T.S. Eliot just extracted music from mundane speech in front of our eyes. Ordinary perception: squeezed. Ordinary scenes of life: squeezed in fluid visions. Ordinary observation: squeezed in meditations. Solitude: squeezed and aggrandized in Nature or water, the persona haunting this excerpt of the poem. Maybe a feminine manifestation, a woman sterile, trenchant as a rock, cryptic, host to a dark passenger only the poet is able to see through his supernatural vision. Perhaps a traitor: a rival or the poet’s unchecked emotion.
Proving The Waste Land is “great” poetry is easy. Erudite, yet sensitive, the poem is a jewel of western symbolism, infused with oriental influences. However, not all verses in The Waste Land are mastered. Some parts lack harmony, appear unfinished, chaotic, and make you doubt the author’s sanity. So, deeming there is such a thing as “great poetry” is childish. Rather, a maturing poet seeks Harmony. Harmony is absolute, total, intrinsic. And because it's within, we miss it. Except when the outer ceases to be attractive. A poet strives to get closer and closer to Harmony. To channel Harmony, being depressed is not the only option. Any form of constraint, existential or technical, helps. Listen.
Evening Solace, Charlotte Brontë
Here is Harmony, cloaked with versification beauty. Charlotte Brontë feels in music, the poem’s rhythm forcing the breath. Simple words express Truth, revealed and hidden. The poem has aphorisms, the poem is sweet, the poem is depressed, neat. I don’t believe in feminine poetry but I think perception is neutral and can have a feminine filter. Elevating Poetry contrives personality or takes over; the universal speaks. I am not sure Brontë’s personality is under threat or has surrendered, but her throat became vaster. Restraint and constraint will make you impersonal and if your heart is old enough, vast enough, and your mind spacious and hungry, you will breathe in self-absence, in myths. In Poetry, when the self disappears, the Self appears.
Mature Poetry is what we call "genius." It is born with (1) the intention to host Harmony and (2) the will, unwavering, to famish our sense of self. To give everything for Sat, Truth & Beauty reunited. Everything. Even pleasure. Baudelaire’s poem, Une Charogne, is the living proof. Charles describes a corpse, rotting in the sun. Truth prevails. Fighting is pointless. We are beautiful and sassy and passionate and smart: we will end up a carcass. I’ll read the poem in French to preserve the chill and disgust. Enjoy the music.
I recommend Roy Campbell's English translation.
Off-putting.
Is it? What if the reeking remains in the poem were an excuse to transcend, elevate our senses beyond what they’ve been trained to perceive? Now that you've heard this or read Roy Campbell's excellent translation, don’t you want to fight these maggots with flowers and beauty and the body of your lover (who will also die)? Aren't you ready for a fight? Or an escape?
A Carcass
is metric and metaphysical elegance, baudelairian.
The Poet looks the undesirable in the eyes and meditates. Paradoxical, frightening, like this buddhist ashuba meditation. A Carcass is the inevitable death of Jeanne Duval, one of Baudelaire’s many lovers, but also my death, yours, and ours. Vanitas vanitatum, omnia vanitas.
Mature poetry and poets who mature master paradoxes with oxymorons. Maybe you heard that word in high school or in an MFA of some sort. Usually, literature professors are not poets (I believe T.S. Eliot was an accident). Oxymorons, analogies, metaphores, alliterations, and assonances are figures of speech which constitute poetry for academics. For us poets, speech is existential, a spiritual tool to inquire and soothe duality, to reunite the improbable; the positive and the negative, the beautiful and the foul. Which is why Poets are ambiguous, unconventional. Most humans fear ambiguity and try to find some reassurance in the known. Poets don’t. Over time, they become mythmakers because the unknown can only be expressed in myth. Now you know why mythology widens perception. The only way to escape or solve a paradox is mythology.
Mythology happens with death, the unfathomable. Everything the human mind cannot, does not want to witness or understand becomes a myth. Since we do not want to die, and refuse to understand what death means, anything happening in the kingdom of death is bound to be mythological. Make some tea, sit comfortably, and click on the purple ear.
Hermann Hesse, A Dream About The Gods
Ah, death, its manifestation, imminence: the angst!
