part of a panorama

FLAT RIVER

You want to understand the metaphysical basis

of these innumerable poems-

après-poems.  Sherlock Holmes

might just as well (go home).  Faces

crowd the apparitions – bow

wet black petals

into wreath-portals;

Nile barge (or Venice funeral-scow).

Sometimes the dishwasher breaks down (just now).

Anton Gàg died young.

Paint fumes (bad lung) –

Bohemian lifestyle in New Ulm (& how

his seven kids survived, I dunno).

Painted Dakota braves

advance through dry sheaves

hungry for ground (1862)...

We’re part of a panorama, Melody;

some Mendelssohn concerto

swelling to tomorrow...

Nature renewed by grace (slow psalmody).

The flat river was calm today.

The bridge craned upward

in a mirror, downward.

Man & God in Maggie’s puffer, aye.

Aunt May (out of Glasgow) beset

my father (John Douglas)

with needless trials, alas;

the ship of faith already left the port.

12.2.17

Dream song of reality

Just read Joshua Rothman's New Yorker profile of philosopher Daniel Dennett, his lifelong pursuit of a materialist, non-religious, un-mystical theory of consciousness.  Dennett steps out as a brilliant, original thinker, with an impressive science background (biology, mostly). And as an admirably enterprising DIY jack-of-all-trades.

I'm neither scientist nor philosopher.  But I have, like many another, puzzled over the question of "mind", this ancient (back to Epicurus, at least) divide between idealism and materialism.

Just a few off-the-cuff reactions to Rothman's Dennett.  He strikes me as a curious, searching person, whose stance toward nature is essentially that of an engineer.  He's interested in the mechanics of process - how things are done.  This is obviously necessary for science, an attentive approach which leads to discovery.  But it seems ironic that Dennett's view of consciousness - as a continuum, shared with other animals and living things - is not that different from the classic "chain of being" perspective of Aquinas (for one example).  That other animals exhibit a "sort of" consciousness (Dennett's term) - an evolutionary preview of the human mind - parallels the chain-of-being picture, only without the traditional hierarchical fence between "Man" & the rest.  For Dennett it's a flow.  & it seems he has focused passionately on explaining (theoretically) the how of it : how our sense of consciousness could arise from purely physical, evolutionary developments.

This is, I would say, the blind spot in Dennett's vision.  There are limits to the mechanical, analytical dissection of reality offered by biology.  Whatever conclusions he can draw from such analysis only serve to justify his prior conviction of the non-existence of an over-arching God, Spirit, or Mind - something which cannot be "proved" by such analysis anyway.

It seems to me that aesthetics & poetry, as well perhaps as some branches of philosophy, can offer a more valid perspective - because they are rooted in a sense of holism, a synthetic sense.

The poet and the artist register the fabric of the dream.  The theologian (or philosopher of God) articulates the analogical/anagogical synthesis.  Materialist attempts to disprove the reality of Mind or Spirit lack the tools to achieve it, first of all - and, secondly, are probably asking the wrong question.

The question, maybe, is not how, but why.  Why does this immense spectacle of the universe exist at all?  "We are such things as dreams are made on..." - but why?

I've always found the theological answer the most satisfactory.  Why the wonder of the cosmos?  The truest answer : it's a gift.  Why human consciousness?  The truest answer is a kind of geometric/analogical one : human consciousness, which governs (imperfectly) life on our planet, demonstrates an analogy - a sort of geometric parallel - with the divine Mind that governs (ineffably) Reality as a whole.  And history is basically a spectacular drama, unfolding the destiny of that governing mind or spirit, working through humanity toward some kind (or kinds) of definitive expression - call it "Providence".

the rooster crows at dawn

EARLY ARIA

Moss-green & rusty brown, the shades

of veritable November.

Carapace for a fire

of leathery hearts, when autumn fades –

hopelessly stained & cracked, like

little nations stewed

in sour grapes – each rude

philosopher of One-&-Many stuck

on stiff prongs of mutual destruction

(as if our differences

were so many instances

of envious violence).  Someone

disconsolate, like moody Hobo,

comes to his dead end

sans lover nor friend.

