Daoine · Sidh

An entry in honor of that elusive, preening, sandwich-making hero of ponds, lakes, and other mysterious watery demesnes, Monseigneur Duckman ...



1988 California Duck Stamp, by Robert Steiner (digital image courtesy of State of California Department of Fish and Game)


The Wild Duck

Twilight. Red in the West.
Dimness. A glow on the wood.
The teams plod home to rest.
The wild duck come to glean.
O souls not understood,
What a wild cry in the pool;
What things have the farm ducks seen
That they cry so – huddle and cry?
Only the soul that goes.
Eager. Eager. Flying.
Over the globe of the moon,
Over the wood that glows.
Wings linked. Necks a-strain,
A rush and a wild crying.

A cry of the long pain
In the reeds of a steel lagoon,
In a land that no man knows.



Anas platyrhynchos - the wild Mallard (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

The poet Francis Thompson (1859-1907), photograph taken in the 1890s (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)


The Poppy
by Francis Thompson

-to Monica-

Summer set lip to earth’s bosom bare,
And left the flush’d print in a poppy there;
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puff’d it to flapping flame.

With burnt mouth red like a lion’s it drank
The blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank,
And dipp’d its cup in the purpurate shine
When the eastern conduits ran with wine.

Till it grew lethargied with fierce bliss,
And hot as a swinked gipsy is,
And drowsed in sleepy savageries,
With mouth wide a-pout for a sultry kiss. ...

~~~~~~~

(And so the dream begins ...)



Flora illustration of Papaver somniferum, the opium poppy (image from my personal digital library, source unknown)


I read Francis Thompson's poem over a week ago, and quickly lost myself in the rich lyrical imagery embedded his beautifully tragic lines of verse. Poor Thompson! He spent the greater part of his forty-eight years on this earth struggling with an opium addiction that he developed in his early twenties at medical school, a career path forced upon him by his exasperated father, after Thompson was rejected from a Catholic seminary for being 'too reserved'. A socially awkward and shy young man, who desired for nothing more than the quiet life of a poet, he was entirely out of his element in the surgical and dissection theaters, as well as in his interactions with other students, and turned to opium as a means of escape from the world into which he had been thrown. It is thought that after reading Thomas de Quincey's seminal work The Confessions of an English Opium Eater, Thompson tasted his first drops of laudanum (a tincture of opium in alcohol sold in many shops throughout the nineteenth century), and like so many of those sensitive and creative minds that came before him, succumbed to the soothing warmth of this ancient narcotic. Opium is, after all, one of the oldest preferred medicines in the world, and for those who partake of it in a recreational sense, its effects have been likened to touching the hand of a god, the results of which can be angelic, demonic or both. So important has it been since the unknown date of its discovery (at some dim point in our unrecorded past), that a few scholars believe it might be one of a handful of reasons why hunter-gatherer groups settled into a sedentary agricultural way of life in the Fertile Crescent all those thousands of years ago. Opium, beer and wine, to name just a few - favorite concoctions that required some organized cultivation, in order to perfect the supplies for the increasing demands of a rapidly growing populace ... a rather darkly amusing aspect of our civilized origins.

And so, Thompson joined the ranks of those who had tasted the flower before him, and partook of a bit too much of its alluring sweetness. In The Poppy he presents us with the visions of a man whose need for the drug increased over years of use. In this scenario, the body builds up a tolerance, and thus requires more and more of the medicine to produce the eagerly sought after effects of comfort and euphoria, and soon one pursues life only as a means to get their needed dose. Years go by, and one's sense of time is lost in between the obsessively counted hours of lack, and the hours that stretch sometimes into days of lying in the arms of Morpheus. And yet, as impossible as it may seem to those who have not tasted (and benefitted) from its bitter sweetness, the lascivious beauty of this particular flower can still be described as having 'dipp'd its cup in the purpurate shine when the eastern conduits ran with wine' by one who was so desperately caught up in the web of its darkest spell. For poets and writers such as Thompson, de Quincey, Coleridge and Collins, the miseries that were brought on by addiction were often framed in the cooling shade of those petals, and so homage was paid to the angelic devil who wreaked so much havoc, but also granted a few hours of perfect peace to their troubled souls.

