of! The belt suggests abuse, perhaps even sexual abuse, since the boy's head is at the father's waist. Violence is suggested by his keeping time--presumably roughly--on his son's head. The poor child is being forced to dance with a father just about out of control--a frightening prospect. We assume that a grown man is recalling a scene from his childhood--we also assume that the man is scarred by such events--who wouldn't be? This, of course, is only suggested--why else would the man recall this? (Well, it's more than suggested: the boy hangs on like "death" indicating how emotionally wounded he is.) What I would like to bring to attention, however, is line three of the second stanza. All the other lines are in iambic rhythm--the regular rhythm suggests the unfortunate dance. But the stress on "my" and the on the first syllable of "countenance" make this line stand out. Even though the mother is only mentioned in this and the subsequent line, the stress of the "mother-line" gives her great importance. And it is a negative one: she disapproves of the father's action, but is unwilling or unable--perhaps he would then abuse her--to intervene. She is a so-called "enabler"--beautifully expressed by stressing her importance with a new rhythm, and stressing her inablity to help her son. Roethke does this so subtly--the rhythm change here is a true masterstroke! If you were raised in a alcoholic family, as I was, you know very well what this poem relates: helplessness and terror. The poem is a little masterpiece.
3. THE DRUNKARD
I came off the bottle screaming;
until it became my sole friend
decades later, hope kept me weaned
with pure lies. Now that youth
is long past, I face facts:
my only fear is life itself;
weaning a baby from whiskey, again, again,
my sole acts of bravery.
(My father's cruel binges taught me
cowardice
may have nothing to do with fulfillment or God
but it's safe.)
As a child, I pictured heaven
as my own room where I
curl beneath the thickest blankets
with heroes on TV forever and
that's what I got and it's hell.
--Robert Lessetier
I find this poem to be very moving. I like to think that the child in Roethke's poem has grown up and has become an alcoholic himself. It is well known that children of alcoholics tend to withdraw and have difficulty making friends--childhood damage that remains for life, an affliction, I might add, that is very familiar to me. The protagonist of this poem uses alcohol in a different way from Rilke's protagonist, who begins to use the drug because he feels something important is missing in his life, and uses alcohol in an attempt to retrieve it. He is probably a first-generation alcoholic. It is differennt in this poem. The poor man here is using alcohol to remove the anxiety caused by his traumatic upbringing. And, like Rilke's addict, alcohol takes over his life and destroys any chance of his becoming a mature adult. I love the emphasis on "cowardice"--the only word in line two of stanza two. The protagonist blames himself and judges himself harshly. What he only wants is peace and to be left alone--he has withdrawn from everything since everything provokes anxiety. This is of course no way to live and inevitably leads to a wasted, unhappy life. The end of the poem is quite effective--Be careful what you wish for, lest you obtain it! He is caught in a vise--one side prevents him from engaging in life and the other side crushes with the realization of how devastating the resultant loneliness is. A very true-to-life and effective portrait of the ravages of alcohol on children and the adults they become.
I find all three poems to be noteworthy portrayals of the horrors of alcoholism-- very effective both in what they reveal and how they reveal it. I hope you enjoyed this essay; I enjoyed writing it for you. After writing about these poems, however, I think I will skip my usual evening glass of wine and have some green tea!
My mentor in poetry, the renowned Philippine poet Jose Garcia Villa, once told me about his visit to a famous painter--I forget who--(This was over forty years ago.) A guest at the painter's remarked about a "delightful" painting on the wall--"How happy those bright colors look," the guest effused. "It's a good example of how art can lift one's spirits!" "Oh, that one," the painter replied, "I painted that during the time I was contemplating suicide."
This, I think, is a good example of why we should not assume that every work of art is autobiographical. An artist is like a mansion; a mansion has many rooms. The belief that art is merely confessional is especially pernicious in respect to poetry, since poetry is a very intimate medium. Many readers, who probably had written bad confessional poetry when young, forget that good poetry is good fiction. Poetry, I believe, should be autobiographical in the broadest sense, that is, having to do with inner and outer aspects of being human. No, I'm not advocating essays in verse--in poetry, language is always primary. This does not mean that meaning is not important.
In this essay I will discuss three poems about alcholism. They are the best poems about this affliction that I know. I'm not sure that any of them are autobiograpical; the best one is by Rilke, who certainly did not have a drinking problem. Substance abuse has been a problem for centuries; these poems address the issue in different ways and are, in their respective ways, profound. First of all, though, as poems must, they delight us as poems. Both form and content will be discussed, as is appropriate when writing criticism.
Let's start with Rilke.
2. Das Lied des Trinkers
Es war nicht in mir. Es ging aus und ein.
Ich wollte es halten. Da hielt es der Wein.
(Ich weiss nicht mehr, was es war.)
Dann hielt er mir jenes und hielt mir dies
bis ich mich ganz auf ihn verliess.
Ich Narr.
Jetzt bin ich in seinem Spiel und er streut
mich veraectlich und verliert mich noch heut
an dieses Vieh, an den Tod.
Wenn der mich, schmutzige Karte, gewinnt,
so kratzt er mit seinem grauen Grind
und wirft mich fort in den Kot.
Prose translation:
It wasn't in me. It came and it went.
I wanted to keep it. Wine did that.
(I don't know any more what it was.)
Then wine held this and wine held that
until I became wine's tool--
what a fool!
Now I'm part of his card game. He deals me out
with disdain and just might lose me tonight
to that beast, Death.
If that one wins me, a filthy card,
he'll scratch a gray scab with me
then throw me off into muck.
Needless to say, the German is vastly superior to the English version; since I do not assume much, if any, knowledge of German among readers of this article, I won't descant on the poem's verbal virtues. The impressive understament of the poem--always a plus in poetry--and the psychological depth is apparent even in translation. (One should recall that Lou Andras Solome, Rilke's longtime friend and sometime lover, introduced him to Frued, literally and figuratively.) A lot is said in this short poem. The pre-addict did not feel good, did not feel normal. He or she is like a lizard, cold-blooded, at the mercy of the elements, lacking means to provide himself with inner warmth. An intolerable situation that finds temporary relief by getting drunk. Remember the medieval sculptures on certain European cathedrals in which a handsome prince--the devil--proffers a delicious apple? Look at the back of the statue and you see writhing serpents. In this case, the prince offers a chalice full of wine. How beautifully Rilke sums up the entire sitiuation in the last line of the first stanza! But, as this line informs, it is too late. Now wine is in complete control. In the second stanza, it becomes apparent that wine is a buddy of death. They are now two Bruegel monsters playing cards. The protagonist has lost his humanity; he now is nothing but a dirty thing, a soiled card. Death scratches a scab with the card that was once a human being, and throws it into a pile of filth.
I know of no other poem that depicts the horror of addiction better than this one. The last lines in German have an extremely powerful impact; they are truly chilling. The rhythm and the words of these lines form an incomparable expression of a human being having become a thing in the hands of an indifferent beast, oblivion.
3. MY PAPA'S WALTZ
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother's countenance
Could not unform itself.
The hand that held my wrist
We battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
--Theodore Roethke
I like to think of the poem as one written by the drunkard of Rilke's poem, when he was at the point in his life depicted by the last line of the first stanza--alcohol has taken over his life and has begun to poison his family. This poem is also a great example of understatement, making the horror all the more harrowing. The father has a wound on his hand, perhaps from falling while drunk. He is unaware that the buckle of his belt is scraping his son's ear--something that a father should indeed be aware of! The belt suggests abuse, perhaps even sexual abuse, since the boy's head is at the father's waist. Violence is suggested by his keeping time--presumably roughly--on his son's head. The poor child is being forced to dance with a father just about out of control--a frightening prospect. We assume that a grown man is recalling a scene from his childhood--we also assume that the man is scarred by such events--who wouldn't be? This, of course, is only suggested--why else would the man recall this? (Well, it's more than suggested: the boy hangs on like "death" indicating how emotionally wounded he is.) What I would like to bring to attention, however, is line three of the second stanza. All the other lines are in iambic rhythm--the regular rhythm suggests the unfortunate dance. But the stress on "my" and the on the first syllable of "countenance" make this line stand out. Even though the mother is only mentioned in this and the subsequent line, the stress of the "mother-line" gives her great importance. And it is a negative one: she disapproves of the father's action, but is unwilling or unable--perhaps he would then abuse her--to intervene. She is a so-called "enabler"--beautifully expressed by stressing her importance with a new rhythm, and stressing her inablity to help her son. Roethke does this so subtly--the rhythm change here is a true masterstroke! If you were raised in a alcoholic family, as I was, you know very well what this poem relates: helplessness and terror. The poem is a little masterpiece.
3. THE DRUNKARD
I came off the bottle screaming;
until it became my sole friend
decades later, hope kept me weaned
with pure lies. Now that youth
is long past, I face facts:
my only fear is life itself;
weaning a baby from whiskey, again, again,
my sole acts of bravery.
(My father's cruel binges taught me
cowardice
may have nothing to do with fulfillment or God
but it's safe.)
As a child, I pictured heaven
as my own room where I
curl beneath the thickest blankets
with heroes on TV forever and
that's what I got and it's hell.
