Followers

Friday, December 31, 2021

Three Dusk Poems


Afternoon has lost its fierceness…

Afternoon has lost its fierceness like the death of summer grass, dry and crackling underfoot.

Dappled shadows fuse, separate, and coalesce—grayly shifting furtive forest animal.

Faintly the wind rises, gently kicking into circular motion fronds spinning in the liquid eyes of ponds.

Branches wave back and forth, swings, doors opening and closing, leaves entering and leaving.

Black asphalt roads glow, windswept dark coal fed by hot billows firing an old bronze censer.

Orange cats, writhing, lithe, play on jade grass, shiny crabs jostling, toys scattered at day’s end.

Trees, outspreading dream catcher nets, poise against the horizon, tracing graceful fractals against the sky.

Daylight reddens, crushing pink roses against white cheeks of clouds.

Weakening, the hour bathes in vermilion blooms drifting in the darkening ocean.

Threatening black outbursts, thick clouds close to shore migrate toward the sun now deepening crimson with fatigue.

Remotely, obscured by a diaphanous curtain of rain, boats fade in and out, motes on a planetary visage.

Pummeled by distant turbulence, outlying storms, swirling fists, hurl violently into a far constellation.


DARKENING AFTERNOONS

I love the wooden beauty of darkening afternoons
Softly varnishing the oldness of the sky,
Weathered like the brows of studious hills.

Stillness dwells in the air like a great thinker,
Pondering forgotten equations, hidden runes.
Clouds are flecked with the fires of beaten copper,
Skies limpid with the blues of pale oceans.
Shadows weave fingers through grass looms
As fields gaze blankly at the sun.
Birds grasp at the last utterances of a prayer,
Day vanishes like a broken pot.

Dusk is redolent with the aged interiors of sleeping cabinets, richly inhabited.


THE JEWELER

Afternoon is a jeweler
Setting hours in gold,
As silver glinting waves
Slap the garnet shore.



Lost in Thought (2021) by Renz Baluyot

Waiting


WAITING

The sky is clarity,
The wind, perfume,
You, a comely valley
In a sunlit room.

The sun arranges flowers
Along a window sill.
Your vine ascends, curling
About an iron grill.
 
 
 
Sun in an Empty Room (1963) by Edward Hopper

Saturday, December 11, 2021

God by Kahlil Gibran – Analysis and Commentary

   
GOD BY KAHLIL GIBRAN – ANALYSIS AND COMMENTARY  

“God” by Kahlil Gibran caught my attention because it invokes a literary motif of abiding interest—the mountain. 

GOD by Kahlil Gibran

In the ancient days, when the first quiver of speech came to my lips, I ascended the holy mountain and spoke unto God, saying, “Master, I am thy slave. Thy hidden will is my law and I shall obey thee for ever more.”

But God made no answer, and like a mighty tempest passed away.

And after a thousand years I ascended the holy mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, “Creator, I am thy creation. Out of clay hast thou fashioned me and to thee I owe mine all.” 

And God made no answer, but like a thousand swift wings passed away.

And after a thousand years I climbed the holy mountain and spoke unto God again, saying, “Father, I am thy son. In pity and love thou hast given me birth, and through love and worship I shall inherit thy kingdom.”

And God made no answer, and like the mist that veils the distant hills he passed away.

And after a thousand years I climbed the sacred mountain and again spoke unto God, saying, “My God, my aim and my fulfillment; I am thy yesterday and thou [art] my tomorrow. I am thy root in the earth and thou art my flower in the sky, and together we grow before the face of the sun.”

Then God leaned over me, and in my ears whispered words of sweetness, and even as the sea that enfoldeth a brook that runneth down to her, he enfolded me.

And when I descended to the valleys and the plains God was there also.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/58692/god-56d23d4c8970


—Kahlil Gibran, “God,” Poetry Magazine

Not surprisingly, in the poem the motif of the mountain is joined with the subject of the quest for God. 

God dwells in the heavens, above and beyond humanity, and the mountain is the symbol of the pathway of the ascent toward God. Again and again, this particular meaning of the motif is recapitulated by world culture and by various religious traditions.

