premature talk of greatness

I’m with Reb and Amy on this one. 

And, every other consideration aside, history decides the answer to who is ‘great’ in any field. Not us, writing now, however smart and well-informed we may be (or not). What we think now is not necessarily what history will think 50 or 100 years from now.

She’s funny that way, history.

a shape like to the angels

CAIN (solus) – And this is
Life? Toil! and wherefore should I toil?- because
My father could not keep his place in Eden?
What had I done in this? – I was unborn:
I sought not to be born; nor love the state
To which that birth has brought me. Why did he
Yield to the Serpent and the woman? or
Yielding – why suffer? What was there in this?
The tree planted, and why not for him?
If not, why place him near it, where it grew
The fairest in the center? They have but
One answer to all questions, “‘Twas his will,
And he is good.” How know I that? Because
He is all-powerful, must all-good, too, follow?
I judge but by the fruits- and they are bitter-
Which I must feed on for a fault not mine.
Whom have we here?- A shape like to the angels
Yet of a sterner and a sadder aspect
Of spiritual essence: why do I quake?
Why should I fear him more than other spirits,
Whom I see daily wave their fiery swords
Before the gates round which I linger oft,
In Twilight’s hour, to catch a glimpse of those
Gardens which are my just inheritance,
Ere the night closes o’er the inhibited walls
And the immortal trees which overtop
The cherubim-defended battlements?
If I shrink not from these, the fire-armed angels,
Why should I quail from him who now approaches?
Yet – he seems mightier far than them, nor less
Beauteous, and yet not all as beautiful
As he hath been, and might be: sorrow seems
Half of his immortality. And is it
So? and can aught grieve save, humanity?
He cometh.

[Enter LUCIFER.]

— George Byron, Cain

Being Eight

Songs on Whale Child’s ‘Faves’ list on the 1gb hand-me-down i-Pod Nano he inherited from his big brother:

    Everybody Was Kung Fu Fighting, Carl Douglas
    The Click Song, Miriam Makeba
    The Lion Sleeps Tonight, The Tokens
    Lady of the Sea, Seth Lakeman
    We Are The Champions, Queen
    Another One Bites the Dust, Queen
    Iko Iko, Aaron Carter
    Build Me Up Buttercup, The Foundations
    Runaround Sue, Dion
    Panis Angelicus, Sting & Pavarotti
    Saturday Night’s Alright For Fighting, Nickelback
    Waterloo, Abba
    Thriller, Michael Jackson
    500 Miles, The Proclaimers

Is this a representative 8-year-old i-Pod faves list in 2009? I fear we are either in the process of seriously warping him or have already successfully done so, without even trying.

dead Brits – Coleridge

Moving right along with revisiting the English Big Six.  Been stuck on Coleridge for a while, it seems.  I had a late-adolescent trauma related to Kubla Khan and a damsel with a dulcimer that seared him into my psychic memory — not unpleasantly, but rather ambiguously, perhaps.  That whole thing about him being zapped on opiates while he wrote it (and most other things, it seems) was an enduring point of adolescent focus, as was The Person From Porlock and the Wedding Guest’s apparent hypnosis in the Rhime of the Ancient Mariner.  This time around – dutifully expanding my horizons – I enjoyed Frost At Midnight but did find it somewhat hard not to glaze over during This Lime Tree Bower My Prison.

New and exciting this time: Christabel!

I mean: Vampire Girl!

A Gothic cross between Keats’ Eve of St. Agnes and Rossetti’s Goblin Market and something else I can’t think of at this minute.  Too bad there’s only a fragment of it.

(Oh wait – another Coleridge fragment..?).

According to the Cambridge History of English and American Literature:

“It has been said that “the thing attempted in Christabel is the most difficult in the whole field of romance: witchery by daylight.” And nothing could come nearer the mark. The miraculous element, which lies on the face of The Ancient Mariner, is here driven beneath the surface. The incidents themselves are hardly outside the natural order. It is only by a running fire of hints and suggestions—which the unimaginative reader has been known to overlook—that we are made aware of the supernatural forces which lie in wait on every side. The lifting of the lady across the threshold, the moan of the mastiff bitch, the darting of the flame as the enchantress passes—to the heedful, all these things are full of meaning; but, to the unwary, they say nothing; they say nothing to Christabel. Yet, the whole significance of the poem is bound up with these subtle suggestions; though it is equally true that, if they were more than suggestions, its whole significance would be altered or destroyed. It would no longer be “witchery by daylight,” but by moonlight; which is a very different thing.”

Check it out.

the striped fawn of my dream

Léopold Sédar Senghor, poet-president of Senegal, whom we’ve mentioned briefly before. From Song of the Initiate

She flees, she flees through the white flat land, while I take
Careful aim, giddy with desire. Is she in the bush of games,
Passions of thorns and thickets? Then shall I force her
To the chains of time, inhaling the sweet breath of her flanks
Of speckled shadows, and at stupefying High Noon shall I
Twist her fragile arms. The antelope’s rattle will intoxicate me
Life fresh palm wine and I shall drink for a long time
The wild blood that rises from her heart, the bloody milk
That flows to her mouth, the scent of the wet earth.


I have to hold back my blood at the end of its long cinnabar leash,
The son of Man, son of Lion, who roars in the hollow hills
Setting fire to a hundred villages with his male harmattan voice.

I will go leaping above the hills, defying the fear of wind
And steppes, defying the river-seas where virgin bodies drown
In the depth of their anguish. Then I will climb back up the sweet belly
Of dunes and the gleaming thighs of the day, up to the dark throat
Where a quick blow kills the striped fawn of my dream.

I like those big and distant but compelling Song of Songs-type comparisons that we don’t seem to use today (as in: “thy hair is as a flock of goats, that appear from Mount Gilead.Thy teeth are like a flock of sheep that are even shorn, which came up from the washing; whereof every one bear twins, and none is barren among them.” More examples here.)

(I just got J.D. McClatchy’s “Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry” in the mail.)