--Robert Lessetier
I find this poem to be very moving. I like to think that the child in Roethke's poem has grown up and has become an alcoholic himself. It is well known that children of alcoholics tend to withdraw and have difficulty making friends--childhood damage that remains for life, an affliction, I might add, that is very familiar to me. The protagonist of this poem uses alcohol in a different way from Rilke's protagonist, who begins to use the drug because he feels something important is missing in his life, and uses alcohol in an attempt to retrieve it. He is probably a first-generation alcoholic. It is differennt in this poem. The poor man here is using alcohol to remove the anxiety caused by his traumatic upbringing. And, like Rilke's addict, alcohol takes over his life and destroys any chance of his becoming a mature adult. I love the emphasis on "cowardice"--the only word in line two of stanza two. The protagonist blames himself and judges himself harshly. What he only wants is peace and to be left alone--he has withdrawn from everything since everything provokes anxiety. This is of course no way to live and inevitably leads to a wasted, unhappy life. The end of the poem is quite effective--Be careful what you wish for, lest you obtain it! He is caught in a vise--one side prevents him from engaging in life and the other side crushes with the realization of how devastating the resultant loneliness is. A very true-to-life and effective portrait of the ravages of alcohol on children and the adults they become.
I find all three poems to be noteworthy portrayals of the horrors of alcoholism-- very effective both in what they reveal and how they reveal it. I hope you enjoyed this essay; I enjoyed writing it for you. After writing about these poems, however, I think I will skip my usual evening glass of wine and have some green tea!
4.10.2011
RILKE AND POETRY AFTER SIXTY
Beginning next week, I have the privilege to give a little course about the great poet, Rilke, at Oshler Lifetime Learning Institute at Towson University. The center targets people over fifty, but most are over sixty, hence the title of this little essay. The three previous courses that I gave at Towson were on Thomas Mann, Kafka and Camus. Since I am a poet, I thought it was time to discuss a poet, even though reading Rilke is not always easy.
The two points I want to make in this essay are that the understanding of poetry for the average reader is easier as one gets older and that discussing Rilke in English translation is a very difficult task.
1.
It has been my experience that poetry comes easier to children, becomes increasingly more difficult with the onset of puberty and returns in one's later years. (I am discussing the average individual, of course, not poets or those who read poetry regularly--the latter becoming so rare that both the former and the latter are, I fear, almost one and the same.)
Children below eight or nine tend to think in concrete terms, have little sense of abstraction, and, trained on nursery rhymes, have a sense of rhythm. They are typically not afraid to dance or sing, much of the desire for which wanes as self-conscious individuality develops. Well, let me stop writing abstractly and turn to a striking example of a child's poem. She was Chinese, and, about five years old. A poet through Poets In The Schools conducted a little writing exercise in a New York City pre-school, and was astonished by the little girl's poem:
YELLOW
Yellow, yellow, yellow.
The sky is yellow
The sun is yellow
My skin is yellow
Must be a yellow day!
Isn't that delightful? It reads very well, like a good nursery rhyme. And notice how she joins macrocosm to microcosm--so frequent in Shakespeare and so often the cause of poetic catharsis. First comes sky, then the sun beyond the sky--and then the skin which is right here. She unites all of these, proclaiming like a little Sufi that everything is one. And notice that she does this without a hint of abstraction, like a true little poet. I find these lines amazing, especially since it isn't written by an author playing faux-naif, but by an "innocent" child!
This ability declines rapidly as adolescence approaches. From that time into old age, Wordsworth's "The world is too much with us," applies--meaning, of course, the world of the ego. The adolescent for the first time becomes acutely aware of his own individuality, limitations, and the increasing impositions of culture. Learning isn't just a thing to do, it has a specific goal: success in the workplace. During this time of life, what I call prose-thinking dominates.
As a physician, I have seen many poems written by adolescents over the years. I put them into two categories, the "Ode to Death," ones by depressed adolescents and the "Ode to Love," ones by those who have been wounded by Cupid. Both varieties are invariably terrible. I was in an adult poetry workshop in the sixties; the instructor, who was perhaps too direct, told us he had to have a few martinis before class so he could stomach reading our poems. Too right, too rude.
After one realizes that the mark one has left on life is not in indelible ink and will soon wash off, a different mind-set arises. One has put one's individuality in perspective. No need to impress, no need to compete. One appreciates life day by day. One no longer has to be so functional--one can play as an adult child. If this stage of life is preceded by a well-integrated middle-age, it can be delightful.
As an example, I offer a poem by my mother, who never wrote a poem in her life until well into her sixties, and then for only a week or two. She wrote it years after my brother married a Chinese woman. (Note: it is a joke; she was very fond of her daughter-in-law and of us)
FORTUNE COOKIE
One son
Two son
Woe is me!
Two son
One son
Woe is she!
My mother explained to me that the last line is not a grammatical error made to accommodate a rhyme. She meant that her daughter-in-law now personifies Woe, has become Woe, after marrying my brother. This poem is not as good as the five year old's but it's not bad--it is unburdened by abstractions, is understated and contains wordplay, humor--and a surprise ending that surprised even her as she made sense of it later. This is a principle of poetry: letting language take you where it wants to go, and, if need be, editing the text afterwards.
2.
I was astounded to find a poem by Rilke that illustrates the three ages of poetic life. I was also astounded to discover that the competent translator missed the point entirely. Rilke, whose poetry is first of all musical, also contains deep meaning. Since this and many other examples of botched translation that fail to convey the music and/or meaning, I chose a bilingual edition. I will have a lot of explaining to do! Here is the poem and translation:
Ich finde dich in allen diesen Dingen,
denen ich gut und wie ein Bruder bin;
als Samen sonnst du dich in den geringen
und in den grossen giebst du gross dich hin.
Das ist das wundersame Spiel der Kraefte,
dass sie so diendend durch die Dinge gehn:
in Wurzeln wachsend, shwindend in die Schaefte
und in den Wipfeln wie ein Auferstehn.
I find you, Lord, in all Things and in all
my fellow creatures, pulsing with your life;
as a tiny seed you sleep in what is small
and in the vast you vastly yield yourself.
The wondrous game that power plays with Things
is to move in such submission through the world:
groping in roots and growing thick in trunks
and in treetops like a rising from the dead.
A prose translation: I find you in all these things which I love and to which I am like a brother; you sun yourself as seed in little things and in great things you enter greatly. That powers enter things in such an accommodative manner is a strange game: growing in roots, fading into the trunks, and in the treetops like a resurrection.
I don't want to burden the reader with a line-by-line account of what has been lost in translation here. The reader is invited to do that herself. I will address only the last two lines, which contain the gist of the poem--as good last lines do--which was totally missed by the translation: growing in roots (like the poetry of children); fading in tree trunks (like the poetry of adolescence and average adults), and then, resurrection--the return of poetry. In other words: the stage of children's (poetic) delights, followed by the stage of the Ego's (prosy) burdens, followed by the final stage: the delight of a child resurrected in an experienced adult.
Next week I will do my best to overcome inadequate translations to help my students appreciate a major poet. I also espect that our advanced years will make my job a little easier.
The two points I want to make in this essay are that the understanding of poetry for the average reader is easier as one gets older and that discussing Rilke in English translation is a very difficult task.
1.
It has been my experience that poetry comes easier to children, becomes increasingly more difficult with the onset of puberty and returns in one's later years. (I am discussing the average individual, of course, not poets or those who read poetry regularly--the latter becoming so rare that both the former and the latter are, I fear, almost one and the same.)
Children below eight or nine tend to think in concrete terms, have little sense of abstraction, and, trained on nursery rhymes, have a sense of rhythm. They are typically not afraid to dance or sing, much of the desire for which wanes as self-conscious individuality develops. Well, let me stop writing abstractly and turn to a striking example of a child's poem. She was Chinese, and, about five years old. A poet through Poets In The Schools conducted a little writing exercise in a New York City pre-school, and was astonished by the little girl's poem:
YELLOW
Yellow, yellow, yellow.
The sky is yellow
The sun is yellow
My skin is yellow
Must be a yellow day!
Isn't that delightful? It reads very well, like a good nursery rhyme. And notice how she joins macrocosm to microcosm--so frequent in Shakespeare and so often the cause of poetic catharsis. First comes sky, then the sun beyond the sky--and then the skin which is right here. She unites all of these, proclaiming like a little Sufi that everything is one. And notice that she does this without a hint of abstraction, like a true little poet. I find these lines amazing, especially since it isn't written by an author playing faux-naif, but by an "innocent" child!
This ability declines rapidly as adolescence approaches. From that time into old age, Wordsworth's "The world is too much with us," applies--meaning, of course, the world of the ego. The adolescent for the first time becomes acutely aware of his own individuality, limitations, and the increasing impositions of culture. Learning isn't just a thing to do, it has a specific goal: success in the workplace. During this time of life, what I call prose-thinking dominates.
As a physician, I have seen many poems written by adolescents over the years. I put them into two categories, the "Ode to Death," ones by depressed adolescents and the "Ode to Love," ones by those who have been wounded by Cupid. Both varieties are invariably terrible. I was in an adult poetry workshop in the sixties; the instructor, who was perhaps too direct, told us he had to have a few martinis before class so he could stomach reading our poems. Too right, too rude.
After one realizes that the mark one has left on life is not in indelible ink and will soon wash off, a different mind-set arises. One has put one's individuality in perspective. No need to impress, no need to compete. One appreciates life day by day. One no longer has to be so functional--one can play as an adult child. If this stage of life is preceded by a well-integrated middle-age, it can be delightful.
