Poppies in a Disused Lot: Perfection?

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In a disused lot

the perfectibility

of golden poppies

Learning NOT to “see” the world as objects somehow projected into our minds but as the world itself may strip the world of value; there’s a long modern tradition that argues that values are “subjective.”  But the dualism of mind/world is unsustainable. The “I” just does not look out on the world from its lonely balcony. We only know the world as we learn to talk about it: language is always part of what we observe. And so we talk about the “grammar” of experience and the “textuality” of experience.

And we still do “experience” value in the world. Words like “good” perform well in many contexts: a good cake, a good person. “Good” is a “perfection term.”  Perfection terms adapt to many circumstances without losing their usefulness– quite the contrary. As models of excellence (“paradigms” in Stephen Mulhall’s THE GREAT RIDDLE), they are “indefinitely perfectible (without ever reaching a state of perfection), and they are inherently capable of being projected into new contexts” (82).

I think certain “images” do the work of perfection terms. Like such terms, the images have contexts; they are paradigms, or models of excellence, within a “world.” But they project “perfection” and so connect the scene they appear in to a larger and larger frame of reference. Poems showcasing such imagery are fascinating.

Placing the golden poppies in a “disused lot” allows the force of perfectibility to act on the emptiness of the lot. This is a trope we see in Wordsworth; the overlooked flower. A forgotten spot nourishes “perfectibility”; because we are wandering and not focussed on practical tasks at the moment, we discover the poppies and in the poppies experience a kind of perfection. Wordless, it would seem; but as we understand the use of perfection terms, the difference between word and image becomes equivocal at points. This is to be discussed! Anyway:  The poppies act on the analogy of a perfection term. Haiku is particularly given to such experiences since it springs from a meditative state of mind, but that’s, again, another story.

 

 

 

Wandering back into the Garden

In his Introduction to SWEENEY ASTRAY Seamus Heaney says that his “fundamental” connection to the Medieval poem is “topographical.” The poem is about the rage for autonomy — of the artist perhaps but more generally of the human self — but his own deepest connection he says is “topographical.”

Then it hit me: my first imaginings took shape in the deserts and mountains of California. Then I wandered in the midwest and eastern parts of the country for forty years. Now I’m back on the West coast.

During the wandering I connected in a visceral way with the Ch’an poets of ancient China and the classic haiku poets of Japan, who themselves were shaped by the Chinese poets. In terms made familiar by David Hinton, the two traditions, flowing into one great river of poetry, were the rivers-and-mountain tradition and the garden tradition. I have returned to the garden tradition in Portland OR. The Cascades influence our daily breath by contributing breezes that mix with the air from the Pacific ocean. The climate encourages gardeners.

Topography, yes.

A great poem is like a tuning fork for the creative spirit: Celan on the Between

My interest in the between (metaxy) picked up energy recently as I studied a poem by Paul Celan.

Celan’s poem on “the between” titled, in Pierre Joris’s translation, “Line the Wordcaves,” goes like this:

Line the wordcaves

with panther skins,

 

widen them, hide-to and hide-fro,

sense-hither and sense-thither,

 

give them courtyards, chambers, drop doors

and wildnesses, parietal,

 

and listen for their second

and each time second and second

tone.

This poem probes an aspect of the between not often noticed: as an image of “conversation” the between involves “the parietal” — walls, spatial division. And the between as a cultural phenomenon, is maintained, constructed, as well as discovered as a given.

The elegant couplets move deeper and deeper into the build of the between. The hollows become like a labyrinth or honeycomb or a system of Ice-Age caves.

At the turn of the poem, between the penultimate and the last couplet, it is clear that  the idea of construction must be revised in light of the process of discovery. The poem, elaborated with cunning, becomes a living thing; each tone gives way to a second.

That is, Clean was cunning enough not to render the poem subject to the fantasy of an eternal series: the between retains its dialogical sense. The “wordcaves” are themselves sources of sense.