The poem illustrates well the defining features of Gibran’s poetry set forth by Poetry magazine:

“His Arabic works are read, admired, and taught, and they are published and sold among the classics of Arabic literature. In English, on the other hand, a chasm remains between his popularity and the lack of critical respect for his work. Although in the 1910s his writings were published by Knopf alongside those of such authors as Eliot and Frost, he quickly ceased to be considered an important writer by critics. He has generally been dismissed as sentimental and mawkishly mystical. Nevertheless, his works are widely read and are regarded as serious literature by people who do not often read such literature. The unconventional beauty of his language and the moral earnestness of his ideas allow him to speak to a broad audience as only a handful of other twentieth-century American poets have. Virtually all of his English works have been in print since they were first published. His literary and artistic models were the Romantics of the late nineteenth century to whom he was introduced as a teenager by his avant-garde friends in Boston, and Gibran’s continuing popularity as a writer testifies to the lasting power of the Romantic tradition.” [boldface mine]

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/kahlil-gibran


—“Kahlil Gibran: 1883-1931,” Poetry Magazine

Interestingly, Khalil Gibran has not been favored by the literary critics (same source as above):

“His English books—most notably, The Prophet (1923), with its earnest didactic romanticism—found no favor with critics whose models were the cool intellectualism of James Joyce and T. S. Eliot or the gritty realism of Ernest Hemingway. As a result, Gibran has been dismissed as a popular sentimentalist by American critics and historians of art and of literature.”

Yet he is the third most popular poet of all time:

“Gibran is the third best-selling poet of all time following Shakespeare and Laozi. The Prophet (1923) has been translated into 110 languages. Such was the acclaim that Gibran was catapulted on to the global stage. His passing at age 48 April 10, 1931 in New York was front-page news around the globe.”

https://thevoice.us/late-khalil-gibran-third-best-selling-poet-of-all-time/?fbclid=IwAR3eGFILlELciXymSQRAcVkYeMDoqz9DsZscw1DoylWYpAMjjSVZzVvqWys

—Jo Fredell Higgins, “Late Khalil Gibran Third Best-Selling Poet of All Time,” The Voice (October 22, 2019)

Social media has quipped that despite the fact that critics will most assuredly criticize, Gibran won the popular vote.   

Evidently, Gibran’s idiom speaks eloquently and movingly to the hearts of a very large and enduring audience of appreciative readers. That professional literary critics do not hold him in the same sympathetic regard suggests their disdainful intellectualism and agnostic cynicism according to a very long tradition of Western skepticism. We might conclude that the majority of the public who read and appreciate Gibran’s poetry are touched by his romantic sensibility and at the very least curious about his mystical impulse if not actually drawn by it. 



Kahlil Gibran

Tuesday, October 19, 2021

Milestone

  
MILESTONE

As of October 19, 2021, my poetry blog has received over 100,000 visits, which is a milestone of sorts.

About 8,000 visits are mine—most were automatically counted by Blogger whenever I published a new post or edited an existing post.

Top five visiting countries include, in order, the USA, the Philippines, Sweden, Russia, and Canada. The USA is the origin of up to 47,000 visits. Nearly 21,000 visits, not including mine, are from the Philippines.

 
Visits in the single digits hail from countries as curious as Zambia or Tajikistan.
 
 
  
Milestone by the A944, Westhill, Aberdeenshire, Great Britain

Saturday, September 4, 2021

Ten Greatest Poets – Sappho, Tenth Muse (Postscript)

My June 9, 2018 post about Sappho relates that of her estimated 10,000 lines of lyric poetry, most of what is extant exists only in fragments and that but one complete poem, “Ode to Aphrodite,” remains.

On June 24, 2005, The Guardian reported that the missing lines of one poem, titled by scholars Old Age or Tithonus, had been recovered from the cartonnage of an Egyptian mummy.

The report implied that we are now gifted not with one but with two complete Sappho poems.

begin

It was found in the cartonnage of an Egyptian mummy, the flexible layer of fibre or papyrus which was moulded while wet into a plaster-like surface around the irregular parts of a mummified wrapped body, so that motifs could be painted on.