As an example, I offer a poem by my mother, who never wrote a poem in her life until well into her sixties, and then for only a week or two. She wrote it years after my brother married a Chinese woman. (Note: it is a joke; she was very fond of her daughter-in-law and of us)
FORTUNE COOKIE
One son
Two son
Woe is me!
Two son
One son
Woe is she!
My mother explained to me that the last line is not a grammatical error made to accommodate a rhyme. She meant that her daughter-in-law now personifies Woe, has become Woe, after marrying my brother. This poem is not as good as the five year old's but it's not bad--it is unburdened by abstractions, is understated and contains wordplay, humor--and a surprise ending that surprised even her as she made sense of it later. This is a principle of poetry: letting language take you where it wants to go, and, if need be, editing the text afterwards.
2.
I was astounded to find a poem by Rilke that illustrates the three ages of poetic life. I was also astounded to discover that the competent translator missed the point entirely. Rilke, whose poetry is first of all musical, also contains deep meaning. Since this and many other examples of botched translation that fail to convey the music and/or meaning, I chose a bilingual edition. I will have a lot of explaining to do! Here is the poem and translation:
Ich finde dich in allen diesen Dingen,
denen ich gut und wie ein Bruder bin;
als Samen sonnst du dich in den geringen
und in den grossen giebst du gross dich hin.
Das ist das wundersame Spiel der Kraefte,
dass sie so diendend durch die Dinge gehn:
in Wurzeln wachsend, shwindend in die Schaefte
und in den Wipfeln wie ein Auferstehn.
I find you, Lord, in all Things and in all
my fellow creatures, pulsing with your life;
as a tiny seed you sleep in what is small
and in the vast you vastly yield yourself.
The wondrous game that power plays with Things
is to move in such submission through the world:
groping in roots and growing thick in trunks
and in treetops like a rising from the dead.
A prose translation: I find you in all these things which I love and to which I am like a brother; you sun yourself as seed in little things and in great things you enter greatly. That powers enter things in such an accommodative manner is a strange game: growing in roots, fading into the trunks, and in the treetops like a resurrection.
I don't want to burden the reader with a line-by-line account of what has been lost in translation here. The reader is invited to do that herself. I will address only the last two lines, which contain the gist of the poem--as good last lines do--which was totally missed by the translation: growing in roots (like the poetry of children); fading in tree trunks (like the poetry of adolescence and average adults), and then, resurrection--the return of poetry. In other words: the stage of children's (poetic) delights, followed by the stage of the Ego's (prosy) burdens, followed by the final stage: the delight of a child resurrected in an experienced adult.
Next week I will do my best to overcome inadequate translations to help my students appreciate a major poet. I also espect that our advanced years will make my job a little easier.
4.01.2011
SWEET HONEY IN THE ROCK, MAHALIA JACKSON AND A BIT OF NIETZSCHE
We have recently been celebrating my wife's birthday with many activities, including concerts. Among these were an Indian dance concert at Kennedy Center, an extraordinary performance of Mozart's 23rd piano concerto by Christoph Eschenbach, and an unforgettable performance of Lutoslawski's Concerto for Orchesta at the B.S.O. The last of the concerts is discussed in this little essay, a performance by Sweet Honey in the Rock.
Many of you are probably familiar with this excellent a capella African-American female group; if you aren't I suggest you should. Founded in Washington D.C. back in 1973, the group, composed of five singers few of whom are original members, sings Gospel, spirituals, political, and secular--sometimes even saucy--songs. When they are good, they are very very good indeed. During this performance--we had heard them before--the emphasis was on spiritual music. They began with the familiar spiritual, "I been buked and I been scorned; I been talked about sure's yaw born." What lovely words, and what even lovelier music. They sang it with elegance and deep emotion; it was a wonderful moment. They then sang a spiritual that I've heard before but I don't know by name. It was about someone at a dying person's bedside providing consolation and asking the dying person to greet their common friends and relatives on the other side. Such a premise has indeed wound up in horrible, cliched music, but this is never the case with spirituals. They can move the most sophisticated--provided that the listeners haven't lost their soul. What might sound kitschy without the music is profound with it. I was moved almost to tears. Later came the familiar and wonderful "Somebody callin my name, O Lordy...What shall I do?" Again, wonderful words and even more wonderful music. They were perhaps a bit too mellow here, at least for my taste--There is a very gripping performance of this spiritual on CD, sung beautifully by Jessye Norman, accompanied by a mostly white chorus, which was excellent.
The newer music, including numbers composed by members of this impressive group, was less successful. This is one of the points I want to make--This is not a very religious age, and newer spiritual music is often much less, well, musical, than the great works of the past. One of the pieces included such horrible lines as "Sacred is the milk from the bosom of Mother Nature"--a line one could imagine that a ten year old with a lot to learn might come up with. The music wasn't much better, although when sung by such talented musicians, almost anything can sound good. The exception was a new song written by one of the most dignified members of the group. Both the words and music are good. The song included such lines that state that, once one is deeply religious, "It doesn't matter if you're here or there." The rest of the lyric and the music matched this deep level of understanding, as opposed to the New-Age cliches of the song mentioned before this one. It wasn't nearly as deeply moving as the spirituals, but it was a bona fide religious song, a rarity for this age.
Comparing the spirituals with the newer music, I thought of what an old friend once told me, "What's good for the Jews is bad for Judaism and what's good for Judaism is bad for the Jews." We can see the same principle at work in the increased amount of concern for others among the Japanese in response to their recent national disaster. The premise is this: it is in the times of great pressure when diamonds are created. Among the jewels of the spirit composed in difficult times are spirituals. They are truly amazing. They have no bitterness, egotism, superficiality and lack all the glittery things modern music is full of. They go right to the jugular and yet have great artistry--which includes, of course, understatement and restraint. My view of this is that during times of great oppression, superficial persons either do not survive, or are crushed into silence, or become profound. Another way of saying this is evinced by Nietzsche's great dictum: whatever almost kills you makes you stronger. No decent person could ever advocate bringing back say, slavery, to get great music, but music, unfortunately, like everything else, tends to be contaminated by froth during fat times. (Perhaps there is a Darwinian explanation of depression here: the dissatisfied separate themselves from the group and create, the results of which abet survival.) What a world we would have if the haves could submerge their superficiality in the servce to, and love of, the so many million of have-nots! We would not only have better people, but better art. What's good for prosperity is bad for the spirit, what's bad for the spirit is good for prosperity--Too, too bad.
When I was a lot younger, I would often dance to the music of Mahalia Jackson with my African-American son, Philip, who was a toddler at the time. The music moved me very much and still does. Some years later, I wrote the following poem, which touches on the theme of this article. (This poem, by the way, resulted in the greatest compliment one of my poems ever received. An English professor was so moved by this poem that he carried a copy of it in his wallet.) I want to assure you that I do not share--far from it--the sunny-nunny view that God never gives more suffering than one can handle. A lot of good people go under when times get rough; others, afflicted by adverse personal or political events, are sometimes transformed and reach a stage that the rest of us find hard to imagine. When they become artists, a sensitive person's viceral response is both delight and awe.
HOMAGE TO MAHALIA JACKSON
1.
At the very height of suffering,
most are destroyed; the wounded rest
survive to limp toward nothing
on paths short or long; lost
except for very, very few
who become immortal songs.
From her best recordings I imagine
the transport of Aquinas’s last years.
Dust has no kingdom in such music:
to her, death’s a gate we pass through
on the low road to glory; Lordy,
who can hear and believe she was wrong?
2.
Despite music, darkness reigns
still inside, outside us.
Which is final? Who has ears,
hear her, singing conviction,
especially Lazarus, lost in affliction:
light, pure light, it can reach you.
3.
Her message was joy
because she knew
her people then
could ill afford
the luxury of sadness.
Poverty, madness,
and hate’s unbearable load
had killed far too many
for her to sing blues.
No girl’s or boy’s
lament over toys
broken in two
by hard fate in
her! On sorrow’s road
she reveals joy which is
got without illness
or drugs: (Lord,
Lord, this simple woman,
how well she knew
what God is!) love.
Many of you are probably familiar with this excellent a capella African-American female group; if you aren't I suggest you should. Founded in Washington D.C. back in 1973, the group, composed of five singers few of whom are original members, sings Gospel, spirituals, political, and secular--sometimes even saucy--songs. When they are good, they are very very good indeed. During this performance--we had heard them before--the emphasis was on spiritual music. They began with the familiar spiritual, "I been buked and I been scorned; I been talked about sure's yaw born." What lovely words, and what even lovelier music. They sang it with elegance and deep emotion; it was a wonderful moment. They then sang a spiritual that I've heard before but I don't know by name. It was about someone at a dying person's bedside providing consolation and asking the dying person to greet their common friends and relatives on the other side. Such a premise has indeed wound up in horrible, cliched music, but this is never the case with spirituals. They can move the most sophisticated--provided that the listeners haven't lost their soul. What might sound kitschy without the music is profound with it. I was moved almost to tears. Later came the familiar and wonderful "Somebody callin my name, O Lordy...What shall I do?" Again, wonderful words and even more wonderful music. They were perhaps a bit too mellow here, at least for my taste--There is a very gripping performance of this spiritual on CD, sung beautifully by Jessye Norman, accompanied by a mostly white chorus, which was excellent.