It is also interesting to note that the fascination for and worship of Papaver somniferum spread beyond the realm of those addicted to its narcotic properties. As I read The Poppy, exquisite works of art that include images of poppies and the mystical realms of those who partook of a pipe or two of opium flashed through my mind. I spent days looking through the art books in our personal library for some of these paintings and sculptures, and extended my search to some of the online sources for art research - in short, I had my own moments of lost time over the past week, chasing after the fleeting shadow of Morpheus as captured by artists and writers across the ages of recorded time. It would take books and books worth of pages to discuss all of this material, but this rather long entry (one of the longest in my collection here) will at least present a selection of my favorite images discovered over the last few days (beware, there are loads of pretty pictures!), and some more literary evidence of humankind's fascination for this beautiful flower of evil. Demonic and divine, it is presented as the preferred flower of both Thanatos and the goddess Demeter, and the effects of its burning resin embody characteristics of both. A symbol of true romanticism, its medicinal qualities have been a great benefit to those in physical and mental pain, while at the same time wreaking havoc upon those who succumb completely to the allure of its addictive properties. Glossy petals that have always drunk 'the blood of the sun as he slaughter’d sank', and then waited for that 'sultry kiss' - dark and light, light and dark ... and so the dream continues ...


( Come with me and dance in the arms of Morpheus ... )

Pegasus

As in a dream
I feel the rhythm
The silent grace
And undulations
Of flowing hooves
And manes of fire
Of fire…

In green of fields
And buoyant blues
With sparkling lights
Such sparkling lights!

As in a dream
The eyes are free
The body motionless
What can I do
Who cannot catch
The full gallop
Here on earth
To reach you there…
Behind the flaming clouds?




Whistlejacket, c. 1762, by George Stubbs, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

'By That Long Scan of Waves' (from 'Fancies at Navesink', in Leaves of Grass)

By that long scan of waves, myself call'd back, resumed upon myself,
In every crest some undulating light or shade – some retrospect,
Joys, travels, studies, silent panoramas – scenes ephemeral,
The long past war, the battles, hospital sights, the wounded and the dead,
Myself through every by-gone phase – my idle youth – old age at hand,
My three-score years of life summ'd up, and more, and past,
By any grand ideal tried, intentionless, the whole a nothing,
And haply yet some drop within God's scheme's ensemble – some wave, or part of wave,
Like one of yours, ye multitudinous ocean.




Rocky Reef on Sea Shore, 1824, by Caspar David Friedrich, oil on canvas - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The Rat

My windows now are giant drops of dew,
The light is winged, and panting, and the world

See, while they shoot the sun with singing Larks,
Where can the Cuckoo hide in all this light,

Shall I be mean, when all this light is mine?
Call for the rat, and let him share my joy,

There have been some sad moments over the past few days, during which I was reminded of that rather venomous side of life, which is so full of hatred, envy and malice that it will go to great lengths to destroy and tear down anything that is good. Therefore, when I opened up my copy of Spenser's works, it was not surprising that my eyes were drawn to Muiopotmos, the allegorical tale of a butterfly's fate, which includes elements that were drawn from Ovid's Metamorphosis. In this work, Spenser weaves the light and the dark into a tapestry of verse that is quite stunning in its reminder that, although we can dance in sunlit gardens of sweetness and love, we cannot avoid the webs of bitterness and hatred that collect in the corners of this life. These two elements are intertwined into a paradox that is embedded in everything around us, and which shapes the world in which we live. It would be folly to pretend that the more painful of the two does not exist, and no amount of running or hiding will ever completely release us from the various grips of Thanatos, whose very existence is bolstered by the contrasting power of Eros. Therefore, despite my dislike of the sadness brought on by the former, I have learned how to live with it and survive in its shadow, which does make the sweetness in my life that much sweeter. I have also recognized that the two sides of the paradox are rarely neat and tidy - where there is splendor, one can usually find little dashes of malice, and where there is unsightliness, one can usually find exquisite little hints of beauty. In short, a pretty little butterfly can also be rather greedy and careless, while a hideous spider can also be delicate and lovely.