Last year two scholars, Michael Gronewald and Robert Daniel, announced that a recovered papyrus in the archives of Cologne University had been identified as part of a roll containing poems by Sappho.

Researchers realised that parts of one poem corresponded with fragments found in 1922 in one of the great treasure troves of modern classical scholarship – the ancient rubbish tips of the Egyptian town of Oxyrhynchus.

The completed jigsaw is today published in an 1,500-word article with commentary and translation in the Times Literary Supplement by Martin West, emeritus fellow of All Souls, Oxford, a renowned translator of Greek lyric poetry, described by the British Academy as “on any reckoning the most brilliant and productive Greek scholar of his generation”.

end


—“After 2,600 years, the world gains a fourth poem by Sappho,” The Guardian (June 24, 2005)

A polished English translation of the poem by J. Simon Harris was published on July 6, 2018 in The Society of Classical Poets website.

OLD AGE by Sappho
Original language Aeolic Greek
Translated by J. Simon Harris

Hold on, little girls, to the beautiful gifts of the violet Muses,
and cling to your love of the clear sweet lyre, that lover of music.

My skin was once supple and smooth, but now it is withered by age;
my hair had been lustrous and black, but now it is faded and gray.

My heart grows heavy; my knees, too weary to stand upon,
though once, they could lift me and dance, and could leap as light as a fawn.

I grumble and groan on and on—and yet, what else can I do?
No woman has lived without aging, no man has eternal youth.

They say that Tithonus was held in the rosy arms of Dawn,
who carried him off to the ends of the earth, so her love would live on.

Though charming and young at the time, and despite his immortal wife,
he too would succumb to old age in the end of his endless life.

Yet, thinking of all that I’ve lost, I recall what maturity brings:
the wisdom I lacked as a youth, and a love for the finer things.

And Eros has given me beauty not found in the light of the sun:
the passion and patience for life that so often is lost on the young.

https://classicalpoets.org/2018/07/06/a-translation-of-sapphos-old-age-poem-by-j-simon-harris/

—“A Translation of Sappho’s ‘Old Age Poem’ by J. Simon Harris,” The Society of Classical Poets, July 6, 2018

Doubts have been raised about the authenticity of the recovered Aeolic text.

The article in the link below, for example, raises technical objections but is somewhat inconclusive.


—Jürgen Hammerstaedt, “The Cologne Sappho: Its Discovery and Textual Constitution,” Center for Hellenic Studies: Harvard University, March 11, 2011

Recently, claims about the original provenance of the recovered papyrus were retracted, raising more doubts about the authenticity of the salvaged text.

begin

In the years following the publication of the poems, many concerns were raised by scholars about why the manuscript remained unavailable for study, and why documentation concerning its acquisition had not been made public. It was said to belong to a London collector who preferred to remain anonymous.

In the now-retracted article, first published in 2016, it was stated that the papyrus manuscript on which the Sappho poems were written had been recovered by the staff of the London collector from cartonnage – ancient Egyptian papier-mache, often used to create funerary masks. According to this account, this particular piece of cartonnage, perhaps once used as bookbinding, had been formerly in an American collection, and eventually purchased legally by the collector in a Christie’s auction in London in 2011. When the cartonnage was dissolved by the collector’s staff and the individual sheets teased apart, the Sappho poems were revealed. Crucially, the artefact in question had been, according to this account, taken out of Egypt before 1970, the year a Unesco convention on cultural heritage was widely adopted. Strict Egyptian laws govern excavation and trafficking of its ancient artefacts.

A privately circulated Christie’s brochure was revealed in 2019 containing some images of the recovery process described in the article, but the photographs, when analysed by papyrologists, led to yet more questions about the account’s credibility.