The newer music, including numbers composed by members of this impressive group, was less successful. This is one of the points I want to make--This is not a very religious age, and newer spiritual music is often much less, well, musical, than the great works of the past. One of the pieces included such horrible lines as "Sacred is the milk from the bosom of Mother Nature"--a line one could imagine that a ten year old with a lot to learn might come up with. The music wasn't much better, although when sung by such talented musicians, almost anything can sound good. The exception was a new song written by one of the most dignified members of the group. Both the words and music are good. The song included such lines that state that, once one is deeply religious, "It doesn't matter if you're here or there." The rest of the lyric and the music matched this deep level of understanding, as opposed to the New-Age cliches of the song mentioned before this one. It wasn't nearly as deeply moving as the spirituals, but it was a bona fide religious song, a rarity for this age.
Comparing the spirituals with the newer music, I thought of what an old friend once told me, "What's good for the Jews is bad for Judaism and what's good for Judaism is bad for the Jews." We can see the same principle at work in the increased amount of concern for others among the Japanese in response to their recent national disaster. The premise is this: it is in the times of great pressure when diamonds are created. Among the jewels of the spirit composed in difficult times are spirituals. They are truly amazing. They have no bitterness, egotism, superficiality and lack all the glittery things modern music is full of. They go right to the jugular and yet have great artistry--which includes, of course, understatement and restraint. My view of this is that during times of great oppression, superficial persons either do not survive, or are crushed into silence, or become profound. Another way of saying this is evinced by Nietzsche's great dictum: whatever almost kills you makes you stronger. No decent person could ever advocate bringing back say, slavery, to get great music, but music, unfortunately, like everything else, tends to be contaminated by froth during fat times. (Perhaps there is a Darwinian explanation of depression here: the dissatisfied separate themselves from the group and create, the results of which abet survival.) What a world we would have if the haves could submerge their superficiality in the servce to, and love of, the so many million of have-nots! We would not only have better people, but better art. What's good for prosperity is bad for the spirit, what's bad for the spirit is good for prosperity--Too, too bad.
When I was a lot younger, I would often dance to the music of Mahalia Jackson with my African-American son, Philip, who was a toddler at the time. The music moved me very much and still does. Some years later, I wrote the following poem, which touches on the theme of this article. (This poem, by the way, resulted in the greatest compliment one of my poems ever received. An English professor was so moved by this poem that he carried a copy of it in his wallet.) I want to assure you that I do not share--far from it--the sunny-nunny view that God never gives more suffering than one can handle. A lot of good people go under when times get rough; others, afflicted by adverse personal or political events, are sometimes transformed and reach a stage that the rest of us find hard to imagine. When they become artists, a sensitive person's viceral response is both delight and awe.
HOMAGE TO MAHALIA JACKSON
1.
At the very height of suffering,
most are destroyed; the wounded rest
survive to limp toward nothing
on paths short or long; lost
except for very, very few
who become immortal songs.
From her best recordings I imagine
the transport of Aquinas’s last years.
Dust has no kingdom in such music:
to her, death’s a gate we pass through
on the low road to glory; Lordy,
who can hear and believe she was wrong?
2.
Despite music, darkness reigns
still inside, outside us.
Which is final? Who has ears,
hear her, singing conviction,
especially Lazarus, lost in affliction:
light, pure light, it can reach you.
3.
Her message was joy
because she knew
her people then
could ill afford
the luxury of sadness.
Poverty, madness,
and hate’s unbearable load
had killed far too many
for her to sing blues.
No girl’s or boy’s
lament over toys
broken in two
by hard fate in
her! On sorrow’s road
she reveals joy which is
got without illness
or drugs: (Lord,
Lord, this simple woman,
how well she knew
what God is!) love.
3.25.2011
Goethe'sWanderers Nachtlied Und Ein Einfacheres
When Goethe was thirty years old, he visited a mountain lodge in Kickenheim, Thuringia, Germany. During the night he stayed there, he wrote what became one of the most famous poems in the German language. He carved it onto the wall. It is called "Wanderers Nachtlied"--I imagine that most people who know German and have even the slightest literary bent know this poem by heart. I recount it by heart as follows:
Ueber allen Gipfeln
ist Ruh;
in allen Wipfeln
spuerest Du
kaum einen Hauch.
Die Voegellein
schweigen im Walde;
Warte nur, balde
ruhest Du auch.
A prose translation: above the summits is peace; you can hardly sense anything stirring in the treetops; little birds are silent in the forest; just wait, you, too, will soon rest.
Talk about trickle-down serenity! Let's start at the bottom, the human being who is not at rest, presumably beset by anxiety and by life's vicissitudes, as we all, in varying degrees are. Directly above him is the relative peace of the birds, silenced, one imagines, by the peace at the next higher level: the treetops, which are hardly moving at all--all is almost completely calm. Ah, but the all, represented by the summits, is indeed absolutely calm. Goethe tells us in a direct, simple matter that all we have to do is allow the absolute peace of the summit to trickle down; then we will find peace, too. (The words "just wait" in the next-to-last line are very important--once we open ourselves up to the world without personal blinders, something good can and will happen, but it is not a matter of will and it cannot be rushed.) We find this joy, of course, by stilling our thoughts after which the flow of peace downwards is unhindered. (The human in the poem is in a very beautiful and calm setting; just let him try to do find pure peace at a bus stop. If he can manage that, he has become a walking Gipfel and needs no further instruction.)
It is important to note that the person at the end of the poem is not at complete peace, but has the promise of peace. Peace has entered his spirit and will not be stopped until unrest cannot challenge it again. We attribute this peace to those rare "individuals" who have transcended their individuality--an exceedingly rare occurrence, if it indeed does occur. But some of us come a good deal closer than others. For most of us, though, this peace is obtained--periodically. (Spiritual development entails decreasing the intervals between episodes of deep peace.) We also attribute this peace to the dead.
Let us imagine that the peace of the summit is represented by light. The canopy of leaves at the top will take their regal share of the light, allowing less to be present at the realm of the birds. The human on the forest floor will receive even less light, which is the best we can get--ours for brief periods, perhaps even for longer ones; it is enough.
A lot is packed into this little poem, a triumph of mellifluous economy. The final "peace" at the end of the poem is often interpreted as death, but that connotation is contained in my interpretation also. For centuries, transcendent peace has been compared to a kind of death--in the best sense of that word--at least by those with a spiritual bent.
Fifty-two years after Goethe carved that poem onto the wall, he returned, at the age of 82, and wept after he read it. He knew what was coming; it arrived six months later. (His last words were reported to be, "Mehr Licht!" that is, "More light!") Very moving, no?
Here's a little footnote regarding a poet of much smaller stature, namely myself. I recently came across the Nachtlied I wrote at the age of nineteen:
Was ist es, was ich versteh'?
Ach, wie schrecklich, ach wie weh
mir ist im ganzen Sinn:
Ich weiss nicht woher,
Ich weiss nicht wohin;
Ich weiss nicht was ich bin.
Thomas Dorsett, 1965
A prose translation: What do I really understand? My whole being feels horror and pain; I don't know where I came from; I don't know where I'm heading; I don't even know what I am.
Did this poet weep, as Goethe did, when he came across one of his first poems, after nearly fifty years? He smiled. He realizes that the questions the poem raises are still unanswered, but the horror and the pain have resolved. (Existential pain, he would say, might be proper for a sensitive young man, but highly improper for a sensitive old one.) The way he resolves his Weltschmerz is by periodically entering the Goethe poem, as it were, and letting the summit do the "talking." He has discovered that once one, having calmed discursive thought, witnesses the splendors of the world, something inexplicably informative happens: summit Silence becomes inner Silence. He--finally! knows that this Silence is golden; golden indeed.
Ueber allen Gipfeln
ist Ruh;
in allen Wipfeln
spuerest Du
kaum einen Hauch.
Die Voegellein
schweigen im Walde;
Warte nur, balde
ruhest Du auch.
A prose translation: above the summits is peace; you can hardly sense anything stirring in the treetops; little birds are silent in the forest; just wait, you, too, will soon rest.
Talk about trickle-down serenity! Let's start at the bottom, the human being who is not at rest, presumably beset by anxiety and by life's vicissitudes, as we all, in varying degrees are. Directly above him is the relative peace of the birds, silenced, one imagines, by the peace at the next higher level: the treetops, which are hardly moving at all--all is almost completely calm. Ah, but the all, represented by the summits, is indeed absolutely calm. Goethe tells us in a direct, simple matter that all we have to do is allow the absolute peace of the summit to trickle down; then we will find peace, too. (The words "just wait" in the next-to-last line are very important--once we open ourselves up to the world without personal blinders, something good can and will happen, but it is not a matter of will and it cannot be rushed.) We find this joy, of course, by stilling our thoughts after which the flow of peace downwards is unhindered. (The human in the poem is in a very beautiful and calm setting; just let him try to do find pure peace at a bus stop. If he can manage that, he has become a walking Gipfel and needs no further instruction.)
