Daoine Sidh

Daydreaming in verse ... Laurie Lee (1914-1997)

2010-03-12T22:29:52Z

The Wild Trees

O the wild trees of my home,
forests of blue dividing the pink moon,
the iron blue of those ancient branches
with their berries of vermilion stars.

In that place of steep meadows
the stacked sheaves are roasting,
and the sun-torn tulips
are tinders of scented ashes.

But here I have lost
the dialect of your hills,
my tongue has gone blind
far from their limestone roots.

Among the Bernese Alps, unknown date, Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902), oil on canvas - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Through trunks of black elder
runs a fox like a lantern,
and the hot grasses sing
with the slumber of larks.

But here there are thickets
of many different gestures,
torn branches of brick and steel
frozen against the sky.

O the wild trees of home
with their sounding dresses,
locks powdered with butterflies
and cheeks of blue moss.

Forest Stream, unknown date, Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902), oil on canvas - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

I want to see you rise
from my brain's dry river,
I want your lips of wet roses
laid over my eyes.

O fountains of earth and rock,
gardens perfumed with cucumber,
home of secret valleys
where the wild trees grow.

Let me return at last
to your fertile wilderness,
to sleep with the coiled fernleaves
in your heart's live stone.

Ferns and Rocks on an Embankment, unknown date, Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902), oil on canvas - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Although Laurie Lee is writing about the beauty of the English countryside, it carried me further along the vein of nostalgia that has wrapped me in such lovely memories for the past week. In this case, his lines of verse reminded me of the mountain landscape in which I spent most of my youth. When I was just turning seven, my parents purchased five acres in the foothills of the northern Sierra Nevada mountain range, and the landscape in which I spent most of my childhood days was full of that 'wild blue of ... ancient branches', with hillsides that were dotted with the pristine 'steep meadows' where the pioneers set up their camps. Most of those rugged men and women had come there to work as loggers or gold miners, and all that remained of their old settlements were the sparse groves of ancient apple trees (which still bore deliciously tart fruit, perfect for pies and canning), the trailing roses gone wild so long ago, the ivy-covered boards of what were once ramshackle houses, and the bottles and rusting bits of stove parts and square-headed nails left behind in their rapid exodus from that wild and beautiful land. They had been drawn to the mountains in a frenzy of hopes about striking it rich, but most of the ones who were lucky enough to survive that harsh landscape ended up leaving as penniless shells of their former selves - not everyone in the wild west was as lucky as old George Hearst!

The Native American groups who once populated those mountains had also left their mark, although their rapid exodus was one brought on primarily by the spread of European diseases, which wiped out so many of them that entire languages, and therefore cultures, were erased in a matter of decades. On our wandering adventures along steep mountain trails and old logging roads, we also found the remnants of their villages, with flat rock faces pocked forever by the hundreds of years of grinding stones, and the surrounding hillsides littered with stone arrowheads. Once we found the blade of a stone knife, its wooden handle and leather bindings having decayed into the red iron-rich dirt so long ago that no traces of them were to be seen - just that perfect blade, carefully chipped into shape by a deer antler that was wielded by some master craftsman of a culture that was no more. 'But here I have lost the dialect of your hills, my tongue has gone blind far from their limestone roots' ... my heart always ached from the intense melancholy of those cultural graveyards, and I remember wanting so intensely to bring them back, in order to learn the true language of the mountains that my people had worked so hard to erase in their obsessive need to get rich off the fat of the land.

Well, those are just snippets of the landscapes of time and geographical space into which I wandered during my childhood in the Sierras - I could write so many more of those memories, some amazingly vivid and some just barely visible in the shrouding mists of time, but I think I will stop there for now. 'Let me return at last to your fertile wilderness, to sleep with the coiled fernleaves in your heart's live stone' ... yes, the beauty of the English countryside is reflected in those words, but there is something of a mountain landscape there as well, be it the European Alps, the dramatically steep Himalayas, or the numerous mountain ranges that run along the western side of Northern America.

Albert Bierstadt, photograph taken by Napoleon Sarony, c. 1880s - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Albert Bierstadt's stunning landscapes are the visual accompaniment to this chorus of words - an artist who was born in Germany, where he received the early part of his art school training, and whose family moved to America, where he became part of the Hudson River School of artists who recorded so much of the still untouched beauty of this wild landscape in which I grew up. Although he painted landscapes in Europe (the first painting in this post is actually of a hillside meadow in the Bernese Alps - which does so closely resemble the ones I explored in the Sierras as a child) and across the Americas, he is most widely known here in the United States for the works he produced during several journeys that he took during the 'Westward Expansion', when he captured the pristine beauty of the Rockies, the Sierras, and numerous other landscapes along the west coast. Here is one more of his 'luminescent' paintings - a stream, which I am fairly certain is located somewhere in relation to the foothills where I grew up. If you look closely, you will see a bird sitting on a log in the center of the painting - that is either a Blue Jay or a Stellar's Jay, both of which are indigenous to my childhood home, and fill the woods with their raucous calls and flashes of blue on warm summer days ... it is a very vivid memory that I can still bring to the forefront of my mind's eye, in all its cacophonous and beautiful splendor!

The Mountain Brook, unknown date, Albert Bierstadt (1830-1902), oil on canvas - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

And now ... I believe I need to get started on that idea about adopted family photographs and the stories they whisper to me as I gaze into their little worlds - nostalgia of a different kind ... but still, there it is, just waiting to be told! :)

Daydreaming in verse ... Joseph Stroud (1943-)

2010-03-10T22:27:44Z

A Western Meadowlark (Sturnella neglecta) in northern California - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Meadowlarks and Hawks

A farm road
in the San Joaquin
heading into the red dirt
of the gold country
miles and miles
of fencerows
with meadowlarks
singing on the wires
the song of one
entering the song of another
all down the road
window open
I hear song
trailing
into song
the road continuing
as far as I can see
and every mile or so
on top
of a telephone pole
sits
a red-tailed hawk
shoulders hunched
turning his slow
iron gaze
over all he claims
of the singing world

Red-tailed hawk (Buteo jamaicensis) near Christmas Valley, south-central Oregon - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

The Nightingale songs in my entry yesterday reminded me of one of my favorite songbirds in the area of northern California where I grew up. Every spring and summer my Mom and Dad would take us on long driving adventures in the valley, through the miles and miles of fields and orchards, where we would stop and picnic in some idyllic setting speckled with black oaks. In those days we were either in the '70s model Mercury station wagon, or in the '53 Chevy, with all the windows down and often the songs of the birds as our only musical accompaniment. The most distinct of these was the Western Meadowlark, who we often heard but rarely saw - but if we were lucky, here is the spectacle that flashed before our eyes, as we motored by one of those windswept fields enclosed in endless lines of barbed wire strung along sun-bleached fence posts ...

Western Meadowlark (Sturnella neglecta) singing on a post in Morro Bay, California - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

... Or during our lunch of sandwiches and cake and fresh fruit, all spread out on picnic blankets, with lemonade in the Coleman cooler, we might have seen the flash of yellow at ground level, and the little nervous flick of tail feathers, through tufts of grass and star thistles, before in the blink of an eye he was gone ...

Western Meadowlark (Sturnella neglecta) at the Bosque Del Apache National Wildlife Refuge in New Mexico - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

However, their singing would echo again and again across the fields and valleys, in a call and response that is so vastly more beautiful than any human choir anywhere in the world - I think that only the Muses, or perhaps Saint Cecilia, can mimic their exquisite song. I remember being transported by that sound into some dreamscape of peaceful happiness, broken only by the occasional lowing of cows in a neighboring field, or the rumble of a passing truck on the distant highway - but always with that background sigh of the warm southern or western winds that caressed my face as I lay on my back and gazed into the deep blue of a perfect azure sky ...

And yes, the excitement always peaked when my Mom or Dad or one of my sisters yelled out at the top of their gleeful lungs, 'hawk!', and I looked up just in time to catch that flash of rusty red and the piercing eye looking down at us from its golden throne on a tree branch or telephone pole overhead - mere humans in the presence of true royalty.

How can one not help but miss those halcyon days that arise in the mind with the memories of youth? Joseph Stroud certainly captured some of mine in his poem about two of my favorite birds, set in the landscape of my childhood home. Those beautiful lines of verse mirror the tears that are pooling in my eyes as I think about those blissful warm days, full of adventures and happiness in the sunbaked California valley, when Dad would stop the car at those perfect little roadside fruit stands, and Mom would sigh at the sight of all those flats filled with peaches and tomatoes and beans. Those were the moments, brief and golden, when I could think to myself, 'right here and right now, I am happy!'

Daydreaming in verse ... Robert Bridges (1844-1930)

2010-03-09T19:27:43Z

Nightingales

Beautiful must be the mountains whence ye come,
And bright in the fruitful valleys the streams, wherefrom
Ye learn your song:
Where are those starry woods? O might I wander there,
Among the flowers, which in that heavenly air
Bloom the year long!

Nay, barren are those mountains and spent the streams:
Our song is the voice of desire, that haunts our dreams,
A throe of the heart,
Whose pining visions dim, forbidden hopes of profound,
No dying cadence nor long sigh can sound,
For all our art.

Alone, aloud in the raptured ear of men
We pour our dark nocturnal secret; and then,
As night is withdrawn
From these sweet-springing meads and bursting boughs of May,
Dream, while the innumerable choir of day
Welcome the dawn.

'Nachtegaal' (Nightingale - Luscinia megarhynchos), illustration in J. F. Naumann's, Naturgeschichte der Vögel Mitteleuropas Gera, 1905 - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

And here is a whole playlist of recordings of nightingales singing, which I found on www.soundboard.com ... enjoy!!

Blessed by the muses with the voice of an angel ...

2010-03-09T04:01:32Z

Elizabeth Fraser has been one of my heroines for many years now. When I heard her for the first time, in some wonderful dimly lit, smokey bar in late 1988 (it was a video of The Cocteau Twins' single 'Carolyn's Fingers' - and I was one of the patrons contributing to the ambience of the setting with my pack of Export A's), I remember thinking that she was one of those rare singers who have been blessed by the muses with the voice of an angel. Not long after that I purchased a cassette of the Cocteau Twin's Blue Bell Knoll (released in October, 1988), and would pop it into my Walkman on those days when I felt a bit out of sorts and lost - their music and her voice always brought me back to a place of happy dreams and peaceful hope - something that I always needed in those days of early 20s angst.

Elizabeth Fraser in 2009 - digital image courtesy of the Cocteau Twins website

Her recent single, 'Moses' (2009), is pure delight - one of those rare songs that I want to listen to over and over again ...

And here is the video of 'Carolyn's Fingers' that captivated me all those years ago ... it is one of the songs off of Blue Bell Knoll ...

*sighs* ... thank you Elizabeth!

Celebrating the wise women of the past, through the delightful vision of E. Nesbit ...

2010-03-09T01:06:58Z

I am revisiting the works of E. Nesbit (1858-1924), starting with The House of Arden, which she published in 1908. As I was reading Chapter 3 ('In Boney's Times') this morning, I ran across the most delightful passage. In it lines, Nesbit tells the story of a particular type of woman from our past, and to me her presentation of this character complemented the idea of celebrating an International Women's Day, if one considers that in addition to celebrating the feminine of the present, this is also a day to remember and honor all the remarkable women who came before us. In light of this, I felt compelled to do an entry today, which pays homage to both Nesbit, as a co-founder of the Fabian Society and one of the most remarkable writers of her era, and the character of the old woman who she presents to us, whose life has been severely impacted by the fear of feminine intelligence that sadly still persists in some quarters today. Here is a brief synopsis of the events that occur at the beginning of Chapter 3, followed under the cut by a transcript of the entire passage ...

