This Is Just To Say

I thought I might try to start regularly picking out bits of poetry and commenting on them here. Here's a fun one I haven't read for awhile, “This Is Just To Say:”

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast.

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold.

— William Carlos Williams

I think Williams had a unique gift for “picturesque poetry,” or, more properly, “Imagist poetry.” Unlike much of the poetry of the last century that aimed more at painting a scene than telling a story or arguing a point, but failed to do much of anything at all, Williams's works actually seemed to succeed in being primarily a sensory experience. This one always makes my mouth water as if I really have missed out on a cold, sweet plum.

Thoughts?

Thr3e

I'd like to do a long post on the book Thr3e sometime, but for now, let me say that if you're like me and are completely oblivious to it, you should go buy it and read it. It's been out for a few years, and is “now a major motion picture,” but I had never heard of it. I knew of Ted Dekker, but had never read any of his works.

Excellent.

It has some real literary underpinnings I think are worth looking at, and the overall picture at the end is exquisite. Get the book. I'll write more about it. It's a page turning crypto-thriller that is well worth a read.

Free Coffee

So, I went to Starbucks today and ordered an Iced Venti Latte through the drive through window. I had the money out and was ready to pay by the time the barrista came to the window. She took a little while, but not that long. When she did finally come, I thought it was odd that she did not ask for my money before handing me the coffee, however after giving me the coffee, she told me that the drink was on the house since they had been slow! Indeed, the service wasn't as fast as it is sometimes, but it was still nothing to sneeze at.

That's good customer service for you!

C. S. Lewis and T. S. Eliot

Most of you know of my great admiration for C. S. Lewis. His writing style has always been, for me, a goal — however hopeless — that I should like to someday reach in my own prose. He also was an academic, a noted literary critic and a master at explaining theology (and, to a lesser extent, philosophy). As a theologian, he also embodied many of the principles of neo-orthodoxy, though I have found little on his direct knowledge and interest in Barth, Brunner and so on.

In short, Lewis is sort of the archetype that I would like to aspire to in most things. Don't get me wrong, he wasn't perfect and I don't “idolize” him, I simply recognize him as a man who did essentially the things I would like to do and did them very well. The combination literary critic-theology writer isn't exactly a common occupation, you know?

T. S. Eliot, as I've come to appreciate him over the last few years, is interesting to me for similar reasons. After a bout in Eastern religion, he ended up an Anglican, like Lewis. He was a literary giant (I'd suggest quite possibly the literary giant of the twentieth century) in both poetry and criticism and he was also well versed in philosophy and theology.

Given that they both worked in the field of literature at Oxford or Cambridge during the same time span, I wondered how they got along, for surely they knew each other. I never actually knew anything in relation to that, however, until I ran into this excellent transcript of a lecture on the subjection. If you read it, make sure to read it all the way through for the interesting twist toward the end.

Interesting.

(It is also interesting I keep bringing up Eliot here. He has been popping up in a lot of things I've been working on lately, not all of them even related.)

The Waste Land

For a long time now I've been meaning to read T.S. Eliot's the Waste Land. I have now done so, and I'm not sure I have anything useful to say just yet. I think I need to read it again. It is not exactly the kind of work that can be made sense of after just a cursory reading. It definitely shows the interesting mind that Eliot had to an even greater extent than the other things I've read of his.

I think I'll try to read it again in the next few days, and then maybe try to conquer the Four Quartets, his last great work.

Regarding my post from last night, I figured studying Eliot is one of the most fruitful things I can do when contemplating writing. Few others have ever had such a mastery of the classic form while freely being able to drift off into free form poetry. Unlike most poets of his age (and our own), his is still a poetry that retains a sense of meter and rhyme — something to drive the reader forward, and at times, faster and faster and faster into the abyss.

Hmm. I guess I had something to say after all.

God's Grandeur (a.k.a. Sequel to Last Night)

The following poem from Gerald Manley Hopkins is just simply a good thing to read, but I also was especially thinking of it in light of last night's ranting post. Enjoy.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Elegy

There is something especially haunting and beautiful about the Anglo-Saxon elegiac poem. Reading too many of them in a row can be terribly depressing, but at the same time, I miss reading them if I haven't done so in a long time. For History of the English Language, I'm learning how to pronounce Old English; while looking up some material related to that, I ran into a reference to Deor, one of the most impressive of the Old English elegies (in my opinion).

I think it is memorable because it is easy to sympathize with the poet. Before getting to his own problems, he tries to think of all kinds of horrible past events that others have experienced and then remarks, “As that passed away, so may this.” I too like to try to make myself think maybe this or that problem isn't quite so bad by thinking of how others have made it through worse events. The final exclamation to each stanza is a reminder that suffering is only temporary, but it also pounds in the whole sense that life is transitory. Hence, the poem is also a sobering reminder when things are going well: that passes away too.

If you're so inclined, you might want to read Deor, if you have not already had the pleasure of doing so. A fairly literal, if not wonderfully readable translation is located here.

Quandary

I was talking to a friend this week about American Literature. I am of the mindset that is rather dubious about the whole venture known as “American Literature.” This state of mind is not so much because I think there is a complete lack of good American works, but because I think the percentage of good to bad is quite a bit higher than in British Literature of the same period. The amount that actually innovates is even lower. As T. S. Eliot argues, true literature is not something entirely new or something that merely copies works of the past, but something that takes the traditions through the new poet's interpretive lens to create a blend of the recognizable and the innovative.

But, I digress. The quandary, my friend pointed out is quite simple: If one questions the existence of American Literature, that is a bit of a problem the questioner as someone who is both American and somewhat of a writer. I'm not so bold as to think I have (or will) produce literature, but if I question the status of American literature, where does that leave those of us dabbling in the minor leagues of American writing?

As Imperceptibly as Grief

With summer seeming to quickly fade into autumn this year, I though perhaps I should offer up the soapbox today to my friend Emily — Emily Dickinson, that is.

AS imperceptibly as grief
The summer lapsed away,—
Too imperceptible, at last,
To seem like perfidy.

A quietness distilled,
As twilight long begun,
Or Nature, spending with herself
Sequestered afternoon.

The dusk drew earlier in,
The morning foreign shone,—
A courteous, yet harrowing grace,
As guest who would be gone.

And thus, without a wing,
Or service of a keel,
Our summer made her light escape
Into the beautiful.

Booking It Some More: LOTR

In my last post, I promised to redo the book meme, this time going with the book unquestionably closest to me. As it turned out, there was a book right behind me last night I didn't even notice. The Lord of the Rings: the Complete Best-Selling Classic is the rightful book to submit for this little amusement.

Open the book to page 123 and find the fifth sentence.

“Its walls were of clean stone, but they were mostly covered with green hanging mats and yellow curtains.”

Post the text of the next three sentences on your blog along with these instructions.

“The floor was flagged, and strewn with fresh green rushes. There were four deep mattresses, each piled with white blankets, laid on the floor along one side. Against the opposite wall was a long bench laden with wide earthenware basins, and beside it stood brown ewers filled with water, some cold, some steaming hot.”

(This is my first reading through the Lord of the Rings, by the way.)