It is important to note that the person at the end of the poem is not at complete peace, but has the promise of peace. Peace has entered his spirit and will not be stopped until unrest cannot challenge it again. We attribute this peace to those rare "individuals" who have transcended their individuality--an exceedingly rare occurrence, if it indeed does occur. But some of us come a good deal closer than others. For most of us, though, this peace is obtained--periodically. (Spiritual development entails decreasing the intervals between episodes of deep peace.) We also attribute this peace to the dead.
Let us imagine that the peace of the summit is represented by light. The canopy of leaves at the top will take their regal share of the light, allowing less to be present at the realm of the birds. The human on the forest floor will receive even less light, which is the best we can get--ours for brief periods, perhaps even for longer ones; it is enough.
A lot is packed into this little poem, a triumph of mellifluous economy. The final "peace" at the end of the poem is often interpreted as death, but that connotation is contained in my interpretation also. For centuries, transcendent peace has been compared to a kind of death--in the best sense of that word--at least by those with a spiritual bent.
Fifty-two years after Goethe carved that poem onto the wall, he returned, at the age of 82, and wept after he read it. He knew what was coming; it arrived six months later. (His last words were reported to be, "Mehr Licht!" that is, "More light!") Very moving, no?
Here's a little footnote regarding a poet of much smaller stature, namely myself. I recently came across the Nachtlied I wrote at the age of nineteen:
Was ist es, was ich versteh'?
Ach, wie schrecklich, ach wie weh
mir ist im ganzen Sinn:
Ich weiss nicht woher,
Ich weiss nicht wohin;
Ich weiss nicht was ich bin.
Thomas Dorsett, 1965
A prose translation: What do I really understand? My whole being feels horror and pain; I don't know where I came from; I don't know where I'm heading; I don't even know what I am.
Did this poet weep, as Goethe did, when he came across one of his first poems, after nearly fifty years? He smiled. He realizes that the questions the poem raises are still unanswered, but the horror and the pain have resolved. (Existential pain, he would say, might be proper for a sensitive young man, but highly improper for a sensitive old one.) The way he resolves his Weltschmerz is by periodically entering the Goethe poem, as it were, and letting the summit do the "talking." He has discovered that once one, having calmed discursive thought, witnesses the splendors of the world, something inexplicably informative happens: summit Silence becomes inner Silence. He--finally! knows that this Silence is golden; golden indeed.
3.22.2011
FOR ELINOR SHUI WAN DORSETT AND THOMAS KEEN
My actual niece, not one of
my wife's who are long since
my own, you once brought flowers;
it's about time I repay your bouquet
with a poem--Thanks, Uncle, but your
thank-you verse is late by fifteen years.
No, not so; have I always thanked God
since I first learned in a coldwater flat
that you would enter the world? The answer
which you never heard is a resounding
yes! You are both kin and kind
(what a difference the d makes!) and I predict
a joyful Keen life-- (How do I know it?
Ask worm or whippoorwill, I have connections)--
You will do well. Remain connected,
Shui Wan, although we might not meet again.
my wife's who are long since
my own, you once brought flowers;
it's about time I repay your bouquet
with a poem--Thanks, Uncle, but your
thank-you verse is late by fifteen years.
No, not so; have I always thanked God
since I first learned in a coldwater flat
that you would enter the world? The answer
which you never heard is a resounding
yes! You are both kin and kind
(what a difference the d makes!) and I predict
a joyful Keen life-- (How do I know it?
Ask worm or whippoorwill, I have connections)--
You will do well. Remain connected,
Shui Wan, although we might not meet again.
3.17.2011
PEANUTS, CRUMBS, AND CUMIN
A mouse squeezes into himself to get
behind a wall (the crack is small
between the part that's always dark and
a humming thing in which they keep things cold)
Each with a dollop of imported cheese,
six glue traps are lined against the border
where stove-top meets refrigerator: man's
no-mice-land, which he must cross to get in.
The mouse would rather live in a field, even
where a falling cloud turns out to be a hawk,
but there's none here, God's pidgin' maws
and skyscrapers. Do fellow mammals help?
His very distant cousin went to bed
hoping he'd wake to panicked shrieks--
For six mornings now all he gets
are "cumin seeds"--the rodent's gifts
upon the counter-top. Can't a penthouse
spare overfed cats' and overfed owners'
peanuts with a skinny mouse? Crumbs
keep him alive. This is called charity.
behind a wall (the crack is small
between the part that's always dark and
a humming thing in which they keep things cold)
Each with a dollop of imported cheese,
six glue traps are lined against the border
where stove-top meets refrigerator: man's
no-mice-land, which he must cross to get in.
The mouse would rather live in a field, even
where a falling cloud turns out to be a hawk,
but there's none here, God's pidgin' maws
and skyscrapers. Do fellow mammals help?
His very distant cousin went to bed
hoping he'd wake to panicked shrieks--
For six mornings now all he gets
are "cumin seeds"--the rodent's gifts
upon the counter-top. Can't a penthouse
spare overfed cats' and overfed owners'
peanuts with a skinny mouse? Crumbs
keep him alive. This is called charity.
3.09.2011
CREDO IN DEUM SED EXPECTO NULLAM?
Even when celebrated by a bored priest,
the mass, I'm told, is beautiful;
its center is sacrifice. Not like
an old man's reluctant giving up
but someone slaughtered in his prime
willingly, for us. So beautiful
it hurts--but doesn't help at all.
After the rite, the priest disrobes,
watches TV. The church is empty;
everyone, unredeemed and dim,
continues to light candles despite
cancer, despite scandals--why not?
Great inner fiction is always real.
Though Alpha and Omega is a myth and
entropy replaces God in the middle--
The latter is a hidden string, while
the former seems to stretch beyond
what even the inner eye sees--
Still, great inner music is realer:
Listening to Missa in Angustiis
by Haydn, I lose myself including
head-doubts, fears and injured faith--
Then that lonely trinity, silence,
entropy and I, return. When will I turn?
the mass, I'm told, is beautiful;
its center is sacrifice. Not like
an old man's reluctant giving up
but someone slaughtered in his prime
willingly, for us. So beautiful
it hurts--but doesn't help at all.
After the rite, the priest disrobes,
watches TV. The church is empty;
everyone, unredeemed and dim,
continues to light candles despite
cancer, despite scandals--why not?
Great inner fiction is always real.
Though Alpha and Omega is a myth and
entropy replaces God in the middle--
The latter is a hidden string, while
the former seems to stretch beyond
what even the inner eye sees--
Still, great inner music is realer:
Listening to Missa in Angustiis
by Haydn, I lose myself including
head-doubts, fears and injured faith--
Then that lonely trinity, silence,
entropy and I, return. When will I turn?
3.08.2011
ZERO
is a practical abstraction--
Voids happen only in ourselves.
Maharshi had as much as a dead king--
We needed a concept to sum up our sums.
Our depths and debts are very different;
an inch above skyscrapers, almost nothing
doesn't stop real space from seething--
Its lack is Mozart on a cosmic scale;
ours is more traumatic than exploding suns.
How many light-years of Zero does chance need
to make another universe? There you go again,
smug and humming Wittgenstein-deniers,
I repeat: there are no outer voids.
Zero was a practical invention.
Even an intergalactic abyss is
almost empty. Too bad our recent history
comes closer. We have a new word for which space
is too much; there was more compassion between stars.
Voids happen only in ourselves.
Maharshi had as much as a dead king--
We needed a concept to sum up our sums.
Our depths and debts are very different;
an inch above skyscrapers, almost nothing
doesn't stop real space from seething--
Its lack is Mozart on a cosmic scale;
ours is more traumatic than exploding suns.
How many light-years of Zero does chance need
to make another universe? There you go again,
smug and humming Wittgenstein-deniers,
I repeat: there are no outer voids.
Zero was a practical invention.
Even an intergalactic abyss is
almost empty. Too bad our recent history
comes closer. We have a new word for which space
is too much; there was more compassion between stars.
2.10.2011
THE LAST TWO POEMS FROM INDIA
18. SISTER WIGBERTA
Are there rulers to smack hands in Heaven?
Her faith said yes, yet she had doubts about cosmic injustice
but not about her calling: corporal punishment
That's why I'm here. We begged Christ to send her
to a back room in San Francisco, dressed
in a G string, pasties and chains--
Why should My children waste prayer-time on that,
since that's what I've already done?
No no no that's not what happened:
she went on to excoriate knuckles for years;
I went to business school and became
CEO of a huge unconcern--
No need for envy. Inside
I'm still an ant on a snowball in hell
with Sister Wigberta on skis.
19. WRITTEN ON THE WAY HOME
I might be broken, even shattered,
yet even shards that cannot reassemble
have, beyond entropy, one consolation:
the piece that can't be swept away;
nobody, not even God,
can trash what I actually am.
The difference between you and me
is that you, you lucky bastard,
are so strongly rooted in illusion
you imagine yourself lord of creation
and almost are--With the right equipment
you might soon found a new nation on Mars
and forget, till the next catastrophe,
you aren't immortal, but, like me,
glass underfoot, returning to sand.
No need to fear--
That innermost piece reflects every image
since the beginning--
Separation hurts; what doesn't?
Scission, what do you have to confess?
I guess I could have been a little bit better at self-realization.
(You excel at understatement)
Another: plain truths are so sad.
Just once let me feel my original face,
the uncreated countenance of--
Why are you laughing? Who's laughing?
I get it;
I'm laughing, too.
Are there rulers to smack hands in Heaven?
