Andrea del Sarto

 

'Ah but a man's reach should exceed his grasp

Or what's a heaven for?'

This famous quote led me to Browning's poem Andrea del Sarto.  There's something about Browning generally that I'm not quite keen on, I don't much enjoy reading his work, nevertheless I find this a really interesting and satisfying poem.  I think any artist could relate.  Or indeed any one of us struggling to reconcile and articulate survival, compromise, reach, internal struggles, regrets, hopes, successes, failures.  Reality (what is that?) and heaven (perhaps that is reality).    

'I'm the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt

out of the grange whose four walls make his world.'

Poem of the Day

Psyche

The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
The soul's fair emblem, and its only name -
But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade
Of mortal life! - For in this earthly frame
Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,
Manifold motions making little speed,
And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.

S.T. Coleridge

Coleridge is my favourite poet not because of his supposedly opium-fuelled Kubla Khans and Ancient Mariners (though I do love those too) but because he writes about life, and if I'm feeling grim and lonely I find a friend in him.  Nature, struggle, despondency, the Elements, transcendence, the Stars, cottages, fireside, the comfort of a dying flame and the vulnerable, doomed warmth of loved ones. I identify with his struggle, physical, psychological, spiritual, through howling winds and wintry blasts.  I can easily imagine going back to the early 1800s and spending a pleasant afternoon by a fireside chatting with Coleridge about ever-present Death and the difficulties and possibilities of transcending the trials of a doomed mortal life.

Batshit Crazy

'Oh she's bat shit crazee
She's batshit mad
The batshit it has taken away
The little bit of ummm....something something...
Whatever.'

To be sung to the tune of Football Crazy, by Robin Hall and Jimmie MacGregor. Preferably in a cellar with the door shut.

Poetry, and Psychogenic Osmosis

It was National Poetry Day yesterday.  I love poetry. But there's nothing worse than looking at your Twitter timeline and seeing folk banging on about it.  I dislike the feeling of being churlish and sour of spirit (where's the harm in tweeting poetry?), while at the same time I think it's quite a sane reaction; Twitter is no place to be, if you want to 'create' anything other than kitten pictures, puns and one-liners. The inner disquiet produced by all this, is enough to put me off writing, completely.  Well, for about five minutes.  Almost!
It's not really that though.  For me, the whole literary thing feels a bit distasteful and uncomfortable.  There are a couple of exceptions though.  There's a John Betjeman account I like, and a Richard Jefferies.
My favourite poet is probably Coleridge.  I'm fondest of him anyway.  It's probably the opium.  I've most likely absorbed quantities of it via his poems, through some form of psychogenic osmosis.
Frost at Midnight is probably my favourite Coleridge poem.  'The Frost performs its secret ministry,  Unhelped by any wind*.' 
I'm unlikely to have discovered it had I not bought a small second hand edition of a selection of his poems after browsing in a second hand bookshop about twenty years ago.  The bookshop closed ten years ago, at least, and now there is nowhere to browse, unless I go to a city.
Don't start me off complaining again, but you can't browse books on the internet.  You just can't.


There once was a girl with a plan
To cook with an old frying pan
She fried up some bread
And stood on her head
In a market in Uzbekhistan.

S.T. Coleridge (after)

*titters at the word wind

Quote of the day: from TS Eliot's The Journey of the Magi

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey,  and such a long journey:
The ways deep, and the weather sharp,

The very dead of winter.'

Howl - on the road in a bath chair, sticking it to the death drive

More thoughts on the film 'Howl', which I saw yesterday.

Like most people I read the beat poets, William Burroughs and so forth when I was young. Along with Sartre and other stuff I didn't understand.

I think what mattered to me then was authenticity - it matters now too, only as I age I understand a lot more about the compromises that everyone makes.

Ginsberg talks about "the fear trap". Of being afraid of being alone and old and vulnerable.

That's realistic. And as you get older, it stares you in the face.

I sometimes say I want to live in a cave but I don't mean it. A metaphorical cave, at best - and even then I don't mean it.

I'd rather be warm, fed, and comfortable.

When you're young you can take lots of chances - any chances I took, I don't regret, even if things went pear-shaped and worse. It's good to live - and to really live. But as you get older - well. Even more so if you have children.

It might not be on to get out there on the road once you're knocking on a bit, but you can still aim for a type of authenticity. In fact, peace and quiet are conducive to lengthy spells of reflection. Perhaps being on the road is another form of self-avoidance. It's a way of sticking two fingers up at the death drive I suppose.

Don't get me wrong - I think it's a good thing if that's what you're drawn to do. Or even if it's what you drift into without thinking about it. It's a collection of experiences. I loved it when I was young, and I'm sure I would again, only I'm not in a position to do that...hmmm....

Someone gave me a good quote some years ago when I was contemplating travel. It was from the dhammapada - I must try to find it. Something along the lines of - there is no need to travel, as everything is contained in this fathoms long body of ours. But expressed much more succinctly and beautifully, of course.

Anyway - the beat poets and Ginsberg. I have a lot of time for them because they were attempting to express what it is to be alive, in the moment, without being constrained by ideas of form and convention. I don't especially enjoy reading them, but I'm very glad they got published and that their stuff is "out there" and available.

I found the film interesting mainly, personally, because of Ginsberg's ideas about writing and self expression. Easy to sneer - I don't want to.

It seemed almost like two separate films - one, about Ginsberg's ideas, which are in themselves worth a film of their own, and the second, about the obscenity trial and issues of freedom of speech. Both are inter-linked, obviously - but the film couldn't quite do justice to both.

Liked it though - thought-provoking, and far better than much of the dreck that's about.