Love, a prude word for attachment and lust, is the first intensity. Hatred, the second and death is the last. Death revives the fear and the desire to live while finishing our sentience. Oxymoronic. Death is the moment of Truth we cannot escape. The only place in time where we cannot hide behind the lie of feminine innocence and masculine strength and makeup and concepts and intellect.
Some of us looked death right in the eye. Like Socrates, who was a Poet in the end, and a philosopher eternally lost to the world. Like the anonymous poet of this upanishad who sings what it feels like to die. Oxymoronic and enlightening in the end. Here:
He is becoming one, they say, he does not see;
he is becoming one, they say, he does not smell,
he is becoming one, they say, he does not taste;
he is becoming one, they say, he does not speak,
he is becoming one, they say, he does not hear;
he is becoming one, they say, he does not think,
he is becoming one, they say, he does not touch;
he is becoming one, they say, he does not know.
The point of his heart becomes lighted up
and by that light the self departs
either through the eye or through the head
or through other apertures of the body.
And when he thus departs, life departs after him.
And when life thus departs, all the vital breaths
depart after him.
He becomes one with intelligence.
- The Upanishads (somewhen, in a long, long, long, distant past)
Don't die yet
Mature poetry confronts death and comes back. Aim for that, but don’t die yet.
Cherish Life, cherish Poetry,
Sat, and don’t forget to be kind to your biological self. Amass experience, transmute, and last. Amass youth and get old. The older the Poet, the better the Poet. Old is close to death, the last intensity, but old is also the memory of your origins. You may not like it, but that's law. You will get old, too.
Take shelter in and wisdom from your fathers and mothers in Poetry ; they are your origin. Your desire to become a Poet was born in them first. Study them. Don't be afraid to read. Reading is distant observation.
Read in foreign languages . Learn foreign, ancient, and strange languages. Discovering how other Poets express Poetry will sharpen your poetic sense, widen your perception, and you may come up with novel forms (art), rhythms, and music. Since there has been Poets from times immemorial and there is Poetry in all the world's languages, Poetry may be a meta-language, the universal tongue: Poetry survived the end of myth in our western societies and the rise and dominance of logic. Poetry exists within, without, and alongside conscious or semi-conscious symbolism, dreamlike states, altered states of consciousness, mysticism, and reason and does not try to combat them. Track elemental Poetry so you can speak pure Poetry.
Squeeze language . Put it under pressure and see what happens. Read a lot. Read until practice is all you can do.
You will mimic the masters first, then you will grieve in front of their timeless genius, then you'll be angry, then you'll praise them or yourself. At that point, know that worship is the only way out of mediocracy (inertia), hubris, or despair. Worship of Poetry.
In Vedic Theory of Speech, Vak, there are 4 stages of speech.
1. Para-vak, the supreme speech you cannot fathom (this ends the drama, right?)
2. Pashyanti, the subtlest, seeing speech; one you cannot fathom yet (I know. There's hope)
3. Madhyama or middle speech clothed in mental substance, thoughts; and
4. Vaikhari, speech emitted in sounds which require movements of lips, tongues; words. Gross.
Poetry is a travel through speech, which originates in perception. So, as Poets, we journey
from the grossest to the subtlest perception and somehow, along the way, after much work, dedication, discipline (are you a disciple yet?), and greater and greater selflessness, we might receive the gift of poetic vision from Para-vak Herself. I guess traveling from Vaikhari to Pashy
anti takes centuries. Or many, many returns.
Patience. The 23rd century is not cancelled.
Yet.
Reading suggestions
- The Waste Land And Other Poems, T.S. Eliot
- The Fairy Tales Of Hermann Hesse
- Les fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil), Charles Baudelaire. English translation by Roy Campbell
- Charlotte Brontë in
A Poetic Side Of Me,
a great poetry blog
- The Upanishads, The Vedas, The Mahabarat, The Quran, Enuma Elish, The Poetic Edda, The Prose Edda, The Torah, The Bible, The Talmud, The Book Of Overthrowing Apophis, The Book Of The Dead (Egyptian and Tibetan), The Popol Vuh. All these are works from the first Poets. Don't worry. Once you transcend hubris, you will be the last.
- Lemurian Scrolls. Call it a chronicle of the Soul's journey or a new, cosmic myth.
- Whatever book came to your mind while reading this article
- Whatever Poet from the present or the past you feel close to or despise
- {R}