At the opening of this chapter, the two main characters, Elfrida and Edred (who are brother and sister), have managed (with the help of the Mouldiwarp - a white mole-like creature of powerful magic) to time-travel from 1907 to 1807, and find themselves dressed up in the uncomfortable clothes of that era, with everyone around them believing that they are the grandchildren of the current Lord and Lady Arden. Immediately realizing that they are at a serious disadvantage, unfamiliar with not only the setting in which they find themselves, but also the customs of the period (they have never made it past Edward IV at school), they decide to confide in the only trustworthy person they find in the Arden household - the cook. Of course they realize that they cannot oblige her with the absolute truth about their time travel adventure, but at least settle on telling her that they have lost their memory, hoping to at least elicit her help in getting their bearings strait in this new/old life. Cook ends up believing their story, and even goes on to surmise that their condition must be the effects of an evil spell, cast on them by the local 'witch', who apparently has a bone to pick with their grandfather. She advises the children to visit the old lady and to bring her a packet of tea and sugar as a gift in exchange for taking off the spell, and then she bustles them out of her kitchen and on their way. They first stop at the local inn to post a letter for Lady Arden, and Edred is distracted by a visit to the stables, but Elfrida insists that they cannot stay for long because they must do as Cook says and find the witch ...

"Edred would have liked to stay all day watching the busyness of every one and the beautifulness of the horses, but Elfrida dragged him away.
They had to find the witch, she reminded him; and in a dreadful tumbledown cottage, with big holes in its roof of rotten thatch, they did find her.
She was exactly like the pictures of witches in story books, only she had not a broomstick or a high-pointed hat. She had instead a dirty cap that had once been white, and a rusty gown that had once been black, and a streaky shawl that might once, perhaps, have been scarlet. But nobody could be sure of that now. There was a black cat sitting on a very dirty wooden settle, and the old woman herself sat on a rickety three-legged stool, her wrinkled face bent over a speckled hen which she was nursing in her lap and holding gently in her yellow, wrinkled hands.
As soon as Edred caught sight of her through the crooked doorway, he stopped. 'I'm not going in,' he said; 'what's the good? We know jolly well she hasn't bewitched us. And if we go cheeking her she may, and then we shall be in a nice hole.'
'There's the tea and sugar,' said Elfrida.
'You just give it to her and come away. I'll wait for you by the stile.'
So Elfrida went into the cottage alone, and said, 'Good morning' in rather a frightened way.
'I've brought you some tea and sugar,' she said, and stood waiting for the 'Thank you', without which it would not be polite to say 'Good morning' and to go away.
The 'Thank you' never came. Instead, the witch stopped stroking the hen, and said:
'What for? I've done you no 'arm.'
'No,' said Elfrida. 'I'm sure you wouldn't.'
'Then what have you brought it for?'
'For -- oh, just for you,' said Elfrida. 'I though you'd like it. It's just a -- a love-gift, you know.'
This was Aunt Edith's way of calling a present that didn't come just because it was your birthday or Christmas, or you had had a tooth out.
'A love-gift?' said the old woman slowly. 'After all this long time?'
Elfrida did not understand. How should she? It's almost impossible for even the most grown up and clever of us to know how women used to be treated -- and not so very long ago either -- if they were once suspected of being witches. It generally began by the old woman's being cleverer than her neighbours, having more wit to find out what was the matter with sick people, and more still to cure them. Then her extra cleverness would help her to foretell storms and gales and frosts, and to find water by the divining rod -- a very mysterious business. And when once you can find out where water is by just carrying a forked hazel twig between your hands and walking across a meadow, you can most likely find out a good many other things that your stupid neighbours would never dream of. And in those long-ago days -- which really aren't so very long ago -- your being so much cleverer than your neighbours would be quite enough. You would soon be known as the 'wise woman' -- and from 'wise woman' to witch was a very short step indeed.
So Elfrida, not understanding, said, 'Yes; is your fowl ill?'
''Twill mend,' said the old woman; ''twill mend. The healing of my hands has gone into it.' She rose, set the hen on the hearth, where it fluttered, squawked, and settled among grey ashes, very much annoying the black cat, and laid her hands suddenly on Elfrida's shoulders.
'And now the healing of my hands is for you,' she said. 'You have brought me a love-gift. Never a gift have I had these fifty years but was a gift of fear or a payment for help -- to buy me to take off a spell or put a spell on. But you have brought me a love-gift, and I tell you you shall have your heart's desire. You shall have love around and about you all your life long. That which is lost shall be found. That which came not shall come again. In this world's goods you shall be blessed, and blessed in the goods of the heart also. I know -- I see -- and for you I see everything good and fair. Your future shall be clean and sweet as your kind heart.'
She took her hands away. Elfrida, very much impressed by these flattering remarks which she felt she did not deserve, stood still, not knowing what to say or do; she rather wanted to cry.
'I only brought it because cook told me,' she said.
'Cook didn't give you the kind heart that makes you want to cry for me now,' said the witch.
The old woman sank down in a crouching heap, and her voice changed to one of sing-song.

Illustration by Thomas H. Robinson for 'The Garden of Paradise' by Hans Christian Anderson, 1899
Digital image copied from Fantasy: The Golden Age of Fantastic Illustration by Brigid Peppin

'I know,' she said -- 'I know many things. All alone the live-long day and the death-long night, I have learned to see. As cats see through the dark, I see through the days that have been and shall be. I know that you are not here, that you are not now. You will return whence you came, and this time that is not yours shall bear no trace of you. And my blessing shall be with you in your own time and your own place, because you brought a love-gift to the poor old wise woman of Arden.'
'Is there nothing I can do for you?' Elfrida asked, very sorry indeed, for the old woman's voice was very pitiful.
'Kiss me,' said the old woman -- 'kiss me with your little child's mouth, that has come back a hundred years to do it.'
Elfrida did not wish to kiss the wrinkled, grey face, but her heart wished her to be kind, and she obeyed her heart.
'Ah!' said the wise woman,' now I see.' ..."

Here's to all of the remarkable and wise women who came before us in this landscape of time - many thanks to them for all the things they did that have made my life so much better!! And here's to all the incredible women who surround me in the landscape of today - I am honored to share this day with you all and am grateful to each of you for the wisdom that you have shared with me!!!

Daydreaming in verse ... John Tobias (1927-)

2010-03-07T21:46:09Z

Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle Received from a Friend Called Felicity

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnuts

(Hollowed out
Fitted with straws
Crammed with tobacco
Stolen from butts
In family ashtrays)

Were puffed in green lizard silence while straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilization;

During that summer --
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was --
Watermelons ruled

'Rascal' ... a found photograph, purchased on 5 March 2010 at The Antique Mall, Bellingham, Washington (USA)

Thick pink imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quickly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

'Sweetness' ... another found photograph, purchased on 5 March 2010 at The Antique Mall, Bellingham, Washington (USA)

These pictures are some recent additions to the collection of old photographs that I have purchased over the past couple of years in our local antique stores. Owing to the fact that they were discarded/lost/abandoned/misplaced by their original family members - or perhaps there are no longer any living relatives around to guard these little portraits in carefully dusted albums of black acid-free paper - I decided to start 'adopting' the ones who seemed the likeliest candidates for a family of my own imagination. And although their 'real' stories are perhaps lost forever, their faces are still there, wanting to tell little tales of their own - 'Rascal' above is a perfect example of this. So I think that I will oblige them, and start a new series in this journal that shares some of these little photographic fictions. These will not be as frequent as my recently infrequent Daydreaming in Verse entries, but I will endeavor to share as many of them as I can with you all.

Of course, if any reader here happens to recognize one of these faces, please do let me know!!

Daydreaming in verse ... D. H. Lawrence (1885-1930)

2010-02-28T21:33:44Z

Song of a Man Who Has Come Through

Not I, not I, but the wind that blows through me!
A fine wind is blowing the new direction of Time.
If only I let it bear me, carry me, if only it carry me!
If only, most lovely of all, I yield myself and am borrowed
By the fine, fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world
Like a fine, an exquisite chisel, a wedge-blade inserted;
If only I am keen and hard like the sheer tip of a wedge
Driven by invisible blows,
The rock will split, we shall come at the wonder, we shall find the Hesperides.

Oh, for the wonder that bubbles into my soul,
I would be a good fountain, a good well-head,
Would blur no whisper, spoil no expression.

What is the knocking?
What is the knocking at the door in the night?
It is somebody wants to do us harm.

No, no, it is the three strange angels.
Admit them, admit them.

The Quest of the Holy Grail or Sir Galahad at the Shrine of the Holy Grail, c. 1855-1857, watercolour by Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal and Dante Gabriel Rossetti - digital image courtesy of The Rossetti Archive

It may seem a bit of an oxymoron here, pairing up D. H. Lawrence, the visionary writer and poet who is so closely associated with modernism in English literary history, with a Pre-Raphaelite painting - but when I read these beautiful lines of verse this morning it was the first picture that sprang into my thoughts. And, if one reads the Pre-Raphaelites (for I believe that paintings can be 'read') through the lens presented by scholars such as Elizabeth Prettejohn, the pairing up of some very modern lines of verse with their painted visions of a largely imagined past is not as incompatible as one might think.

There are a number of instances in Pre-Raphaelitism where the medieval revival was presented as a fractured construct of past and present, if one views the subjects presented alongside the style of execution used. In The Art of the Pre-Raphaelites, Prettejohn examines this characteristic and the numerous other paradoxical traits embedded in the movement that connected it to a transformation in art that led from the popular styles of the Victorian era into the modernism of the twentieth century. Viewing Pre-Raphaelite paintings as constructs of symbolism, which presented 'primitive' (medieval) themes alongside a close attention to realistic detail in their technical execution that related to their Victorian views, Prettejohn has asserted that these works require close scrutiny in order to uncover all the details and hidden meanings present in the carefully applied layers of paint. One cannot simply judge them as things of empty beauty, but rather must engage them as one would a written text. Additionally, in Beauty and Art, which expands beyond the nineteenth century to examine art across the Western tradition, Prettejohn has also emphasized that artistic beauty has a close link to a progressive philosophical tradition. Thus, in her view 'what is distinctive about beauty, in the philosophical tradition … is its capacity to stimulate fresh thinking and fresh debate.' (p. 11)

It is through these approaches that Prettejohn has uncovered one of the most prevalent paradoxes in Pre-Raphaelitism. Embracing medieval themes, which can be viewed as a form of 'primitivism', while at the same time adhering to the sophisticated refinement of their nineteenth-century art academy training, in which beauty was an essential ingredient, these artists produced works that would ultimately link the Victorian world to the modern era. Although, as Prettejohn has pointed out, they viewed themselves as trying to 'out-Herbert' the revivalism of early-century artists such as J. R. Herbert and William Dyce, the Pre-Raphaelites, especially in the early phases of their movement, presented 'an important example of a particular kind of modern movement, one that proposes a radical interruption to the smooth, progressive flow of art history by switching abruptly to a primitive or archaic mode' (The Art of the Pre-Raphaelites, p. 18). Indeed, one could view this transformation as 'a fine wind ... blowing the new direction of Time ...' - a 'fine wind that takes its course through the chaos of the world ... like a fine, an exquisite chisel ...' - past meets present meets future meets past, in a dance that pushes us through the landscape of space and that thing we call 'Time'.

Well, all my attempted scholarly gobbledygook aside ... Elizabeth Siddal was the artist who originally created the designs for the painting at hand - a watercolour that she executed in collaboration with D. G. Rossetti, and which was inspired by Tennyson's poem 'Sir Galahad', in which the stanza reads:

'Sometimes on lonely mountain-meres
I find a magic bark;
I leap on board: no helmsman steers:
I float till all is dark.
A gentle sound, an awful light!
Three angels bear the holy Grail:
With folded feet, in stoles of white,
On sleeping wings they sail.
Ah, blessed vision! blood of God!
My spirit beats her mortal bars,
As down dark tides the glory slides,
And star-like mingles with the stars.'