Her faith said yes, yet she had doubts about cosmic injustice
but not about her calling: corporal punishment
That's why I'm here. We begged Christ to send her
to a back room in San Francisco, dressed
in a G string, pasties and chains--
Why should My children waste prayer-time on that,
since that's what I've already done?
No no no that's not what happened:
she went on to excoriate knuckles for years;
I went to business school and became
CEO of a huge unconcern--
No need for envy. Inside
I'm still an ant on a snowball in hell
with Sister Wigberta on skis.
19. WRITTEN ON THE WAY HOME
I might be broken, even shattered,
yet even shards that cannot reassemble
have, beyond entropy, one consolation:
the piece that can't be swept away;
nobody, not even God,
can trash what I actually am.
The difference between you and me
is that you, you lucky bastard,
are so strongly rooted in illusion
you imagine yourself lord of creation
and almost are--With the right equipment
you might soon found a new nation on Mars
and forget, till the next catastrophe,
you aren't immortal, but, like me,
glass underfoot, returning to sand.
No need to fear--
That innermost piece reflects every image
since the beginning--
Separation hurts; what doesn't?
Scission, what do you have to confess?
I guess I could have been a little bit better at self-realization.
(You excel at understatement)
Another: plain truths are so sad.
Just once let me feel my original face,
the uncreated countenance of--
Why are you laughing? Who's laughing?
I get it;
I'm laughing, too.
2.06.2011
EIGHT MORE POEMS FROM INDIA, WITH A MIRACULOUS ADDENDUM
9. TELL ME, SIMONE WEIL,
To be "a crippled no one"
doesn't exclude happiness?
It depends on where you got your cane.
Youth demanded caviar;
yet there's no shame for Lazarus
to dine on crumbs from God.
A satisfied belly
resurrects all--except you?
I have my doubts:
self-pity is inverse ambtion;
pride the obverse of despair.
Beggars aren't always losers:
just a little hint of butter
on a piece of mouldy bread
--That's my lot--Poison from Midas, yet
God's almost nothing is manna enough--
Sin thought life was privately unfair;
now I dine on air.
10. THE POET
At first you don't notice
something is missing, like
a spider with six legs.
Scurries with the best of them,
makes a proper web;
yet she's deficient:
partly a predator,
partly a fly, this
thing is so odd
faith chastises God:
why create misfits
with venom and wings?
11. FLAT SHARP AND NATURAL
I play scales on the piano
as well as I climb Jacob's ladder:
technically, spiritually,
my place is the bottom rung.
Yet when I really practice
Mozart and humility,
that most discriminating of all listeners
hears me in absolute silence
and, though I'm bad, is not displeased.
One music serves, the other soars,
and even a leper can reach God with both--
That's what I know; and that's what I believe.
12. THE SUPREME COMMANDER OF ANTS
ALSO CONTROLS YOU
To negotiate this field
where food is scarce
and peace even scacer,
you must follow orders
(even if you claim
you're free as birds,
which of course aren't free)
life obeys necessity
beetle to king--
Wizards and veils
are pure fictions.
You are one, too;
genes have invented
what helps them survive:
am, self. No matter,
follow your sham.
13. YOU'RE A MESS
You're a mess. Greed and
anger let you forget;
rage at the world;
spite overcomes it.
This has been our catechism
for over 10,000 years.
This is one exit, yet
life has many cages;
we choose our cells and
the worst one is this:
worship yourself and
praise God with your lips.
14. FAST FAITH
Jeeza will pleasya,
yet Wicca is quicka.
15. SEPARATION SONG
I am consciousness;
I was created by genes
somewhere around A.D.
minus two million and six.
Since then I've painted
wild horses and shamans,
and upside down churches
by thoughts called Chagall.
O I give up,
says the duck.
I am a dog
says the fox;
I am too fat
says the mantis;
hardy alive, says the virus,
I'm almost nothing at all.
I have created
Beethoven and Hitler,
Pablo Picasso and icing--
Peace, Laura Riding:
"The wind suffers from blowing;
the earth suffers from turning;
the sun suffers from burning,
and I from a living name."
O I give up,
says the duck.
I am a dog
says the fox;
I am too fat
says the mantis;
hardly alive, says the virus,
I'm almost nothing at all.
16. AT THE CUSP OF OLD AGE
To pass the time before she calls the ambulance
I shall write poems for several years.
I imagine they'll come to get me
just after I've mastered the simplest Bach prelude
(the one on your cell phone in C)
--if I'm unlucky that will take decades--
In clean white coats these professional
strangers will tell her I'm sorry,
It's too late to help him
(This I've known for over sixty years)
Until then, Mozart, Bach, Shakespeare and
fucking up trying to make others happy;
"a crippled no one" passing time. They're here!
Still writing? They'll just have to wait.
ADDENDUM: THE MIRACLE
My brother-in-law's
aunt is a saint--no kidding;
she was canonized in 2008,
the first Indian, ever.
She apparently didn't say much,
suffered a lot, taking
on the ills of others
and dying young from cancer.
"Did she ever do a miracle
for you?" "Yes, once."
We're eating at breakfast
nul puttu with coconut milk;
it is delicious.
"When I was young,(Aunty
had just died) while
shopping in a dusty village
just beyond Trivandrum,
I became very thirsty--
Amma forgot to take water--
Alphonsa Aunty, I begged,
please help me now--
At that moment a coconut
fell from a tree overhead!"
Don't say a word,
doubting Thomas--
You don't believe in miracles
yet you believe in God;
what kind of logic is that?
"Since then I have no doubts."
The Dawkins in me now
chooses not to analyze;
I, too, shopping for miracles
beneath God's indifferent sun,
had become very dry.
Who cares how it happened?
Thirst's gone.
To be "a crippled no one"
doesn't exclude happiness?
It depends on where you got your cane.
Youth demanded caviar;
yet there's no shame for Lazarus
to dine on crumbs from God.
A satisfied belly
resurrects all--except you?
I have my doubts:
self-pity is inverse ambtion;
pride the obverse of despair.
Beggars aren't always losers:
just a little hint of butter
on a piece of mouldy bread
--That's my lot--Poison from Midas, yet
God's almost nothing is manna enough--
Sin thought life was privately unfair;
now I dine on air.
10. THE POET
At first you don't notice
something is missing, like
a spider with six legs.
Scurries with the best of them,
makes a proper web;
yet she's deficient:
partly a predator,
partly a fly, this
thing is so odd
faith chastises God:
why create misfits
with venom and wings?
11. FLAT SHARP AND NATURAL
I play scales on the piano
as well as I climb Jacob's ladder:
technically, spiritually,
my place is the bottom rung.
Yet when I really practice
Mozart and humility,
that most discriminating of all listeners
hears me in absolute silence
and, though I'm bad, is not displeased.
One music serves, the other soars,
and even a leper can reach God with both--
That's what I know; and that's what I believe.
12. THE SUPREME COMMANDER OF ANTS
ALSO CONTROLS YOU
To negotiate this field
where food is scarce
and peace even scacer,
you must follow orders
(even if you claim
you're free as birds,
which of course aren't free)
life obeys necessity
beetle to king--
Wizards and veils
are pure fictions.
You are one, too;
genes have invented
what helps them survive:
am, self. No matter,
follow your sham.
13. YOU'RE A MESS
You're a mess. Greed and
anger let you forget;
rage at the world;
spite overcomes it.
This has been our catechism
for over 10,000 years.
This is one exit, yet
life has many cages;
we choose our cells and
the worst one is this:
worship yourself and
praise God with your lips.
14. FAST FAITH
Jeeza will pleasya,
yet Wicca is quicka.
15. SEPARATION SONG
I am consciousness;
I was created by genes
somewhere around A.D.
minus two million and six.
Since then I've painted
wild horses and shamans,
and upside down churches
by thoughts called Chagall.
O I give up,
says the duck.
I am a dog
says the fox;
I am too fat
says the mantis;
hardy alive, says the virus,
I'm almost nothing at all.
I have created
Beethoven and Hitler,
Pablo Picasso and icing--
Peace, Laura Riding:
"The wind suffers from blowing;
the earth suffers from turning;
the sun suffers from burning,
and I from a living name."
O I give up,
says the duck.
I am a dog
says the fox;
I am too fat
says the mantis;
hardly alive, says the virus,
I'm almost nothing at all.
16. AT THE CUSP OF OLD AGE
To pass the time before she calls the ambulance
I shall write poems for several years.
I imagine they'll come to get me
just after I've mastered the simplest Bach prelude
(the one on your cell phone in C)
--if I'm unlucky that will take decades--
In clean white coats these professional
strangers will tell her I'm sorry,
It's too late to help him
(This I've known for over sixty years)
Until then, Mozart, Bach, Shakespeare and
fucking up trying to make others happy;
"a crippled no one" passing time. They're here!
Still writing? They'll just have to wait.
ADDENDUM: THE MIRACLE
My brother-in-law's
aunt is a saint--no kidding;
she was canonized in 2008,
the first Indian, ever.
She apparently didn't say much,
suffered a lot, taking
on the ills of others
and dying young from cancer.
"Did she ever do a miracle
for you?" "Yes, once."
We're eating at breakfast
nul puttu with coconut milk;
it is delicious.