The poem thus describes the process of “performing” a poem, of “playing” it like a piece of music. And as the artist he is, by extending the formal pattern at the very end to a “final” “tone” — on a line all by itself — Celan executes what I call “metaxyturn” and reveals, in a word, the pattern in the poem as an image of the “foundation” of the pattern, a resonant whole or unity “behind” all the parietal complexity.

A great poem is like a tuning fork of/for the creative spirit.

The Wee Butterfly and the Big Picture

butterfly

As I walk along I’m always looking for things to photograph — things that may not be very important at first glance but which figure in the big picture.

We become aware of the strangeness of things when we stop to think about them. I am powerfully influenced by mystics like Julian of Norwich (Denys Turner’s book Julian of Norwich, Theologian is one of my favorite books), because they grant me reasons for paying attention to small indifferent things.

How can a little thing like a butterfly move me to wonder? Is there an aesthetic “law” that holds for inverse proportionality? No.Maybe. Who knows? But in such wee creatures we may experience an excess of beauty, and this excess, unexplainable in rational terms, prompting absurd wonder, depends “logically” on an infinite reserve of love we call  for want of better names God-the-Creator.

It begins in wonder: that excess that makes us feel foolish watching a butterfly with rapt attention. But thinking about such excess we discover the idea of a reserve, a dark enigma, or fertile void — that idea central to the Zen poets of ancient China but also to mystics like Julian and (in due course) the Japanese poet Basho who studied the Taoist/Zen poets.

THAT Big Picture.

NB: For this way of putting it — excess/reserve– I am indebted to William Desmond, whose systematic philosophy of the metaxy is quite in sync with Julian’s insights into the life of the Trinity.

How imponderable

the lightness of the butterfly

as it rides the wind

Are You Experienced? On a poem by Peter McDonald

One of the smaller poems in Peter McDonald’s new book of poems from Carcanet, Hermes the Hunter, goes like this:

Partridge

A little squeal, and then the sound

of a spring being tightly wound

in on itself, is all there is

at first, a sudden note and whizz-

whir coming from the bunched-up grass,

but maybe as the minutes pass

and you lie still, you start to see

a round bird moving clumsily,

all body, getting ready now

to risk the air, and chance a low

flight that will take it further out

from the covey: as if in doubt,

and happier with the ground below,

it hesitates; it doesn’t go.

In its very small way, this is magnificent. McDonald, in criticism and creative work alike, is among the connoisseurs of poetic form. The management of the tetrameter meter, sacrificing nothing of “natural” speech or idiom, effectively conveys not simply what he wants us to see but the experience of coming to see something called Partridge. So the poem is a kind of naming; at the same time, the poem choreographs the ontological event of “naming.” It has been argued by philosophers and theologians, that “naming” takes part in a sharing of human understanding (structured in part by names) and the otherness of creative being itself.

As for the structured experience afforded by the poem, it follows what I call “inner form”: from the first “impression” in sense (“a little squeal”) all the way to the total image of the partridge sitting there “happier with the ground below.” The unfolding of this creaturely object goes in careful stages, each one qualifying the original “note.” The poem is “about” coming-to-know this creature as such: it is about listening, lying still, and as such it evokes an “inner” understanding of the creature. Hypothetical perhaps, “to risk the air, and chance a low / flight that will take it further out . . .”

The poem is also then about a mediative state of mind wooing what I call “metaxyturn”: the moment when the threshold of the objective is crossed over into the shared community of creatures characterized not by the eros of the hunter (hence its place in this book) but the agapeics of the loving understanding.

Rather than label this aspect of understanding as a “fallacy” or outmoded mode of misidentification, we can better appreciate the form of experience we call analogy: there’s a subtle analogy between the observer’s self-understanding and the “thing” out there. Many are the undergraduate lecturers who have snidely refused to condescend to such a phase of identity as Romantic.

As the inner form comes to fulfillment in the final image, we “know” the Partridge in its otherness only because, after quieting our own impulses, we come to know the beast as a creature like us in the only way we know how, by submitting ourselves-and-it to the flow of inner form as it takes shape in an experience.