These lines of verse present the song of another man who comes through his own soul-searching journey, and touches the dream light at the other side. I am not sure why Siddal chose to include only two visible angels in her vision of this dream, when the poem calls for three (so interesting that Lawrence's calls for the same number) - but that said, they are rather airy and ominous beings, whose strange beauty does make one realize that it would be best just to 'admit them' ... for in their golden light, perhaps, just perhaps, one can 'find the Hesperides.'

Daydreaming in verse ... Karle Wilson Baker (1878-1960)

2010-02-23T06:39:21Z

Days

Some days my thoughts are just cocoons -- all cold, and dull, and blind,
They hang from dripping branches in the grey woods of my mind;

And other days they drift and shine -- such free and flying things!
I find the gold-dust in my hair, left by their brushing wings.

Mariana, c. 1851, John Everett Millais, oil on mahogany - another image copied from my M.A. thesis ... this painting is in the collection at the Tate

I have been waylaid from life and all its computer-oriented delights over the past few days by a ridiculously bad migraine - one of the worst I have had in a long time. I refer to these rather obnoxious monsters as my 'double-whammies' - in this particular case, just when I thought I was in the all-clear (on Friday and most of Saturday) and on the road to a relatively quick recovery from a two-day train wreck, the little head demons decided late on Saturday evening to go at it with their nine-pins and sledgehammers for another round of two-day fun. And although things seemed to calm down a bit today, they are back at it tonight ... the nasty little beasts! In light of this predicament, I must say that Baker's lovely little snippet of a poem with its opening lines of cocooned thoughts 'in the grey woods of my mind', and Millais' beautiful painting of Mariana in her turret with only her embroidery and a mouse as company (my favorite at the Tate) express to a certain degree what I am feeling at the moment. As soon as these nasty little demons stop playing their endless rounds of nine-pins along the nerves on the left and right sides of my brain, my thoughts will be 'such free and flying things' that I will return with much happiness to life's pleasanter pursuits, including looking at what all my LJ friends have been up to for the past week, and perhaps writing something nice for my own site. Until then, however, my dimly lit bedouin tent is where I must go ... a quiet little cocoon in which the beastly little demons usually get bored and give my head a brief respite from their incessant clamor!! Bon nuit ... et à bientôt!!! :)

Daydreaming in verse ... Thomas Lovell Beddoes (1803-1849)

2010-02-13T22:21:26Z

Dream-Pedlary

If there were dreams to sell,
What would you buy?
Some cost a passing bell;
Some a light sigh,
That shakes from Life's fresh crown
Only a roseleaf down.

A rose on Deadman's Walk, Oxford, October 2005 - photograph by daoinesidh

If there were dreams to sell,
Merry and sad to tell,
And the crier rung the bell,
What would you buy?

Flora by Rembrandt, c. 1634, oil on canvas - digital image copied from An Imperial Collection: Women Artists from the State Hermitage Museum

A cottage lone and still,
With bowers nigh,
Shadowy, my woes to still,
Until I die.

Cottage at Godalming, by Helen Allingham, c. 1909 - digital image copied from The Cottage Homes of England by Helen Allingham & Stewart Dick, 1984 reprint by the British Heritage Press of the 1909 edition

Such pearl from Life's fresh crown
Fain would I shake me down.
Were dreams to have at will,
This would best heal my ill,
This would I buy.

But there were dreams to sell
Ill didst thou buy;
Life is a dream, they tell,
Waking, to die.

The churchyard and cemetery at St. Mary's in Fairford, October 2005 - photograph by daoinesidh

Dreaming -- a dream to prize --
Is wishing ghosts to rise;
And, if I had the spell
To call the buried, well,
Which one would I?

Tiddles (1963-1980), the beloved cat of St. Mary's in Fairford, October 2005 - photograph by daoinesidh

The novelist, poet and playwright Thomas Lovell Beddoes was the son of Dr. Thomas Beddoes (friend of Samuel Taylor Coleridge) and Anna Edgeworth (sister to the novelist Maria). After receiving an education at Pembroke College, Oxford, he spent much of his adult life on the Continent, studying medicine at Göttingen and Würzburg, where he became obsessed with discovering the physical evidence of a human spirit after the death of the body. He was eventually deported from Bavaria and Switzerland for his radical political views, and was in England for a short period during 1846 before returning to Germany, where he committed suicide by poison in 1849.

Beddoes' literary hero was Percy Bysshe Shelley, and he attempted to capture many Gothic themes in his work, which included The Improvisatore and The Bride's Tragedy. The website The Literary Gothic states that 'Beddoes, whose life was almost as Gothic as his darkest literary creations, is a writer who deserves to be better known, especially (but not only) among fans of the Gothic. ... Most of his literary energy was devoted to Death's Jest-Book, begun in 1828 and never published in Beddoes' lifetime; a complicated, sprawling, and not overly coherent work, it features most of Beddoes' favorite themes: necromancy, occultism, the supernatural, anatomy, and revenge, among other delights ...'

The poem I chose for this entry reflects so many of the themes that shaped Beddoes' larger (although rather small) body of work. To me, it expressed a rather sweet and heartrending desire on the part of a very troubled soul for better dreams of the past, present and future, but with the sobering realization that those dreams are often far from reality for some. And, as I read his lines of verse, for some unknown reason the following picture came into my head ... I imagined Beddoes in a shabby room of some ramshackle cottage, lit only by the flickering flame of a single candle, and bent over the pages of his manuscript with only the ghost of some long-dead tabby cat to keep him company as he dreamed of those 'dreams to sell'. I have no idea why this image came into my mind, but I think there is something rather comforting in that picture of a Gothic writer with only the ghost of an old cat as a companion. And it certainly reminded me of all the dear old departed feline friends from my own past, whose delightful purring and whiskered company I will never stop missing. One can easily understand that wish for a 'spell to call the buried' .... but if only we could do so without making the choice about 'which one', because wouldn't it be lovely to have them all back for at least one more of their sweet nine lives?

'If there were dreams to sell, what would you buy?' ...

Daydreaming in verse ... Austin Dobson (1840-1921)

2010-02-11T20:30:59Z

Urceus Exit

I intended an Ode,
And it turned to a Sonnet.
It began à la mode,
I intended an Ode;
But Rose crossed the road
In her latest new bonnet;
I intended an Ode;
And it turned to a Sonnet.

The Daughters of Paul I, Grand Duchesses Alexandra Pavlovna and Elena Pavlovna (1796), Marie Louise Elisabeth Vigée-Lebrun (1755-1842), oil on canvas -- digital image copied from An Imperial Collection: Women Artists from the State Hermitage Museum, catalogue accompanying the 2003 exhibition organized by the National Museum of Women in the Arts (Washington, D.C.) in association with the State Hermitage Museum (St. Petersburg), published by Merrell

Although the poet, having been distracted by a pretty girl, produced some lines of verse that he considered to be rather inadequate, it appears that Madame Vigée-Lebrun drew considerable inspiration from the delightful feminine beauty of the little Grand Duchesses Alexandra and Elena Pavlovna, and had no problem painting much more than a sonnet in this amazing work. Indeed, there is nothing in the least urceus exit about this portrait, which was commissioned during Vigée-Lebrun's extended stay as an émigré in Russia from 1795 to 1801. And although Catherine II disapproved of the portrait - originally the two were dressed in Grecian attire with bare arms, which their grandmother took great offense too, and even after the painting was completely redone, maintained her disapproval of the artist and her work - Paul I adored the painting, and it is said that Vigée-Lebrun was paid 3000 rubles for its commission.

From the artist's memoirs, Souvenirs of Madame Vigée Le Brun, one gains some wonderful insight into what it would have been like to sit for a portrait by her. Conversations were often lively, and many of her clients chose her as their portraitist because of the added benefit of having the pleasure of her company throughout the long hours of sitting. In fact, prior to her marriage to the painter and art dealer Pierre Lebrun, a number of young men attempted to use this as a tactic by which to woo the young Elisabeth - however, much to their chagrin, her mother was always present as a chaperone. In the portrait at hand, the Grand Duchesses Alexandra and Elena, who Vigée-Lebrun described as having complexions 'so fine and delicate, you would have thought that they lived on ambrosia', appear to be very much at ease in their surroundings; in fact, they seem to be on the verge of giggling about some innocently mischievous topic, the nature of which one can only imagine (father dribbling his soup at dinner again, perhaps? - or something silly about grandmother? - that is a portrait of her that little Elena is holding). The very essence of a fairytale childhood at Court is captured in every minute detail of their beautiful dresses, the wreaths of rosebuds and pearls crowning their heads, and their rosy complexions that glow with such sweet happiness. Next to the self-portrait that Vigée-Lebrun painted in 1800, it is one of my favorite works by her - a most delightful masterpiece depicting two absolutely exquisite little girls.

Daydreaming in verse ... Pamela Griffin (unknown)*

2010-02-10T20:14:29Z

Elegy in a Museum

Such happiness - and all amongst the dead.
Bowls, jars and dishes hands fallen to shadows
Shaped lovingly and never knew how long
Their vision lay embalmed. Necklets and trinkets
Lay against glowing skin in flowering Greece,
Cherished and fingered - now coolly regarded
As our eyes skim them.

Section of the Parthenon frieze, depicting the procession in the Panathenaic festival -- sculpted in marble under the direction of Phidias, c. 447-432BCE (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Slabs of broken friezes

Tumbled aloft from soaring pillars, dazzling
White against blue, in Greece, in ancient summers.

Another section of Phidias' awe-inspiring creation (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Our happiness was living and so passing,
And theirs was dead and safely stored forever.
How quiet their hearts, their golden day complete;
And ours, restless, envied them their cold treasure,
Wishing our present pain could be resolved
By time into such safe serenity.

* I was unable to find any biographical data that seemed to logically fit with this particular poet. She is one of several writers featured in Elizabeth Goudge's A Book of Peace, published by Michael Joseph publishers in London, 1968. In the 'Acknowledgements', the two poems by Griffin are listed as having been printed 'by permission of the author', which indicates that she was alive at the time.

Daydreaming in verse ... John Edward Masefield (1878-1967)

2010-02-06T08:45:41Z

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)

I took a walk yesterday, and again today, along the estuary of our local creek, and stopped to watch the flock of Mallards who have taken up residence there. The weather has been unseasonably warm this year, and they all seemed rather happy, billing about in the reeds and mud, and quacking at the passersby. As I watched them, I found myself suddenly quite captivated by their beauty. Although they are some of the most common waterbirds around (and can be rather silly too), the iridescent blue, green and purple feathers of the drakes, and the delicately mottled tans and blacks of the hens with just that flash of purple/blue on the wings, is, quite simply put, breathtakingly gorgeous.

By the time I left the estuary, I was so inspired, that when I got home I immediately began searching for a poem about ducks for yesterday's reading. I discovered Masefield's work almost immediately, and felt that this charming poem, when set alongside some of the photos and paintings I found on Wikimedia, captured the mixture of impressions that I had while watching those rascals paddle about. So, without any further ado (or gilding of the rusty, green, purple, black, grey, tan and white feathers ... because I do think they are rather lovely as they are!!), here are a few more images of Messieurs et Mesdames Anas platyrhynchos (courtesy of Wikimedia Commons), in all their charming glory - as well as a few irresistible portraits of leurs enfants - accompanied once again by a few of Masefield's wonderful lines of verse, and one thought of my own ...

Twilight. Red in the West ...

The wild duck come to glean ...

'Ducks' c. 1853, Magnus von Wright

O souls not understood ...

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 ...

In the reeds of a steel lagoon ...