"When I was young,(Aunty
had just died) while
shopping in a dusty village
just beyond Trivandrum,
I became very thirsty--
Amma forgot to take water--
Alphonsa Aunty, I begged,
please help me now--
At that moment a coconut
fell from a tree overhead!"
Don't say a word,
doubting Thomas--
You don't believe in miracles
yet you believe in God;
what kind of logic is that?
"Since then I have no doubts."
The Dawkins in me now
chooses not to analyze;
I, too, shopping for miracles
beneath God's indifferent sun,
had become very dry.
Who cares how it happened?
Thirst's gone.
1.30.2011
EIGHT POEMS FROM INDIA
1. DOOMED GARDEN
Innocenter poppy
hopelessly in love
briefly turns spectacular--
Light is different, though
Mayfly thinks he'll live forever--
O plaster Mother of God,
pity us! Secularer mantis,
negotiate a rose.
2. WHAT DO YOU EXPECT
(Pity in a grasshopper;
compassion in a frog;
mercy in a mockingbird;
agape in a shark?
No; not even saints perceive
justice in a cabbage)
Disinterested kindness;
You--in an ape like me?
3. VERY DISTANT COUSINS,
Maggots, on a windowsill
or in forgotten cheese,
I have come to join you now;
it has been my ambition
to metamorphosize
into something different;
why not to a fly?
Spider-and-a-human being
isn't better off:
caught in my own web
with too much venom
to accept my cross--
One day I'll have wings?
Larvae cannot writhe
in spoiled cheese forever--
I'll be a happy insect
innocently circling trash
much as I do now
but without shame and guilt.
Silly maggot, all is one,
recluse spider, fly.
4. YUM YUM
She moves her hand
from chest to mouth
repeatedly--
This means she wants tea.
Sometimes she does this
while saying, "Yum Yum"--
This means she's hungry.
Today we gave her
an opened box of
Suriya frosting,
nul puttu and clothes.
She might be 65, who knows?
50 plus or 70.
She is very bent and small;
I'm told she has
drunkards for sons, and
daughters beaten by
others' drunkard sons--
(My wife and I have visited
family in Chennai
twelve times since 1976--
They used to have a boy
about twelve years old
who lived with them;
Santishan washed and swept and cooked
and slept on the kitchen floor.
Later, he went mad.
Tamil sevants
have it somewhat better now--
That's progress, I suppose.)
Right now, Yum Yum's washing dishes;
After that, I watch her
disappear into a gaggle
of joggers in Reeboks.
A man talks with his broker
on a mobile--She slips;
her package falls in front of him.
He shouts and kicks it to the side,
as if she were a cow.
5. MY SOAP'S NAME IS VIDYA
My toothbrsh, Calhoun;
my mouthwash is
anonymous
during dry monsoons,
otherwise he's Roger.
What shall I be called?
Hieronymus the Poetaster,
the Master of Silence
from Beethoven Mu?
I call my self Treasure.
Please, says Hank Wall,
be quiet, be quiet,
be quiet, be quiet,
no one is no one
and no one is all.
6. GOA HAIKU
A woman of great beauty
passes by a fountain;
water flows.
7. THE SENSECENT GURU
I have had a hard life;
I wouldn't recommend it.
Yet, bent and frail at ninety-five,
I still don't want to end it.
Listen--if you're young and strong
and want to check out early:
compared to nothing, nothing's wrong
and even hell's gate's pearly.
8. I'M DONE
I'm shoveling anger,
a life-winter's snow.
Before all is ice,
frozen rage, Ego's
deep desires, go--
My path is clear. I'm done.
Innocenter poppy
hopelessly in love
briefly turns spectacular--
Light is different, though
Mayfly thinks he'll live forever--
O plaster Mother of God,
pity us! Secularer mantis,
negotiate a rose.
2. WHAT DO YOU EXPECT
(Pity in a grasshopper;
compassion in a frog;
mercy in a mockingbird;
agape in a shark?
No; not even saints perceive
justice in a cabbage)
Disinterested kindness;
You--in an ape like me?
3. VERY DISTANT COUSINS,
Maggots, on a windowsill
or in forgotten cheese,
I have come to join you now;
it has been my ambition
to metamorphosize
into something different;
why not to a fly?
Spider-and-a-human being
isn't better off:
caught in my own web
with too much venom
to accept my cross--
One day I'll have wings?
Larvae cannot writhe
in spoiled cheese forever--
I'll be a happy insect
innocently circling trash
much as I do now
but without shame and guilt.
Silly maggot, all is one,
recluse spider, fly.
4. YUM YUM
She moves her hand
from chest to mouth
repeatedly--
This means she wants tea.
Sometimes she does this
while saying, "Yum Yum"--
This means she's hungry.
Today we gave her
an opened box of
Suriya frosting,
nul puttu and clothes.
She might be 65, who knows?
50 plus or 70.
She is very bent and small;
I'm told she has
drunkards for sons, and
daughters beaten by
others' drunkard sons--
(My wife and I have visited
family in Chennai
twelve times since 1976--
They used to have a boy
about twelve years old
who lived with them;
Santishan washed and swept and cooked
and slept on the kitchen floor.
Later, he went mad.
Tamil sevants
have it somewhat better now--
That's progress, I suppose.)
Right now, Yum Yum's washing dishes;
After that, I watch her
disappear into a gaggle
of joggers in Reeboks.
A man talks with his broker
on a mobile--She slips;
her package falls in front of him.
He shouts and kicks it to the side,
as if she were a cow.
5. MY SOAP'S NAME IS VIDYA
My toothbrsh, Calhoun;
my mouthwash is
anonymous
during dry monsoons,
otherwise he's Roger.
What shall I be called?
Hieronymus the Poetaster,
the Master of Silence
from Beethoven Mu?
I call my self Treasure.
Please, says Hank Wall,
be quiet, be quiet,
be quiet, be quiet,
no one is no one
and no one is all.
6. GOA HAIKU
A woman of great beauty
passes by a fountain;
water flows.
7. THE SENSECENT GURU
I have had a hard life;
I wouldn't recommend it.
Yet, bent and frail at ninety-five,
I still don't want to end it.
Listen--if you're young and strong
and want to check out early:
compared to nothing, nothing's wrong
and even hell's gate's pearly.
8. I'M DONE
I'm shoveling anger,
a life-winter's snow.
Before all is ice,
frozen rage, Ego's
deep desires, go--
My path is clear. I'm done.
1.13.2011
THE BOHEMIAN GIRL
I am not sure if this little essay will mean anything to those who are not "d"un certain age," but it just might. The subject is rather sad, at least nostalgic: the passage of time, the passage of something inside us--and soon, everything--the passage of us. This came to me in a very direct, and emotional way when I heard, last night, a performance of Balfe's (once) famous aria, "I Dreamt that I Dwelt in Marble Halls," from his (once) famous opera, "Bohemian Girl," which had its debut in London in 1843. This particular performance was from a movie of--who would have guessed it? Laurel and Hardy. Not one of their best, "Bohemian Girl" was made in 1936, and follows the plot of the opera with some zany inserts. (This indicates how popular the song was as late as 1936. Laurel and Hardy made another opera adaption, Fra Diavolo, based on an opera by Auber--who, like, Balfe, is forgotten today.)
It is a very personal song for me. My grandmother, Ella Dorsett, died in 1944, the year before I was born. I know liitle more than three things about her: she was very, very poor; she was very, very obese; and Balfe's aria was her very favorite piece of music in the world. She was simple, and uneducated--how did she get to know an aria from an English opera written a century previous to hers? I think I know. When I was young, there was an abandoned theatre two blocks away from me--who could imagine a theatre ever being in the outskirts of my very working-class home town, Jersey City? But there it was. I was a bit of a "gamin" in those days--I was about ten at the time when we and a few other street kids used to break into the building and explore it. This was my very first view of a stage, albeit a stage in ruins. I remember staring at it, fascinated. Later, I knew enough about history to realize that this was a stage that had been used in the vaudeville days, probably from early in the century to the 1940s, I'm not sure. I have no doubt that Balfe's song was performed on that stage and all over the country during that period, it was that popular. (It was a hit among the so-called "low brows" and "high brows"--an example of the latter is a mention of it in Joyce's "The Dubliners.") My grandmother probably first heard it in a music hall in Hoboken, where she was born. My father worked in a music hall in Hoboken when he was a teenager, so he probably heard it there too.
I don't know if I love or hate the song--yes, I do, my feeling is more close to love. It is a very catchy tune, one that can easily become what Germans call an "Ohrwurn," that is, an earworm, something that has the ability to bore into the brain and repeat itself over and over again. This music can drive you crazy! It is unabashedly sentimental, over the top enough to invite parody--and I did indeed sing to myself a parody of this song when I was a young teenager. ("...I could boast of a highly incestral name; but the thing, you dodos, which pleased me most, was that you drove my mother insane, that you drove that poor shady old lady insane...etc." My friend Brian--where is he now after half a century?-- invented an even racier version, as teenagers will. Spike Jones would have had fun with this music.) It is a song that is both beautiful and ridiculous, and that is precisely the point. It is not great enough to transcend the times when it was written and the century of popularity that followed. It is, we must admit, kitschy. That's precisely why I find it so very moving; it sometimes can, like it did last night, move me to tears.(I don't have the best ear, but, after hearing it last night, I went directly to the piano and got everything right. It is that simple.)