Title page of Muiopotmos, copied from 'The Poetical Works of Edmund Spenser' - edited with critical notes by J. C. Smith & E. de Selincourt, and published by Oxford University Press, London, 1948 (includes reprints of 1590 and 1910 editions)


I suppose that waxing philosophical about all of this may seem strange to some, but it has helped me to reconcile myself to those venomous things (read on a number of websites), which created such sadness in me a couple of days ago. Spenser certainly appears to have had a rather strong grasp of what I am attempting so feebly to explain in this introduction - so, I will turn the stage over to him very shortly here. And I will certainly not attempt to explain all of the literary criticism that has been written about this work - an unending list of various interpretive possibilities, ranging from court and/or political scandal to the demise of poetry in the sixteenth century - as I said to petrusplancius the other day, I often get migraines just trying to understand it for myself, let alone turning around and attempting to explain it to anyone else! However, please note that I have decided to present the work in its entirety this time around, so when you click on the link below, five textual pages worth of verse will appear, accompanied by forty-seven high quality images that complement the storyline and themes presented. In short, this entry is long! It is also not for the feint of heart, for there is no 'happy ending' for our little hero, Clarion - he does not flutter off to the land of dew-covered roses, and you are hereby forewarned of the tragic nature of his fate/demise.

Regarding the images I have included, ALL of the sumptuously gorgeous butterfly photographs were copied from Wikimedia user Adrian198cm's page. This brilliant scientist and nature photographer has placed ALL of these pictures very generously in the public domain (he even states that he does not need to be credited when they are used), and I encourage everyone to go to his site and read the very sweet and touching statement of purpose that he has posted there. Gracias Adrian! - your generosity and attention to detail (each photograph is meticulously labeled with the butterfly's Latin name) are greatly appreciated! These beautiful pictures also make it possible to present Clarion in all his magical incarnations - in my imagination, our little hero is a shapeshifter of butterflies, whose power to deceive the eyes with his 'fresh attire' works for a time, but ultimately does not keep the vain little fellow from his fate. The other images I have included were drawn from various internet and textual sources, and I have included labels that provide information about them.

In addition to these points of interest, there are only a couple of other things to note. I have elected to copy out the poem using the original 1590 text - therefore, keep in mind that, for example, an i is sometimes a j, a v sometimes a u and a u sometimes a v, an f occasionally is an s, ie can usually be translated as y, and Spenser more often than not used the term 'flie' for our dear little butterfly. There are many copies of this poem in modern translation available online, which might help you in reading the version here. Also, according to Who's Who in Shakespeare's England, the Elizabeth Carey, Lady Hunsdon, to whom Spenser dedicated this poem 'was the second daughter of Sir John Spencer and a relative of the poet Edmund Spenser. She married Sir George Carey, later second Baron Hunsdon, in 1574. Spenser dedicated Muiopotmos to her and also commemorated her in one of the dedicatory sonnets to the Faerie Queene. Lady Hunsdon was a patron of Nashe and Dowland, and herself translated Petrarch.' We will start with his dedication to this 'worthy and vertuous Ladie' ...

Crépuscule
by Rodolphe Moïse -- a poet and sculptor born in Haiti in 1914

Les ombres dentelées
Happées par la nuit s'évanouissent
L'archet des palmiers