In a land that no man knows.

'Eendennesten' ('Ducks' Nests'), c. 1900, Paul Joseph Constantin Gabriël

But ... a land full of sweet wonder and happy faces ...

La fin ...

Flowers for Morpheus ...

2010-02-03T10:16:01Z

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 ...

Summer, color lithograph by Alphonse Mucha, c. 1896 (image copied from Alphonse Mucha: The Sprit of Art Nouveau by V. Arwas, et al)

There are numerous examples of the opium poppy, as well as its use as a medicinal and recreational narcotic, in the art and craftsmanship of the ancient world. From the Fertile Crescent and Egypt to the other lands surrounding the Mediterranean, archaeologists have found evidence of humankind's fascination for and worship of this powerful flower, including pipes, jewelry and sculpture. Here are a few examples of the sculptural evidence ...

The sublime Minoan poppy goddess/priestess, c. 1400-1100 BCE, discovered near the site of Knossos and held in the collection of the Iraklion Museum (digital image courtesy of inoe.ro) ...

Bas reliefs of a genie with poppies (top) and a man with an ibex and poppy (bottom), Assyrian, c. early 8th century BCE, the era of Sargon II, found at the site of Dur Sharrukin (digital images courtesy of Wikimedia Commons) ...

Bas relief of Ceres (Demeter) or Proserpine (Persephone) rising from the ground with sheaves of wheat and poppies, Roman, Augustan period (digital image courtesy of Roanoke student Alicia Ashby's site on the Aventine Triad) ...

The association of the poppy with the goddesses Demeter and Persephone was widespread throughout the Greek and Roman eras, but it was also considered a symbol of Nyx (Night), of her sons Thanatos (Death) and Hypnos (Sleep), and of Morpheus (Dream), who was the son of Hypnos. These symbolic threads were picked up by artists from the medieval era through the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, who presented all four of these deities with red, purple and white poppies. Here are a few excerpts from my copy of Hall’s Dictionary of Subjects & Symbols in Art (the 1996 edition, with an introduction by Kenneth Clark), which discuss the poppy and its associated deities and realms, accompanied by some of the paintings that represent all four of them ...

Poppy. Its sleep-inducing properties were well known to the ancients. Poppies are the attribute of Hypnos, the Greek god of sleep (see SLEEP, KINGDOM OF), of Morpheus, the god of dreams who may be crowned with a garland, and of NIGHT personified.

Nyx (Night), the mother of Hypnos, Morpheus and Thanatos, in her field of poppies - from the Paris Psalter, c. 10th century (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Night. To Renaissance humanists Night and Day were destructive powers since they ceaselessly marked the passage of time that led inexorably to decay and death. Hence they were sometimes represented as a pair of rodents, generally RATS, one black and one white. The figure of Night personified floats in the sky, sometimes under a blue canopy studded with stars. She may hold a child in each arm, a white one who is Sleep, a black one, Death. Her usual attributes are an OWL, MASKS (which may be worn by putti) and POPPIES, sometimes worn as a crown. She may be accompanied by the sleeping Morpheus, the god of dreams, who may likewise be crowned with poppies (Giordano, Palazzo Riccardi, Florence). Or she sits in the lamplight with folded wings, her head in her hands, the two children asleep nearby. (See also SLEEP, KINGDOM OF.)

Sleep and His Half-Brother Death by John William Waterhouse (Sleep cradles pink blooms of Papaver somniferum in the crook of his arm), c. 1874, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Sleep, Kingdom of (‘House of Sleep’; ‘Kingdom of Hypnos’). Hypnos, the Greek personification of Sleep, was the brother of Thanatos, Death. Their mother was Night (Nyx), who is depicted with black wings outspread, holding an infant on each arm, the white one Sleep, the black on Death. Sleep has wings, like Death, and has the OWL and the POPPY for attributes. (The latter’s narcotic properties were known in antiquity.) His dwelling-place is described by Ovid (Met. 11: 589-632) as a cave on a hollow mountainside through which runs the River Lethe, represented as a somnolent river-god reclining on his urn. Sleep is on his couch which is draped with a canopy. Nearby is his son Morpheus, the god of dreams (hence ‘morphia’), who is also winged; and often Death himself in a black robe. The place was once visited by Iris, the messenger of Juno, with orders to send Morpheus on an errand. She is shown descending on bright wings from a rainbow and rousing the sleepy gods. Another visitor was Juno herself who was hatching a plot against her husband Jupiter during the Trojan war and needed help in sending him to sleep. She is seen in the same setting alighting from her chariot drawn by peacocks.

Morpheus and Iris by Baron Pierre Narcisse Guerin (Morpheus is crowned with red poppies), c 1811, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

The dreams of sleep, the dreams of death, the dreams of night - all embodied in the symbolism of this flower, the threads of which were used by numerous artists and poets throughout the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Poppies were especially associated with mysticism, consolation and death, as can be seen in the following works ...

The Message by Thomas Cooper Gotch, c. 1903, watercolor (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

The Prioress's Tale by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, c. 1865-1898, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of The Rossetti Archive)

Death of the Bride by Thomas Cooper Gotch, c. 1894-1895, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Excerpt from The Prince’s Progress … by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)

Veiled figures carrying her
Sweep by yet make no stir;
There is a smell of spice and myrrh
A bride-chant burdened with one name;
The bride-song rises steadier
Than the torches’ flame:

‘Too late for love, too late for joy,
Too late, too late!
You loitered on the road too long,
You trifled at the gate:
The enchanted dove upon her branch
Died without a mate;
The enchanted princess in her tower
Slept, died, behind the grate;
Her heart was starving all this while
You made it wait.

…

‘Is she fair now as she lies?
Once she was fair;
Meet queen for any kingly king,
With gold-dust on her hair.
Now these are poppies in her locks,
White poppies she must wear;
Must wear a veil to shroud her face
And the want graven there:
Or is the hunger fed at length,
Cast off the care?

...

‘You should have wept her yesterday,
Wasting upon her bed:
But wherefore should you weep to-day
That she is dead?
Lo, we who love weep not to-day,
But crown her royal head.
Let be these poppies that we strew,
Your roses are too red:
Let be these poppies, not for you
Cut down and spread.’

Beata Beatrix, oil on canvas by Dante Gabriel Rossetti, c 1864-1870 ... a painted memorial to his wife, Elizabeth Eleanor Siddal, who died of a laudanum overdose in 1862 (image copied from my M.A. thesis, Medieval Damozels and Victorian Dreamers: Power and the Female Figure in the Intellectual, Poetic, and Artistic Discourses of the Victorian Medieval Revival)

Excerpt from Dream-Love … by Christina Rossetti

Young Love lies drowsing
Away to poppied death;
Cool shadows deepen
Across the sleeping face:
So fails the summer
With warm, delicious breath;
And what hath autumn
To give us in its place?

Draw close the curtains
Of branched evergreen;
Change cannot touch them
With fading fingers sere:
Here the first violets
Perhaps will bud unseen,
And a dove, may be,
Return to nestle here.

Although there are numerous types of flowers in the Papaver family, most of which have little to none of the narcotic properties of Papaver somniferum, the dictionaries of the same era centered their definitions of 'poppy' around the opium poppy. I own a copy of the Cinquantième Édition of the Petit Larousse Illustré, published under the direction of Claude Augé and by Librairie Larousse (Paris, 1910), and here is the definition and beautiful illustration that is provided in this wonderful little reference ...

PAVOT (vo) n. m. (lat. papaver). Genre de papvéracées à suc blanc laiteux, don’t on extrait l’opium et l’huile dite d’œillette: le pavot a de belles fleurs rouges ou blanches.

Les 'belles fleurs rouges ou blaches' and their 'extrait l'opium', the powerful effects of which were perhaps best described by the early nineteenth-century writer Thomas de Quincey, whose 1822 work The Confessions of an English Opium Eater was mentioned at the beginning of this entry in connection with poor Francis Thompson. It has been well over fifteen years since I read this book, and a review of its contents is long overdue, but here is a passage that I found particularly compelling at the time, and consequently still remember - it is accompanied by some of the more beautiful paintings of the Orientalist movement featuring poppies, opium smokers and the languorous bliss of Mediterranean afternoons, which I discovered in my searches over the past week ...

Engraving of Thomas de Quincey, unknown date, but likely done sometime in the 1840s (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

'O just, subtle, and all-conquering opium! that, to the hearts of rich and poor alike, for the wounds that will never heal, and for the pangs of grief that “tempt the spirit to rebel,” bringest an assuaging balm; ...

The Opium Smoker by Jean Lecomte du Noüy (1842-1923), date unknown, oil on panel (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

-- eloquent opium! that with thy potent rhetoric stealest away the purposes of wrath, pleadest effectually for relenting pity, and through one night’s heavenly sleep callest back to the guilty man the visions of his infancy, and hands washed pure from blood; ...

Ask Me No More, oil on canvas by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, c 1906 (image copied from Lawrence Alma-Tadema by R. J. Barrow)

-- O just and righteous opium! that to the chancery of dreams summonest, for the triumphs of despairing innocence, false witnesses, and confoundest perjury, and dost reverse the sentences of unrighteous judges; ...

The Siesta (Afternoon in Dreams) by Frederick Arthur Bridgman (1847-1928), date unknown, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of Arabia Exotica)

-- thou buildest upon the bosom of darkness, out of the fantastic imagery of the brain, cities and temples, beyond the art of Phidias and Praxiteles, beyond the splendours of Babylon and Hekatómpylos; ...

Silver Favourites, oil on wood by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, c 1903 (image copied from Lawrence Alma-Tadema by R. J. Barrow)

…and, “from the anarchy of dreaming sleep,” callest into sunny light the faces of long buried beauties, and the blessed household countenances, cleansed from the “dishonours of the grave.” ...

Le Fumeur Oriental by Jose Villegas Y Cordero, c. 1875, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of Arabia Exotica)

Thou only givest these gifts to man; and thou hast the keys of Paradise, O just, subtle, and mighty opium!'

Thermae Antoninianae, oil on canvas by Lawrence Alma-Tadema, c 1899 (image copied from Lawrence Alma-Tadema by R. J. Barrow)

These elements, as well as the previously discussed mythical characteristics, were also captured in many of the works by artists of the Art Nouveau movement, including Alphonse Mucha, who crowned a number of his girls and women with beautiful red poppies. Here are three of the images that I found in my copy of Alphonse Mucha: The Sprit of Art Nouveau by Victor Arwas, et al (Art Services International, in association with Yale University Press, Virginia, 1998), all of which evoke a desire in me to throw my cares to the wind and live out the rest of my days in some idyllic warm climate ...

Cover for Chasons d'aïleules, color lithograph by Alphonse Mucha, c 1897

Months of the year, by Alphonse Mucha, c 1899

Bières de la Meuse, color lithograph by Alphonse Mucha, c 1897

The last image contains striking characteristics that appear to be drawn directly from the goddess Demeter, including the wheat sheaves and poppies that are placed alongside each other in her crown - although this is a rather happy Demeter, who is perhaps sharing a pint with her daughter on a hot summer day. There is no hint of sadness in these women, and they are queens of their fertile realms, where beer is served up by poppy bedecked dames - what a truly dreamy life!

Wilkie Collins, c. 1871, photographic portrait by Elliott and Fry of 55 Baker Street (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Mucha, as well as many of the artists of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries were, like Thompson, clearly influenced by the writers who had come before them. The easy acceptance of their use of Papaver somniferum in paintings and prints reflects the ease with which some men embraced continued and increased communion with Morpheus. The mid-nineteenth-century novelist Wilkie Collins is a good example of the latter, and I discovered this wonderful quote by him in our copy of Opium: The Poisoned Poppy by Michael Robson ...