Small fragments of the same Sappho manuscript ended up in the private collection of the American billionaire evangelical Green family, who fund the Museum of the Bible in Washington DC. After concerns raised about the legality of a number of artefacts in their possession, museum officials investigated these small fragments of the Sappho manuscript and announced that they had been purchased in 2012 from a Turkish dealer, Yakup Eksioglu, without appropriate documentation. Eksioglu said last year that he was the source of all the Sappho fragments. He called the story of the recovery from cartonnage bought at Christie’s a “fake story”. The Green family has repatriated their portions of the Sappho manuscript to the Egyptian state, along with thousands of other artefacts found to have been wrongfully acquired.

According to the statement from the editors of the retracted chapter, “The repatriation of the Green Sappho fragments has restored these papyri to [their] rightful owner.” The main part of the papyrus manuscript, they said, “remains problematic, not only because its provenance is tainted but also because the papyrus … is inaccessible. We sincerely hope that it will also be made available to the academic community soon and its acquisition circumstances fully explained”. They have not, they say, seen any evidence to suggest that the manuscript is inauthentic.

end


—“Doubts cast over provenance of unearthed Sappho poems,” The Guardian (March 25, 2021)

The jury is still out on the authenticity of the recovered text of the second allegedly complete Sappho poem.



Head of a Greek Woman

Ten Greatest Poets – David, Sweet Singer of Israel (Postscript)

 
Bather (2008) by Nicola Beattie

Sailing

 
SAILING

Swiftly I sail the perfect blue water, slicing through the sea.
Clouds charged with electricity fill broad sky vistas.
At night I am guided by the geometry of the stars.



...slicing through the sea...

Two War Poems


AFTER BASHŌ

Chalk white moon, a disc of pooling light.
Round old pond, stillness unruffled,
Bird tucked inward. Behind
Embankment of clouds, a frog leaps—
Touchdown in water!

Black sky bursts, broken,
Beatific placid mirror shattered
By splash of a big blast,
Droplets, tremulous,
Subatomic particles scattering,
Tsunami unleashing gamma waves, X-rays,
70,000 instantly dead…

Genbaku Dome, UNESCO World Heritage Site.


THE DAY THE CLOCK STOPPED
Nagasaki, Japan

The day the clock stopped,
Those whose names had been inscribed
In the Book of Death,
Thursday, August 9, 1945,
In one instant, they no longer existed.
Unspooling, life had unwound, desultory worm.

They were working in the field, grinding at the mill…
One was taken, another left.

The schoolboy sitting on the steps vaporized in a single burst of a thousand white flashes, his existence now only a memory fired in cement…

The factory worker, blown backward and upward against the wall, falling to the floor and under a fallen pillar, her skull cracking open like an egg, the huge roof blasted away entirely…walls collapsing inward, exposing a wasteland trodden completely flat by a hurricane foot…

The postman upswept, smashed downward, his bicycle twisting into a pretzel… sloughing off, his skin melting like cheese under extreme heat…swelling to twice its normal size, his face, eyes pinched closed…blood streaming out of his ears and nose, bubbling frothily from his mouth…his belly split open, intestines welling up like rice boiling in a pot…

The schoolteacher sucked out from inside the door, swung violently against an exploded tree…her eyes pushed out like pendant cherries…unmoving now, her dead body a white potato ball, peelings uncurling, red flesh showing underneath…sitting in a welter of picks, fire hooks, shovels, houses like fallen chairs, cadavers like charring logs…

The soldier still standing, petrified, blackened, his uniform fully burned away…smoldering amidst steel frames bereft of walls, smashed furniture, roof tiles like confetti, telegraph poles snapped in two, dangling electric cables, twisted train tracks, smoking corpses igniting spontaneously into flame…or bloated, purplish, popping up and out of the water…

The mother nursing her child when the window burst, peppering her with glass buckshot, spearing her fatally through the eye…her last glimpse, thick, heavy black and yellow smoke drawn upward into a geyser of smoke and dust rising rapidly into the dense sky…the sun a reddish-brown disc…

A broken clock retrieved by survivors had been memorialized—
Crystal of human intelligence, a living stone, ticking when the atomic shockwave had folded it in two,
Today it hangs in a glass display—a statue unperturbed by tumult, finality of a royal emblem, for all practical purposes, inert.

For Tetsuya Koshiishi



B-29 That Dropped the Atom Bomb on Hiroshima