Have you ever read Guy de Maupassant's short story, "The Minuet?" That and Sherwood Anderson's "The Egg" are among my very favorites. In the French story, the narrator watches an elderly couple dance a minuet. They were darlings of the French court once, a court that long since ceased to exist. They are old, decrepit, and their movements are now clumsy. Their dance, the minuet, has been completely out of fashion for decades. The people of Maupassant's day laughed at it. Inside the old folks are still living in the ancien regime; inside they still might feel some of the glory of those days--but they are a wreck of what they once were. They evoke pity. Suddenly the narrator sees what time does to us: the once strong building decays, collapses; the rubble is removed and absolutely nothing is left. The narrator is deeply moved by this old couple; traces of great beauty still remain. The narrator states that he has been a soldier and has seen young men die horrifically; yet, nothing has filled him with such terror as this poignant dance. He sees in a flash what is going to happen to him, to all of us.
"I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marle Halls," evokes such feelings in me. I was born just after this song became a curiosity, after being a major hit for over a century. As I wrote, part of me still finds this music beautiful; no doubt anyone born after me--at least those who are musically discriminating, including the other part of me--finds the song ridiculous.
Bach was forgotten. The next generation abandoned counterpoint and found his works crabbed and stuffy. When Mendelssohn reintroduced him to the larger public, around the time Balfe wrote his opera, Bach's star rose in the cultural heavens and has remained one of first magnitude ever since. The problem with Balfe is that the music is charming, but far from immortal.
Balfe was extremely popular in his day, especially in England, France and Italy. These days he is just about completely forgotten.
Much of what is beloved by a generation does not stand the test of time. (And, of course, some things that do stand the test of time were ignored by the generation in which they arose.) I realize that much of what formed me in the 1940s and 1950s is passing away forever. All right I'll say it: the young do not understand.And perhaps they shouldn't. Most of us think we are somehow precious, but, like the song, we are does not transcend our time. What we think is important might be deemed by the next generation to be quite kitschy and maudlin. We will be completely forgotten. Those of us who are old are dancing that tragic--and tragically comical--minuet, and will very soon be nothing but dust.
But let's not go too far with the tragedy, Thomas. You, like many people of your generation, are active to a degree that was unthinkable during Balfe's time. You dance, you play music, write poems and take delight in your lovely wife, son, family and friends. You've made it, Mr. Lucky! Lucky! Lucky!! Doomed nevertheless.
Addendum: A review of the recording of this song available on YouTube. Joan Sutherland's is the best. Yes, she is one of the past century's divas, but not always one of my favorites. Sometimes her approach strikes me as a bit too "warbly"--too precious. And her Italian diction was so consonant-less that I found it difficult to understand--I always make it a point to understand the words of operas. Here, her extraordinary technique and phrasing is amazing, even breathtaking. A marvelous performance! Jessye Norman, larger than life, always reminds me of a great African queen, even a deity. She does not embellish the second stanza of the song, as Joan Sutherland effectively does. All in all, this is a rather too self-conscious performance, even though her voice is exquisite. A singer named Sissel, unfamiliar to me, gives a folksy rendition, accompanied by some updating chords that Balfe never wrote. This is quite proper, since this melody was popular with both classical and non-classical music fans. It is sweet. Sutherland's rendition is by far the best musically, but I find the version by someone named Sumi Jo the most moving in the sense of the subject of my essay. She is someone in her fifties--and looks it-- dressed as someone in her twenties or thirties. Her voice is sweet and expressive too. Her version is the most evocative of that poor old couple dancing the minuet.
And, as another addendum, here is a recording of me playing this beautiful song on the piano:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=or4PgO6MtII
It is a very personal song for me. My grandmother, Ella Dorsett, died in 1944, the year before I was born. I know liitle more than three things about her: she was very, very poor; she was very, very obese; and Balfe's aria was her very favorite piece of music in the world. She was simple, and uneducated--how did she get to know an aria from an English opera written a century previous to hers? I think I know. When I was young, there was an abandoned theatre two blocks away from me--who could imagine a theatre ever being in the outskirts of my very working-class home town, Jersey City? But there it was. I was a bit of a "gamin" in those days--I was about ten at the time when we and a few other street kids used to break into the building and explore it. This was my very first view of a stage, albeit a stage in ruins. I remember staring at it, fascinated. Later, I knew enough about history to realize that this was a stage that had been used in the vaudeville days, probably from early in the century to the 1940s, I'm not sure. I have no doubt that Balfe's song was performed on that stage and all over the country during that period, it was that popular. (It was a hit among the so-called "low brows" and "high brows"--an example of the latter is a mention of it in Joyce's "The Dubliners.") My grandmother probably first heard it in a music hall in Hoboken, where she was born. My father worked in a music hall in Hoboken when he was a teenager, so he probably heard it there too.
I don't know if I love or hate the song--yes, I do, my feeling is more close to love. It is a very catchy tune, one that can easily become what Germans call an "Ohrwurn," that is, an earworm, something that has the ability to bore into the brain and repeat itself over and over again. This music can drive you crazy! It is unabashedly sentimental, over the top enough to invite parody--and I did indeed sing to myself a parody of this song when I was a young teenager. ("...I could boast of a highly incestral name; but the thing, you dodos, which pleased me most, was that you drove my mother insane, that you drove that poor shady old lady insane...etc." My friend Brian--where is he now after half a century?-- invented an even racier version, as teenagers will. Spike Jones would have had fun with this music.) It is a song that is both beautiful and ridiculous, and that is precisely the point. It is not great enough to transcend the times when it was written and the century of popularity that followed. It is, we must admit, kitschy. That's precisely why I find it so very moving; it sometimes can, like it did last night, move me to tears.(I don't have the best ear, but, after hearing it last night, I went directly to the piano and got everything right. It is that simple.)
Have you ever read Guy de Maupassant's short story, "The Minuet?" That and Sherwood Anderson's "The Egg" are among my very favorites. In the French story, the narrator watches an elderly couple dance a minuet. They were darlings of the French court once, a court that long since ceased to exist. They are old, decrepit, and their movements are now clumsy. Their dance, the minuet, has been completely out of fashion for decades. The people of Maupassant's day laughed at it. Inside the old folks are still living in the ancien regime; inside they still might feel some of the glory of those days--but they are a wreck of what they once were. They evoke pity. Suddenly the narrator sees what time does to us: the once strong building decays, collapses; the rubble is removed and absolutely nothing is left. The narrator is deeply moved by this old couple; traces of great beauty still remain. The narrator states that he has been a soldier and has seen young men die horrifically; yet, nothing has filled him with such terror as this poignant dance. He sees in a flash what is going to happen to him, to all of us.
"I Dreamt That I Dwelt in Marle Halls," evokes such feelings in me. I was born just after this song became a curiosity, after being a major hit for over a century. As I wrote, part of me still finds this music beautiful; no doubt anyone born after me--at least those who are musically discriminating, including the other part of me--finds the song ridiculous.
Bach was forgotten. The next generation abandoned counterpoint and found his works crabbed and stuffy. When Mendelssohn reintroduced him to the larger public, around the time Balfe wrote his opera, Bach's star rose in the cultural heavens and has remained one of first magnitude ever since. The problem with Balfe is that the music is charming, but far from immortal.
Balfe was extremely popular in his day, especially in England, France and Italy. These days he is just about completely forgotten.
Much of what is beloved by a generation does not stand the test of time. (And, of course, some things that do stand the test of time were ignored by the generation in which they arose.) I realize that much of what formed me in the 1940s and 1950s is passing away forever. All right I'll say it: the young do not understand.And perhaps they shouldn't. Most of us think we are somehow precious, but, like the song, we are does not transcend our time. What we think is important might be deemed by the next generation to be quite kitschy and maudlin. We will be completely forgotten. Those of us who are old are dancing that tragic--and tragically comical--minuet, and will very soon be nothing but dust.
But let's not go too far with the tragedy, Thomas. You, like many people of your generation, are active to a degree that was unthinkable during Balfe's time. You dance, you play music, write poems and take delight in your lovely wife, son, family and friends. You've made it, Mr. Lucky! Lucky! Lucky!! Doomed nevertheless.
Addendum: A review of the recording of this song available on YouTube. Joan Sutherland's is the best. Yes, she is one of the past century's divas, but not always one of my favorites. Sometimes her approach strikes me as a bit too "warbly"--too precious. And her Italian diction was so consonant-less that I found it difficult to understand--I always make it a point to understand the words of operas. Here, her extraordinary technique and phrasing is amazing, even breathtaking. A marvelous performance! Jessye Norman, larger than life, always reminds me of a great African queen, even a deity. She does not embellish the second stanza of the song, as Joan Sutherland effectively does. All in all, this is a rather too self-conscious performance, even though her voice is exquisite. A singer named Sissel, unfamiliar to me, gives a folksy rendition, accompanied by some updating chords that Balfe never wrote. This is quite proper, since this melody was popular with both classical and non-classical music fans. It is sweet. Sutherland's rendition is by far the best musically, but I find the version by someone named Sumi Jo the most moving in the sense of the subject of my essay. She is someone in her fifties--and looks it-- dressed as someone in her twenties or thirties. Her voice is sweet and expressive too. Her version is the most evocative of that poor old couple dancing the minuet.
And, as another addendum, here is a recording of me playing this beautiful song on the piano:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=or4PgO6MtII
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