'Who was the man who invented laudanum? I thank him from the bottom of my heart … I’ve had six delicious hours of oblivion; I’ve woken up with my mind composed; I’ve written a perfect little letter … and all through the modest little bottle of drops which I see on my bedroom chimney-piece at this moment. Drops, you are a darling! If I love nothing else, I love you!'

When I read this quote, I paired it up in my mind with this delightful illustration by John D. Batten for Field of Boliauns (1892), which I discovered in my copy of Brigid Peppin's Fantasy: The Golden Age of Fantastic Illustration ...

Terribly disrespectful of me to match up poor old Wilkie with this rather mischievous looking imp - but just look at the way he clutches at that pitcher that is surrounded by poppies - darling little drops indeed!

Of course there were also those writers who took a slightly more negative, but still whimsical approach to the use of poppies in their work. Of this group, it is L. Frank Baum who holds a very dear place in my heart, along with the wonderful illustrators who created the visual magic for his original editions. Anyone who has read The Wizard of Oz can in all likelihood guess the threads of the following branch in this dialogue - for who can ever forget Dorothy's harrowing adventure in 'The Deadly Poppy Field', and the brave and noble actions of her stalwart companions who rescued her from the fated sleep of oblivion. Here is an excerpt from that chapter, accompanied by the charming illustrations by W. W. Denslow (copied from my Reilly & Lee Co. 1956 edition of The Wizard of Oz) ...

'They now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the midst of a great meadow of poppies. Now it is well known that when there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of the flowers he sleeps on and on forever. But Dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.

But the Tin Woodman would not let her do this.

“We must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,” he said; and the Scarecrow agreed with him. So they kept walking until Dorothy could stand no longer. Her eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.

“What shall we do?” asked the Tin Woodman.

“If we leave her here she will die,” said the Lion. “The smell of the flowers is killing us all. I myself can scarcely keep my eyes open and the dog is asleep already.”

It was true; Toto had fallen down beside his little mistress. But the Scarecrow and the Tin Woodman, not being made of flesh, were not troubled by the scent of the flowers.

“Run fast,” said the Scarecrow to the Lion, “and get out of this deadly flowerbed as soon as you can. We will bring the little girl with us, but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried.”

So the Lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go. In a moment he was out of sight.

“Let us make a chair with our hands, and carry her,” said the Scarecrow. So they picked up Toto and put the dog in Dorothy’s lap, and then they made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.

On and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly flowers that surrounded them would never end. They followed the bend of the river, and at last came upon their friend the Lion, lying fast asleep among the poppies. The flowers had been too strong for the huge beast and he had given up, at last, and fallen only a short distance from the end of the poppybed, where the sweet grass spread in beautiful green fields before them.

“We can do nothing for him,” said the Tin Woodman sadly; “for he is much too heavy to lift. We must leave him here to sleep on forever, and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last.”

“I’m sorry,” said the Scarecrow; “the Lion was a very good comrade for one so cowardly. But let us go on.”

They carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.'

The beautiful images above, were created by W. W. Denslow for the original edition of The Wizard of Oz, the only Oz book illustrated by this artist. However, it was not the last time that fans of Baum's series of wonderful adventures would see the drowsy hues of sumptuous poppies. John R. Neill took over illustrating the world of Oz after Denslow's departure, and once the boy Tip is transformed into the lovely Princess Ozma of Oz, one is inundated by Art Nouveau inspired choices of couture and coiffure, including Ozma's trademark poppy trimmed crown. The following are some of my favorite images of her, all of which were scanned from my copy of the Reilly & Lee Co. edition of Ozma of Oz from the 1950s ...

And so the conclusion of this dream draws nigh, as poppy crowned girls and Morpheus himself smile on the unsuspecting visitor. There are so many other instances of poppy-inspired dreamscapes, but one is strongly advised not to visit them all in one go. Flanders fields will await their turn in another entry - only for the moment, beware the rich scent of sun soaked fields of red, for if you step into that realm you may fall under its spell of everlasting sleep. Poor Francis Thompson was never able to pull himself away from that web of dreams, and he goes to great lengths in The Poppy to poetically discuss this terrible impediment. Dream of sleep, dream of night, dream of death - the song of Morpheus drew him in and never let go ...

The Poppy (concluded) … by Francis Thompson

...

A child and man paced side by side,
Treading the skirts of eventide;
But between the clasp of his hand and hers
Lay, felt not, twenty wither’d years.

She turn’d, with the rout of her dusk South hair,
And saw the sleeping gipsy there;
And snatch’d and snapp’d it in swift child’s whim,
With – ‘Keep it, long as you live!’ – to him.

And his smile, as nymphs from their laving meres,
Trembled up from a bath of tears;
And joy, like a mew sea-rock’d apart,
Toss’d on the wave of his troubled heart.

For he saw what she did not see,
That – as kindled by its own fervency –
The verge shrivell’d inward smoulderingly:

Among the poppies by Jessie Wilcox Smith, c 1911 (digital image in personal collection, source unknown)

And suddenly ‘twixt his hand and hers
He knew the twenty wither’d years –
No flower, but twenty shrivell’d years.

‘Was never such thing until this hour,’
Low to his heart he said; ‘the flower
Of sleep brings wakening to me,
And of oblivion memory.’

‘Was never this thing to me,’ he said,
‘Though with bruised poppies my feet are red!’
And again to his own heart very low:
‘O child! I love, for I love and know;

‘But you, who love nor know at all
The diverse chambers in Love’s guest-hall,
Where some rise early, few sit long:
In how differing accents hear the throng
His great Pentecostal tongue;

‘Who know not love from amity,
Nor my reported self from me;
A fair fit gift is this, meseems,
You give – this withering flower of dreams.

Color lithograph of poppies by Alphonse Mucha, c 1902 (image copied from Alphonse Mucha: The Sprit of Art Nouveau by V. Arwas, et al)

‘O frankly fickle, and fickly true,
Do you know what the days will do to you?
To your Love and you what the days will do,
O frankly fickle, and fickly true?

‘You have loved me, Fair, three lives – or days:
‘Twill pass with the passing of my face.
But where I go, your face goes too,
To watch lest I play false to you.

‘I am but, my sweet, your foster-lover,
Knowing well when certain years are over
You vanish from me to another;
Yet I know, and love, like the foster-mother.

‘So, frankly fickle, and fickly true!
For my brief life-while I take from you
This token, fair and fit, meseems,
For me – this withering flower of dreams.’

Color lithograph of poppies by Alphonse Mucha, c 1902 (image copied from Alphonse Mucha: The Sprit of Art Nouveau by V. Arwas, et al)

The sleep-flower sways in the wheat its head,
Heavy with dreams, as that with bread:
The goodly grain and the sun-flush’d sleeper
The reaper reaps, and Time the reaper.

I hang ‘mid men my needless head,
And my fruit is dreams, as theirs is bread:
The goodly men and the sun-hazed sleeper
Time shall reap, but after the reaper
The world shall glean of me, me the sleeper!

Love! love! your flower of wither’d dream
In leavèd rhyme lies safe, I deem,
Shelter’d and shut in a nook of rhyme,
From the reaper man, and his reaper Time.

Love! I fall into the claws of Time:
But lasts within a leavèd rhyme
All that the world of me esteems –
My wither’d dreams, my wither’d dreams.

Night and Sleep by Evelyn Pickering de Morgan, c. 1878, oil on canvas (digital image courtesy of artst.org)

And so the dream concludes, 'strewn with time's dead flowers, bereft in deathly bloom'. The fields of red, white, purple and pink flowers stretch into the horizon as far as the eyes can see, and the man and the girl walk hand in hand into the haze of bittersweet smoke where they disappear into the shroud of Morpheus ... and the cowled figures chant, 'sweet dreams ... sweet dreams' - for the one who touches the hand of a god is never quite the same again, and should be blessed and perhaps pitied, but never cursed.

Illustration by Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones, c 1892, for King Poppy by Lord Lytton (image copied from Fantasy: The Golden Age of Fantastic Illustration by Brigid Peppin)

Daydreaming in verse ... Hassan Mekouar** (1945- )

2010-01-26T01:38:34Z

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)

"Hassan Mekouar is Professor of American Literature at the Faculty of Letters, University Mohammed V, Rabat. He was Dean of the same faculty and President of the University Mohamed I of Oujda in North East Morocco. With five or six published volumes, Hassan Mekouar is the most prolific Moroccan poet writing in English. The first volume of his trilogy The Future Remains was published in 1999, while the two other volumes came out respectively in 2000 and 2001. The Wings of the Walrus appeared in 2003 and in 2007 he published a double volume as Stories in (Very) Free Verse.

In its style and in its approach, Mekouar's poetry reflects the poet's immersion and mastery of Anglo-American tradition. His poetry draws its strength from the poet's rich vocabulary and the wide array of subjects he addresses. Mekouar is an acute observer of his immediate environment. He may address a tiny detail of everyday life with the same fervour he tackles universal existential issues. His approach to nature bears a realistic appearance but holds deep symbolic meanings to be fathomed by his readers. ...

Mekouar is an acute observer of nature in its cosmological dimension and in its most tiny and insignificant manifestations; he tackles with the same fervour cosmic and natural issues in poems about Nature, the seasons, the cosmos and the Oceans. The language could be considered as standard and with good respect of the canonical poetry writing traditions. He does not overuse Arabic words and whenever he does he explains the meaning in a footnote. There is no affected exoticism but a sincere listening to nature and to the events of his own experiences. Mekouar's poetry is so deep and so rich that it cannot be given its full due within the scope of this general introduction of North African literature in English."

(Copied from the British Council's Medi-Café newsletter - 22 December 2008)

Daydreaming in verse ... Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

2010-01-24T02:20:49Z

'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

Daydreaming in verse ... W. H. Davies (1871-1940)

2010-01-22T04:40:45Z

The Rat

My windows now are giant drops of dew,

The common stones are dancing in my eyes;

The light is winged, and panting, and the world

Is fluttering with a little fall or rise.

See, while they shoot the sun with singing Larks,

How those broad meadows sparkle and rejoice!

Where can the Cuckoo hide in all this light,

And still remain unseen, and but a voice?

Shall I be mean, when all this light is mine?

Is anything unworthy of its place?

Call for the rat, and let him share my joy,

And sit beside me here, to wash his face.

Ratty and Mole picnic on the river bank -- illustration by Ernest H. Shepard, for Chapter One of Kenneth Grahame's The Wind in the Willows (digital image copied from the 1960 edition published by Charles Scribner's Sons, New York)

"What are you looking at?" said the Rat presently, when the edge of their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the Mole's eyes were able to wander off the tablecloth a little.

"I am looking," said the Mole, "at a streak of bubbles that I see traveling along the surface of the water. That is a thing that strikes me as funny."

"Bubbles? Oho!" said the Rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting sort of way.

A broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the Otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.

"Greedy beggars!" he observed, making for the provender. "Why didn't you invite me, Ratty?"

"This was an impromptu affair," explained the Rat. "By the way -- my friend Mr. Mole."

"Proud, I'm sure," said the Otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith.

--excerpt from 'The River Bank', Chapter One of The Wind in the Willows

... in January, I always crave a good old-fashioned summer picnic, where the sun shines so brightly that one is dazzled by the shimmering plumage of the birds, and the bees fill the air with their comforting drone as they move from flower to flower, and dear old Ratty is nearby, sculling "gently homewards in a dreamy mood" ...

Daydreaming in verse ... Edmund Spenser (1552-1599)

2010-01-18T10:18:24Z

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' ...

Zegris eupheme

To the right worthy and vertuous Laidie; the La: Carey.