The bridge beckons, the river flow...

it’s then that her grey shadow

curves to be with him –

grace of the seraphim,

milk of galactic commingling Rio.

A yellow-black monarch skims south

like nature, figuring rebirth;

her beryl-fiddlehead of mirth

lifts Hobo to the vernal mouth –

where dark Sophia & the turtledove

gather in Providence again.

The rooster crows at dawn

on city walls... an early aria, up above.

11.14.16

Minnehaha's moccasin

SPIRIT-WOOD

                             i.m. Edward Lewis Peckham

Step lightly in my mother’s house,

whispered a tiny elf

named ELP – himself

a watercolorist (a yellow lady’s

slipper’s footprint left the forest

on this day).  Cypripedia

reginae – Minnehaha’s

moccasin – graced this wilderness

as well, making a pair for Joy

& Beauty (graces

almost three).  Time paces

seasoned out of winter, so employ

your dancing shoes, fiery Hiawatha –

roll like Polar Bear

around that pinpoint star,

sing like a loon, like your happy

father (Thalia-glad).  Nature

& Manitou join hands;

a Turtledove blends

sea-sounds, all about green Eire;

urn burials, gardens of Sirius

swim synchronizing

rhombs on monarch wings

(a rugged Paradise for ladybugs)...

one dance-call through spirit-wood

or jadestone flute

sows dreams of Camelot

(like waves of wheat around a vineyard).

6.9.16

*Note : Edward Lewis Peckham, Rhode Island artist and naturalist, painted a watercolor of Cypripedium parviflorum - Yellow Lady's Slipper - on this day in 1866, 150 years ago.  See illustration here from the Rhode Island Historical Society.

John Latta's remark, yesterday, on Nature according to Nabokov - sly, shy, complex, suffused with intelligibility and intelligence - so as to underscore humanity's tragicomic bumbling -

here's a picture of things which seems, at first glance anyway, quite different from Heideggerian-poetic "earth" (according to Kirsch). In Nabokov, the poetic word, in itself, is not endowed with world-shaping magic, mana; rather, Nature as a whole is unspeakably marvelous, and the poet observes and follows after (like Dante, the self-professed "scribe" of Love).

Similar, & different, I guess. In both, there's an alliance with things of the earth, & a humility & self-limitation involved in rendering them; but it seems in Nabokov there is no necessity to sign up with the army of philosophical poet-mystagogues, or treat the Word as some kind of substitute religion or science.

So a critic (of a few centuries back, probably) would describe my (or anybody's) list of "seraphic" poets - the makers of transcendentally perfect poems - as those in whom the genius of Nature shows forth. (& this would agree with the idea of art as imitation of nature.) Beautiful poems have something inimitable & preternatural about them : the genius that makes artificial things which are almost as complex & amazing as the works of nature itself. & yet they are nature, too.

(Bacon, by the way, seems to have an interesting idea that the value of "historical poems" (epics, history plays, etc.) lies in the fact that they show events & people as better than they are in ordinary life - as more transparent or knowable, more worthy of imitation. In a sense this is the role played now by the movies.)

... so there might be a causal relation between the "rule of nature" and the disinterested sense of taste.

But then craft & artifice - the formal training of native talent (or genius) - would parallel the "educated" taste.

There seem to be some echoes of Kant in my remarks yesterday about the "strict measures" of beauty. Those places in the Critique of Judgement about "genius". Poetic genius - being the effect of Nature working through the poet - is what applies the "rule of nature" to the products of art. (I'm getting this from the McKeon essay.)

To say the beautiful is strict, absolute, universal, objective, rooted in nature... is only half of the equation. The beautiful is also surprising, original, unaccountable, challenging, recalcitrant, sometimes awful, terrible, tremendous.

The beautiful is a balance between creative power & the inherent proportions of nature. A proportion of proportions.

Even the poems that reject or deny harmony can't escape its presence, lurking in the background.

It's easy to define the beautiful. Much harder to find & defend it. That's the critic's job : to apprehend beauty where it wasn't noticed before.