Tire une dernière note
Sur un rayon attardé

La brise nomade
Déferle
Imperceptiblement
Frissonnent çà et là les tcha-tchas

L'onde
Reflète la ronde des joncs
Dansant la bamboula

Là-bas le négrillon sur le grabat
Écoute au creux frémissant
De ses entrailles
Le tonnerre de la faim.




Poster for the 1938 production of W. E. B. DuBois's Haiti: A Drama of the Black Napoleon -- digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons


Twilight -- English translation by Norman R. Shapiro

The jagged shadows
Snatched by the night begin to fade
The palm-tree bow
Plays one last note
On a lingering ray of light

The nomad breeze
Unfurls
Ever so slightly
The tcha-tchas shake and shiver round about

The waters
Mirror the prancing reeds
Dancing the bamboula

On bed of rags the little black child
Hears in the quivering hollow
Of his belly
The thunder of hunger.

(Note on terms ... tcha-tcha (or cha-cha is 'the name given to a kind of locust-tree whose dry pods rattle when stirred by the wind'; bamboula is 'a popular dance named after a type of native tambourine that usually accompanies it.')


In light of the current tragedy in Haiti, I felt compelled to post something here that reflected the cultural heritage of that beautiful land. This poem is included in the section on Haiti in Négritude: Black Poetry from Africa and the Caribbean, edited and translated by Norman R. Shapiro ... this is one of the poetry collections that my dearest, guard_devotees, suggested for my daily readings. It felt rather trite, however, to include it as part of my Daydreaming in verse series, because the current crisis is so great that it deserves something more of our attention than a few trifling thoughts on verse ...

Haiti is a complicated land, with a very complicated history - it basks in the glow of Toussaint and the independence it won from his struggle, but it also suffers under the harshest of realities that are a result of centuries of suppression and severe poverty. At the moment, Haiti's beautiful people deserve our love and attention and help. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE give what you can to the ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross) - and if any of you know of other aid organizations that are helping out with this specific crisis, please post the information in your comment, and I will update the entry to include those links. Thank you.


Addendum -- here are some additional organizations to which one can donate funds for the Haiti relief effort:

Médecins Sans Frontières / Doctors Without Borders

The Salvation Army International

William J. Clinton Foundation Haiti Earthquake Relief -- In addition to the Clinton Foundation donation page, this webpage also lists a number of other organizations where one can donate funds.

Sonnet CXVI

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

Fairy Things

Grey lichens, mid thy hills of creeping thyme,
Grow like to fairy forests hung with rime;
And fairy money-pots are often found
That spring like little mushrooms out of ground,
Some shaped like cups and some in slender trim
Wineglasses like, that to the very rim
Are filled with little mystic shining seed;
We thought our fortunes promising indeed,
Expecting by and by ere night to find
Money ploughed up of more substantial kind.

Acres of little yellow seeds,
The wheat-field's constant blooms,
That ripen into prickly seeds
For fairy curry-combs,
To comb and clean the little things
That draw their nightly wain;
And so they scrub the beetle's wings
Till he can fly again.

And flannel felt for the beds of the queen
From the soft inside of the shell of the bean,
Where the gipsies down in the lonely dells
Had littered and left the plundered shells.




Titania Sleeping by Richard Dadd, c. 1841, oil on canvas - digital image copied from Victorian Fairy Painting by Jeremy Maas, et al, published by Merrell Holberton, London, 1997

O choruscans lux stellarum
-Antiphon-

O choruscans lux stellarum,
o splendidissima specialis forma
regalium nuptiarum,
o fulgens gemma:
tu es ornata in alta persona
que non habet maculatam rugam.
Tu es etiam socia angelorum
et civis sanctorum.
Fuge, fuge speluncam
antiqui perditoris,
et veniens veni in palatium regis.




'Liber Divinorum Operum', c. 1163, by Hildegard von Bingen - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons


(O glittering starlight,
O most splendid and special form
of regal marriage,
O shining gem:
you are adorned like a noble lady
who has no blemish.
And you are a companion of angels
and a citizen among the saints.
Flee, O flee the cave
of the old betrayer
and come, O come into the king's palace.)