Most braue and bountifull La: for so excellent fauours as I have receiued at your sweet handes, to offer these fewe leaues as in recompence, should be as to offer flowers to the Gods for their diuine benefites. Therefore I haue determined to giue my selfe wholy to you, as quite abandoned from my selfe, and absolutely vowed to your seruices: which in all right is euer held for full recompence of debt or damage to haue the person yeelded. My person I wot wel how little worth it is. But the faithfull mide and humble zeale which I beare vnto your La: may perhaps be more of price, as may please you to account and vse the poore seruice thereof; which taketh glory to aduance your excellent partes and noble vertues, and to spend it selfe in honouring you: not so much for your great bounty to my self, which yet may not be vnminded; nor for name or kindreds sake by your vouchsafed, beeing also regardable; as for that honorable name, which yee haue by your braue deserts purchast to your self, and spred in the mouths of al men: with which I haue also presumed to grace my verses, and vnder your name to commend to the world this smal Poëme, the which beseeching your La: to take in worth, and of all things therein according to your wonted graciousnes to make a milde construction, I humbly pray for your happines.

Your La: euer
humbly;
E. S.

Muiopotmos: or The Fate of the Butterflie

I Sing of deadly dolorous debate,
Stir'd vp through wrathfull Nemesis despight,
Betwixt two mightie ones of great estate,
Drawne into armes, and proofe of mortall fight,
Through prowd ambition, and hartswelling hate,
Whilest neither could the others greater might
And sdeignfull scorne endure; that from small iarre
There wraths at length broke into open warre.

Pont-canal de Briare Lamiot Pollution Lumineuse (image courtesy of http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Lamiot)

The roote whereof and tragicall effect,
Vouchsafe, O thou the mournfulst Muse of nyne,
That wontst the tragick stage for to direct,
In funerall complaints and waylfull tyne,
Reueale to me, and all the meanes detect,
Through which sad Clarion did at last declyne
To lowest wretchednes; And is there then
Such rancour in the harts of mightie men?

Glaucopsyche melanops

Of all the race of siluer-winged Flies
Which doo possesse the Empire of the aire,
Betwixt the centred earth, and azure skies,
Was none more fauourable, nor more faire,
Whilst heauen did fauour his felicities,
Then Clarion, the eldest sonne and haire
Of Muscaroll, and in his fathers sight
Of all alliue did seeme the fairest wight.

Aporia crataegi

With fruitfull hope his aged breast he fed
Of future good, which his yong toward yeares,
Full of braue courage and bold hardyhed,
Aboue th'ensample of his equall peares,
Did largely promise, and to him forered
(Whilst oft his heart did melt in tender teares)
That he in time would sure proue such an one,
As should be worthie of his fathers throne.

Artogeia napi

The fresh yong flie, in whom the kindly fire
Of lustfull youngth began to kindle fast,
Did much disdaine to subiect his desire
To loathsome sloth, or houres in ease to wast,
But ioy'd to range abroad in fresh attire;
Through the wide compas of the ayrie coast,
And with vnwearied wings each part t'inquire
Of the wide rule of his renowmed sire.

Melanargia lachesis

For he so swift and nimble was of flight,
That from this lower tract he dar'd to stie
Vp to the clowdes, and thence with pineons light,
To mount aloft vnto the Christall skie,
To vew the workmanship of heauens hight:
Whence downe descending he along would flie
Vpon the streaming riuers, sport to finde;
And oft would dare to tempt the troublous winde.

Papilio machaon

So on a Summers day, when season milde
With gentle calme the world had quieted,
And high in heauen Hyperions fierie childe
Ascending, did his beames abroad dispred,
Whiles all the heauenson lower creatures smilde;
Yong Clarion with vauntfull lustie head,
After his guize did cast abroad to fare;
And there too gan his furnitures prepare.

Colias crocea

His breastplate first, that was of substance pure,
Before his noble heart he firmly bound,
That mought his life from yron death assure,
And ward his gentle corpes from cruell wound:
For it by arte was framed, to endure
The bit of balefull steele and bitter stownd,
No lese than that, which Vulcane made to sheild
Achilles life from fate of Troyan field.

Zegris eupheme

And then about his shoulders broad he threw
An hairie hide of some wilde beast, whom hee
In saluage forrest by aduenture slew,
And reft the spoyle of his ornament to bee:
Which spredding all his backe with dreadfull vew,
Made all that him so horrible did see,
Thinke him Alcides with the Lyons skin,
When the Nœmean Conquest he did win.

Euchloe crameri

Vpon his head his glistering Burganet,
The which was wrought by wonderous deuice,
And curiously engrauen, he did set:
The mettall was of rare and passing price;
Not Bilbo steele, nor brasse from Corinth fet,
Nor costly Oricalche from strange Phœnice;
But such as could both Phœbus arrowes ward,
And th'hayling darts of heauen beating hard.

Anthocharis cardamines

Therein two deadly weapons fixt he bore,
Strongly outlaunced towards either side,
Like two sharpe speares, his enemies to gore:
Like as a warlike Brigandine, applyde
To fight, layes forth her threatfull pikes afore,
The engines which in them sad death doo hyde:
So did this flie outstretch his fearefull hornes,
Yet so as him their terrour more adornes.

Doxocopa agathina (inf)

Lastly his shinie wings as siluer bright,
Painted with thousand colours, passing farre
All Painters skill, he did about him dight:
Not halfe so manie sundrie coulours arre
In Iris bow, ne heauen doth shine so bright,
Distinguished with manie a twinckling starre,
Not Iunoes Bird in her ey-spotted traine
So manie goodly colours doth containe.

Pontia dalplidice

Ne (may it be withouten perill spoken)
The Archer God, the sonne of Cytheree
That ioyes on wretched louers to be wroken,
And heaped spoyles of bleeding harts to see,
Beares in his wings so manie a changefull token.
Ah my liege Lord, forgiue it vnto mee,
If ought against thine honour I haue tolde;
Yet sure those wings were fairer manifolde.

Callophrys rubi

Full manie a Ladie faire, in Court full oft
Beholding them, him secretly enuide,
And wisht that two such fannes, so silken soft,
And golden faire, her Loue would her prouide;
Or that when them the gorgeous Flie had doft,
Some one that would with grace be gratifide,
From him would steale them priuily away,
And bring to her so precious a pray.

Lycaena virgaureae

Report is that dame Venus on a day,
In spring when flowres doo clothe the fruitful ground,
Walking abroad with all her Nymphes to play,
Bad her faire damzels flocking her arownd,
To gather flowres, her forhead to array:
Emongst the rest a gentle Nymph was found,
Hight Astery, excelling all the crewe
In curteous vsage, and vnstained hewe.

Aricia agestis

Who being nimbler ioynted than the rest,
And more industrious, gathered more store
Of the fields honour, than the others best;
Which they in secret harts enuying sore,
Tolde Venus, when her as the worthiest
She praisd', that Cupide (as they heard before)
Did lend her secret aide, in gathering
Into her lap the children of spring.

Lysandra bellargus

Whereof the Goddesse gathering iealous feare,
Not yet vnmindfull, how not long agoe
Her sonne to Psyche secrete loue did beare,
And long it close conceal'd, till mickle woe
Thereof arose, and manie a rufull teare;
Reason with sudden rage did ouergoe,
And giuing hastie credit to th'accuser,
Was led away of them that did abuse her.

Lysandra bellargus

Eftsoones that Damzel by her heauenly might,
She turn'd into a winged Butterflie,
In the wide aire to make her wandring flight;
And all those flowres, with which so plenteouslie
Her lap she filled had, that bred her spight,
She placed in her wings, for memorie
Of her pretended crime, though crime none were:
Since which that flie them in her wings doth beare.

Doxocopa laurentia

Thus the fresh Clarion being readie dight,
Vnto his iourney did himselfe addresse,
And with good speed began to take his flight:
Ouer the fields in his franke lustinesse,
And all the champion he soared light,
And all the countrey wide he did possesse,
Feeding vpon their pleasures bounteouslie,
That none gainsaid, nor none did him enuie.

Iphiclides podalirius

The woods, the riuers, and the medowes green,
With his aire-cutting wings he measured wide,
Ne did he leaue the mountaines bare vnseene,
Nor the ranke grassie fennes delights vntride.
But none of these, how euer sweete they beene,
Mote please his fancie, nor him cause t'abide:
His choicefull sense with euerie change doth flit.
No common things may please a wauering wit.

Hamadryas amphinome

To the gay gardins his vnstaid desire
Him wholly caried, to refresh his sprights:
There lauish Nature in her best attire,
Powres forth sweete odors, and alluring sights;
And Arte with her contending, doth aspire
T'excell the naturall, with made delights:
And all that faire or pleasant may be found,
In riotous excesse doth there abound.

Zerynthia rumina

There he arriuing, round about doth flie,
From bed to bed, from one to other border,
And takes suruey with curious busie eye,
Of euerie flowre and herbe there set in order;
Now this, now that he tasteth tenderly,
Yet none of them he rudely doth disorder,
Ne with his feete their silken leaues deface;
But pastures on the pleasures of each place.

Boloria euphrosyne

And euermore with most varietie,
And change of sweetness (for all change is sweete)
He casts his glutton sense to satisfie,
Now sucking of the sap of herbe most meete,
Or of the deaw, which yet on them does lie,
Now in the same bathing his tender feete:
And then he pearcheth on some braunch thereby,
To weather him, and his moyst wings to dry.

Euphydryas desfontainii

And then againe he turneth to his play,
To spoyle the pleasures of that Paradise:
The wholsome Saulge, and Lauender still gray,
Ranke smelling Rue, and Cummin good for eyes,
The Roses raigning in the pride of May,
Sharpe Isope, good for greene wounds remedies,
Faire Marigoldes, and Bees alluring Thime,
Sweete Marioram, and Daysies decking prime.

Hamearis lucina

Coole Violets, and Orpine growing still,
Embathed Balme, and chearfull Galingale,
Fresh Costmarie, and breathfull Camomill,
Dull Poppie, and drink-quickening Setuale,
Veyne-healing Veruen, and hed-purging Dill,
Sound Sauorie, and Bazill hartie-hale,
Fat Colworts, and comforting Perseline,
Colde Lettuce,and refreshing Rosmarine.

Erebia meolans

And whatso else of vertue good or ill
Grewe in this Gardin, fetcht from farre away,
Of euerie one he takes, and tastes at will,
And on their pleasures greedily doth pray.
Then when he hath both plaid, and fed his fill,
In the warme Sunne he doth himselfe embay,
And there him rests in riotous suffisaunce
Of all his gladfulnes, and kingly ioyaunce.

Aphantopus hyperantus

What more felicities can fall to creature,
Than to enioy delight with libertie,
And to be Lord of all the workes of Nature,
To raine in th'aire from earth to highest skie,
To feed on flowres, and weeds of glorious feature,
To take what euer thing doth please the eie?
Who rests not pleased with such happines,
Well worthie he to taste of wretchednes.

Gonepteryx rhamni

But what on earth can long abide in state?
Or who can him assure of happie day;
Sith morning faire may bring fowle euening late,
And least mishap the most blisse alter may?
For thousand perills lie in close awaite
About vs daylie, to worke our decay;
That none, except a God, or God him guide,
May them auoynde, or remedie prouide.

Artogeia napi

And whatso heauens in their secret doome
Ordained haue, how can fraile fleshly wight
Forecast, but it must needs to issue come?
The sea, the aire, the fire, the day, the night,
And th'armies of their creatures all and some
Do serue to them, and with importune might
Warre against vs the vassals of their will.
Who then can saue, what they dipose to spill?

Dynamine coenus

Not thou, O Clarion, though fairest thou
Of all thy kinde, vnhappie happie Flie,
Whose cruell fate is woen even now
Of Ioues owne hand, to worke thy miserie:
Ne may thee helpe the manie hartie vow,
Which thy old Sire with sacred pietie
Hath powred forth for thee, and th'altars:
Nought may thee saue from heauens auengement.

Diaethria eluina

It fortuned (as heauens had behight)
That in this gardin, where yong Clarion
Was wont to solace him, a wicked wight
The foe of faire things, th'author of confusion,
The shame of Nature, the bondslaue of spight,
Had lately built his hatefull mansion,
And lurking closely, in awayte now lay,
How he might anie in his trap betray.

Toile d'araignée (digital image courtesy of http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Vassil)

But when he spide the ioyous Butterflie
In this faire plot displacing too and fro,
Fearles of foes and hidden ieopardie,
Lord how he gan for to bestirre him tho,
And to his wicked worke each part applie:
His heart did earne against his hated foe,
And bowels so with ranckling poyson swelde,
That scarce the skin the strong contagion helde.

Marpesia petreus

The cause why he this Flie so maliced,
Was (as in stories it is written found)
For that his mother which him bore and bred,
The most fine-fingered workwoman on ground,
Arachne, by his meanes was vanquished
Of Pallas, and in her owne skill confound,
When she with her for excellence contended,
That wrought her shame, and sorrow neuer ended.

For the Tritonian Goddesse hauing hard
Her blazed fame, which all the world had fil'd,
Came downe to proue the truth, and due reward
For her prais-worthie workmanship to yield
But the presumptuous Damzel rashly dar'd
The Goddesse selfe to chalenge to the field,
And to compare with her in curious skill
Of workes with loome, with needle, and with quill.

La ricompensa (The reward), by Paolo Veronese, 1520 (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Minerva did the chalenge not refuse,
But deign'd with her the paragon to make:
So to their worke they sit, and each doth chuse
What storie she will for her tapet take.
Arachne figur'd how Ioue did abuse
Europa like a Bull, and on his backe
Her through the sea did beare; so liuely seene,
That it true Sea, and true Bull ye would weene.

She seem'd still backe vnto the land to looke,
And her play-fellowes aide to call, and feare
The dashing of the waues, that vp she tooke
Her daintie feete, and garments gathered neare:
But (Lord) how she in euerie member shooke,
When as the land she saw no more appeare,
But a wilde wilderness of waters deepe:
Then gan she greatly to lament and weepe.

Before the Bull she pictur'd winged Loue,
With his yong brother Sport, light fluttering
Vpon the waues, as each had been a Doue;
The one his bowe and shafts, the other Spring
A burning Teade about his head did moue
As in their Syres new loue both triumphing:
And manie Nymphes about them flocking round,
And manie Tritons, which their hornes did sound.

Las Hilanderas (The Fable of Arachne), by Diego Velázquez, c. 1657 (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

And round about, her worke she did empale
With faire border wrought of sundrie flowres,
Enwouen with a Yule winding trayle:
A goodly worke, full fit for Kingly bowres,
Such a Dame Pallas, such as Ennuie pale,
That al good things with venemous tooth deuowres,
Could not accuse. Then gan the Goddesse bright
Her selfe likewise vnto her worke to dight.

She made the storie of the olde debate,
Which she with Neptune did for Athens trie:
Twelue Gods doo sit around in royall state,
And Ioue in midst with awfull Maiestie,
To iudge the strife betweene them stirred late:
Each of the Gods by his like visnomie
Eathe to be knowen; but Ioue aboue them all,
By his great lookes and power Imperiall.

Before them stands the God of Seas in place,
Clayming that sea-coast Citie as his right,
And strikes the rockes with his three-forked mace;
Whenceforth issues a warlike steed in sight,
The signe by which he chalengeth the place,
That all the Gods, which saw his wondrous might
Did surely deeme the victorie his due:
But seldome seene, foreiudgement proueth true.

Then to her selfe she gives her Aegide shield,
And steelhed speare, and morion on her hedd,
Such as she oft is seene in warlicke field:
Then sets she forth, how with her weapon dredd
She smote the ground, the which streight foorth did yield
A fruitfull Olyue tree, with berries spredd,
That all the Gods admir'd; then all the storie
She compast with a wreathe of Olyues hoarie.

The Triumph of Minerva: March, from the Room of the Months, detail of the weavers, c.1467-70, by Francesco del Cossa (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons)

Emongst those leaues she made a Butterflie,
With excellent deuice and wondrous slight,
Fluttring among the Oliues wantonly,
That seem'd to liue, so like it was in sight
The veluet nap which on his wings doth lie,
The silken downe with which his backe is dight,
His broad outstretched hornes, his hayrie thies,
His glorious colours, and his glistering eies.

Which when Arachne saw, as ouerlaid,
And mastered with workmanship so rare,
She stood astonied long, ne ought gainesaid,
And with fast fixed eyes on her did stare,
And by her silence, signe of one dismaid,
The victorie did yeeld her as her share:
Yet did she inly fret, and felly burne,
And all her blood to poysonous rancor turne.

That shortly from the shape of womanhed
Such as she was, when Pallas she attempted,
She grew to hideous shape of dryrihed,
Pined with griefe of follie late repented:
Eftsoones her white streight legs were altered
To crooked crawling shankes, of marrowe empted,
And her faire face to fowle and loathsome hewe,
And her fine corpes to a bag of venim grewe.

Canto 12: Dante looking at the Spirit of Arachne, by Gustave Doré (digital image copied from The Divine Comedy by Dante Alighieri, Pantheon Books, 1948)

This cursed creature, mindfull of that olde
Enfestred grudge, the which his mother felt,
So soone as Clarion he did beholde,
His heart with vengefull malice inly swelt,
And weauing straight a net with manie a folde
About the caue, in which he lurking dwelt,
With fine small cords about it stretched wide,
So finely sponne, that scarce they could be spide.

Not anie damzell, which her vaunteth most
In skilfull knitting of soft silken twyne;
Nor anie weauer, which his worke doth boast
In dieper, in damaske, or in lyne;
Nor anie skil'd in workmanship embost;
Nor anie skil'd in loupes of fingring fine,
Might in their diuers cunning euer dare,
With this so curious networke to compare.

Teia de aranha (digital image courtesy of http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Luis_nunes_alberto)

Ne doo I thinke, that that same subtil gin,
The which the Lemnian God framde craftilie,
Mars sleeping with his wife to compasse in,
That all the Gods with common mockerie
Might laugh at them, and scorne their shamefull sin,
Was like to this. This same he did applie,
For to entrap the careles Clarion,
That rang'd each where without suspition.

Arachne, by Susan Seddon Boulet (digital image courtesy of http://www.softassteel.com/myth/story2/)

Suspition of friend, nor feare of foe,
That hazarded his health, had he at all,
But walkt at will, and wandered too and fro,
In the pride of his freedome principall:
Little wist he has fatall future woe,
But was secure, the liker he to fall,
He likest is to fall into mischaunce,
That is regardles of his gouernaunce.

Lysandra albicans

Yet still Aragnoll (so his foe was hight)
Lay lurking couertly him to surprise,
And all his gins that him entangle might,
Drest in good order as he could deuise.
At length the foolish Flie without foresight,
As he that did all daunger quite despise
Toward those parts came flying careleslie,
Where hidden was his hatefull enemie.

Cyaniris semiargus

Who seeing him, with secrete ioy therefore
Did tickle inwardly in euerie vaine,
And his false hart fraught with all treasons store,
Was fil'd with hope, his purpose to obtaine:
Himselfe he close vpgathered more and more
Into his den, that his deceiptfull traine
By his there being might not be bewraid,
Ne anie noyse, ne anie motion made.

Lycaena virgaureae

Like as a wily Foxe, that hauing spide,
Where on a sunnie banke the Lambes doo play,
Full closely creeping by the hinder side,
Lyes in ambushment of his hoped pray,
Ne stirreth limbe, till seeing readie tide,
He rushed forth, and snatcheth quite away
One of the litle yonglings vnawares:
So to his worke Aragnoll him prepares.

Aragnoll spins his toile (digital image courtesy of http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/User:Man-ucommons)

Who now shall giue vnto my heauie eyes
A well of teares, that all may ouerflow?
Or where shall I finde lamentable cryes,
And mournfull tunes enough my griefe to show?
Helpe O thou Tragick Muse, me to deuise
Notes sad enough, t'expresse this bitter throw:
For loe, the drerie stownd is now arriued,
That of all happines hath vs depriued.

Adelpha syma (inf)

The luckles Clarion, whether cruell Fate,
Or wicked Fortune faultles him misled,
Or some vngracious blast out of the gate
Of Aeoles raine perforce him droue on hed,
Was (O sap hap and howre vnfortunate)
With violent swift flight forth caried
Into the cursed cobweb, which his foe
Had framed for his finall ouerthroe.

The captured Clarion (part 1) (digital image copied from glaucus.org.uk)

There the fond Flie entangled, strugled long,
Himselfe to free thereout; but all in vaine.
For striuing more, the more in laces strong
Himselfe he tide, and wrapt his winges twaine
In lymie snares the subtill loupes among;
That in the ende he breathelesse did remaine,
And all his yougthly forces idly spent,
Him to the mercie of th'auenger lent.

The captured Clarion (part 2) (digital image copied from clubkayak.com)

Which when the greisly tyrant did espie,
Like a grimme Lyon rushing with fierce might
Out of his den, he seized greedelie
On the resistles pray, and with fell spight,
Vnder the left wing stroke his weapon slie
Into his heart, that his deepe groning spright
In bloodie streames foorth fled into the aire,
His bodie left the spectacle of care.

Aragnoll devours Clarion (digital image copied from BBC)

FINIS

The shattered landscape of reality ...

2010-01-13T22:50:16Z

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.

Daydreaming in verse ... William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

2010-01-13T19:56:03Z

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.

If this be error, and upon me prov'd,
I never writ, nor man ever lov'd.

A Huguenot, on St Bartholomew's Day, refusing to shield himself from danger by wearing the Roman Catholic badge, by John Everett Millais (c. 1851-1852) - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

Daydreaming in verse ... John Clare (1793-1864)

2010-01-12T07:20:19Z

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

I visited the library again today, and left this time with A Book of Peace, a treasury of various poems, which was put together by Elizabeth Goudge in 1967. In her preface to this collection, Goudge states:

'To be at peace. The longing for peace must have come to us with the dawn of reason, as soon as man was able to ask himself, "What do I want?" He knew it first perhaps in the passing of a storm, when the terrifying thunder and darkness rolled away, the sun came out on a rain-washed world and the birds sang again. ... Or, supremely, when in a still and soundless world he waited in trembling awe for the rising of the sun, not knowing with certainty if the god would come again, only hoping, until he heard the first joyous cry of a bird and saw the slow lightening on the eastern horizon. Then would come peace, flooding his soul as the glory of his God once more dawned upon him.'

John Clare, a poet included in this collection and featured in the entry at hand, had far from a peaceful life, even though his writings reflect a strong understanding of the peacefulness of nature (contrasted against extreme sadness regarding the impact of the Industrial Revolution on the English countryside). Known in his lifetime as the 'Northhamptonshire peasant poet', Clare rose from humble beginnings and won a place for himself as a much admired writer of his day - at present, he is considered one of the greatest poets of the nineteenth century. However, in his early 40s Clare fell victim to his own delusions, and, after a brief stay at Dr Matthew Allen's High Beach Private Asylum near Loughton from 1837-1841, he was eventually was committed to Northhampton General Lunatic Asylum (later renamed St Andrew's Hospital), where he spent the remaining twenty-three years of his life, and where he wrote his most famous work I Am.

Goudge includes three of Clare's poems in the section of her book titled 'Peaceful Sights and Sounds', and they are accompanied by a selection of works by poets such as Keats, Masefield and Wordsworth. Clare wrote two of the poems - Dewdrops and Pleasant Sounds - during his final years at the Northhampton Asylum, and one can see in all three pieces a strong love of the natural environment and the peace that one can find there, even in that uncertain and rather sinister landscape that borders on Faerie. Another nineteenth-century figure, who appears also to have found a sort of strange peace in that darker side of nature was the Victorian fairy painter, Richard Dadd (1817-1886). Poor dear Madd Dadd, a man who suffered from severe schizophrenia, murdered his own father, and was committed to mental hospitals for the last forty-three years of his life. Like Clare, Dadd also created some of his best work during those years when he was locked away from the 'normal' world, including two of the paintings that are featured here - Contradiction: Oberon and Titania and The Fairy Feller's Master Stroke. Because of these few similarities between Clare and Dadd, my mind paired them up for this entry as I was reading the poetry. Neither man created their work for the other, but somehow they do complement one another when read and viewed together - poor mad souls, who found peace in the twisted pathways of their minds, where they danced in a natural landscape of their own imagining ...

Contradiction: Oberon and Titania by Richard Dadd, c. 1854-1858, oil on canvas - digital image copied from Maas et al

Dewdrops

The dewdrops on every blade of grass are so much like silver drops that I am obliged to stoop down as I walk to see if they are pearls, and those sprinkled on the ivy woven beds of primroses underneath the hazels, whitethorns, and maples are so like gold beads that I stooped to feel if they were hard, but they melted from my finger. And where the dew lies on the primrose, the violet and whitethorn leaves, they are emerald and beryl, yet nothing more than the dews of the morning on the budding leaves; nay, the road grasses are covered with gold and silver beads, and the further we go the brighter they seem to shine, like solid gold and silver. It is nothing more than the sun's light and shade upon them in the dewy morning; every thorn-point and every bramble-spear has its trembling ornament: till the wind gets a little brisker, and then all is shaken off, and all the shining jewelry passes away into a common spring morning full of budding leaves, primroses, violets, vernal speedwell, bluebell and orchids, and commonplace objects.

The Fairy Feller's Master Stroke by Richard Dadd, c. 1855-1864, oil on canvas - digital image copied from Maas et al

Pleasant Sounds

The rustling of the leaves under the feet in woods and under hedges;
The crumpling of cat-ice and snow down wood-rides, narrow lanes, and every street causeway;
Rustling through a wood or rather rushing, while the wind halloos in the oak-top like thunder;
The rustle of birds' wings startled from their nests or flying unseen into the bushes;
The whizzing of larger birds overhead in a wood, such as crows, puddocks, buzzards;
The trample of robins and woodlarks on the brown leaves, and the patter of squirrels on the green moss;
The fall of an acorn on the ground, the pattering of nuts on the hazel branches as they fall from ripeness;
The flirt of the groundlark's wing from the stubbles -- how sweet such pictures on dewy mornings, when the dew flashes from its brown feathers!

-- John Clare, c. 1820 (portrait by William Hilton)

Richard Dadd, c. 1856 (photograph by Henry Hering) --

Daydreaming in verse (or the mysticism of migraines) ... Hildegard von Bingen (1098-1179)

2010-01-10T22:18:09Z

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.)

Although I am a rather non-religious, perhaps bordering on agnostic individual (god only knows - these days I've given up trying to explain what exactly I am spiritually!), I must admit that I find great beauty in the iconography and some of the writings produced by medieval and early modern Catholicism. In fact, some of my most peaceful moments during our ten-month stay in France from 1995 to 1996 were spent in the damp and dusty églises and cathedrals throughout that beautiful country. I have no other way of explaining this adoration on my part for a religion that I have very little connection to, other than the fact that I have sensed something ancient and archetypal at these sites, and in the art produced for them, which has a calming effect on me - a sort of bridge between our very ancient past and the modern age of reason in which we now live.

In terms of the mystical writings of this tradition, I am particularly drawn to those recorded by women, and am fascinated by the rich and often beautiful explanations they provide of the physical experiences of womanhood. Hildegard von Bingen is one whose works are full of this understanding, and her writings and music are especially calming to me on the days when I am suffering from the same condition that historians believe brought on the majority of her mystical visions. It is presumed that Hildegard started getting migraines fairly early on in her life, and I first started getting mine when I was in my late teens. Until my early 30s they were very occasional and brief affairs that were quickly remedied by a dose of aspirin and a good night's sleep. However, over the past ten years these monthly visitations (bi-monthly of late) have increased in intensity, and I find myself frequently locked away in the darkened cell of our bedroom, with curtains drawn, the dimmest of lamps turned on when needed, and the softest of music playing to soothe the pounding that fills my skull - more often than not, I require the closest thing that I can get to complete silence. For various complicated reasons, which I will not go into here, the new standard treatments for migraines are not an option for me, and so I am in a position to understand quite fully the physical manifestations that Hildegard believed were visitations from her God, and from which she drew inspiration for her written, illuminated and musical works. Because of this, I feel an odd sense of kinship with her - not in the way of shared religion, but more in the way of a sympathetic understanding about the brain's ability to travel to quite mystical places when the body is suffering under the effects of intense pain, as well as the sense of spiritual ecstasy during that twenty-four hour period of time after the symptoms cease.

And oh the shimmering lights of those ocular occurrences, briefer than the more usual type, but considerably more intense - it is hard to explain them to those who have never experienced 'visitations' of this type. Suffice it to say that without the logical and dry explanations of modern science, one could easily think that either they had gone mad, or were receiving messages from the great unknown spheres of the universe in the form of shimmering multi-colored lights that travel slowly across the eyes' range of vision. There was one instance where I had two ocular migraines back to back - the angel demons faded to the far right, to be followed by another host of colorful creatures that entered stage left and danced across my visual range. All I could do was ride it out, lying flat on my back in the middle of the darkened room - but I took the opportunity during that voyage to look through the eyes of Hildegard and understand even more clearly how she interpreted these visitations. The sparkling presence of the divine was suddenly quite understandable in light of that trip.

Yesterday I was struck down around mid-morning by a fairly severe migraine, which is still shimmering in the recesses of my skull today, but not as intensely as twenty-four hours ago (today I can at least look at my dimmed computer screen for the time it is taking to type this entry). Having just referred to this as a Hildegard von Bingen style migraine, in a comment to one of my LJ friends, I decided to turn on some of Hildegard's music (thank you Sequentia for your beautiful recordings!!), review some of the biographical information on this amazing twelfth-century mystic and look again at some of the artwork that has been attributed to her. In the midst of all of this, I came across this quote from her writings, which I had never seen before today ...

'And it came to pass ... when I was 42 years and 7 months old, that the heavens were opened and a blinding light of exceptional brilliance flowed through my entire brain. And so it kindled my whole heart and breast like a flame, not burning but warming... and suddenly I understood of the meaning of expositions of the books...'

Today, 10 January 2010, I am exactly 42 years and 7 months old ... I suppose this might be a reminder that some things just cannot be explained by logic and science and modern this and that, but should instead be embraced as mystical occurrences that draw us for a brief moment into a close embrace with our sisters (and brothers) from the past. Thank you Hildegard ...

Self portrait, taken shortly after my birthday last year, and shortly after having completed a two-day migraine - also one of the rare moments when you all will see a picture of me, as I am rather camera shy and usually hate any of the photos taken of me - this one just captures so perfectly a little of what I have attempted quite feebly to explain in this entry ...

Tu circumdata es
amplexibus divinorum mysteriorum.

(You are held all around
by the embraces of the divine mysteries)

--Hildegard von Bingen

Three wonderful moments in cinematic history ... starring the Little Tramp

2010-01-08T02:47:49Z

A brief departure from what of late has been the usual - and only because I just watched all three of these wonderful final scenes for the umpteenth time, and smiled and got all teary-eyed as I always do - oh Little Tramp, you do have that effect on me, and it is the reason I love you so!

The final scene from Chaplin's The Circus (1928): In this clip, the pain of everything surrounding the making of this film, including the loss of Chaplin's studio to a fire, is palpable. In yet, with incredible physical grace and subtle emotion, the Tramp shrugs it off and moves on to his next great adventure ...

The final scene from Chaplin's City Lights (1931): This clip brings on tears and sweet melancholy and the most blissful happiness - the once blind flower girl finally sees her champion, a knight in shabby armor who would do anything for his lady love ...

And finally, the last few frames of Chaplin's Modern Times (1936): As I watch the two characters bravely face their unknown future, as the era of silent film fades from the world, I gaze at the beautiful landscape of my home state gracing the background of this scene, experience all the range of emotions that one can feel at such a moment, and then I smile ...

Three more cheers for the Little Tramp!

Daydreaming in verse ... Robert Seymour Bridges (1844-1930)

2010-01-07T05:25:27Z

Spirits

Angel spirits of sleep,
White-robed, with silver hair,
In your meadows fair,
Where the willows weep,
And the sad moonbeam
On the gliding stream
Writes her scattered dream:

Angel spirits of sleep,
Dancing to the weir
In the hollow roar
Of its waters deep;
Know ye how men say
That ye haunt no more
Isle and grassy shore
With your moonlit play;
That ye dance not here,
White-robed spirits of sleep,
All the summer night
Threading dances of light?

This poem is included in our copy of Walter de la Mare's Behold, This Dreamer (published by Faber and Faber Limited, London, 1939). I started reading the introduction today, including this wonderful passage in the section titled 'The Borderland' ...

'Time in our waking state, whatever inward yardstick we may apply to it, is supervised by the world at large, and kept in order by a clock that obeys the sun. When consciousness, in whatever degree, either in quantity or quality, withdraws from that clock's, that heavenly sun's exacting sway, other conditions no less mysterious and more private immediately supervene.

It is with these conditions that the following pages are concerned. With sleep, and its associations; with dream, and the state of dreaming; with the Unconscious, and its fringes; with fantasy and the imagination; with the art and genius that reveal their value and significance; and with Death, either as incredible end or as inscrutable beginning - these are this book's chief landmarks and divisions.'

I think I will read more of this book before falling asleep tonight ...

She found herself face to face with a stately and beautiful lady, by Edmund Dulac, for Arthur Quiller-Couch's retelling of Beauty and the Beast - digital image copied from Fantasy: The Golden Age of Fantastic Illustration, by Brigid Peppin (Watson-Guptill Publications, New York, 1975)

Daydreaming in verse ... E. D. Blodgett (1935-)

2010-01-06T05:28:29Z

Fossil

no branch nor the last grass
but the sky before me
opened on the ground,

and where the sky - all seasons
forgetting - began
as rivers in the early thaws
to split, a bird

before me fell, calling across
the rents of time, a bird
whose colour i could not tell,
no bird at all

but torn
from books of birds, and calling
to birds that he alone
recalls until the thaw had ceased.

a bird against the sun i saw
eclipsed, a disc of black
and pressed upon a page: it calls,

it prints silence

The four-winged archaeopteryx, Berlin specimen (digital image courtesy of Wikimedia)

The four-winged archaeopteryx is a creature that might have witnessed thaws and the black disc of the sun a mere 150 million years ago. I imagine that its feathers were the shiniest of deep blues and purples and blacks, with just the slightest hint of green and gold around the edges - the iridescent fairy splendor of the late Jurassic period.

E. D. Blodgett is a Canadian poet, who I discovered quite by chance in one of the books collected at the library last week - I do like his style!

Daydreaming in verse ... Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

2010-01-04T09:30:09Z

Time and Eternity
VI

My cocoon tightens, colors tease,
I'm feeling for the air;
A dim capacity for wings
Degrades the dress I wear.

A power of butterfly must be
The aptitude to fly,
Meadows of majesty concedes
And easy sweeps of sky.

So I must baffle at the hint
And cipher at the sign,
And make much blunder, if at last
I take the clew divine.

The Green Butterfly by Albert Joseph Moore, c. 1878-1881 - digital image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons