gem-stumbling in german thought

Sporadically, I study the angst-smothered yet-somehow-delightful writings of Friedrich Nietzsche. Well, "study" might be a stretch--I quit studying a long time ago--probably a phenomenon concurrent with quitting my cigarettes--the latter being a function of the former along with heavy drinking and pre-medicated anxiety. So let's just say that every now and then I pick up an unfinished book of Nietzsche's and pseudo-studiously read a few pages with the intent of one day finishing the dang thang.

Today I laid some more inroads in the seemingly interminable and largely inscrutable The Will to Power. Of the several Nietzsche offerings I have read, this particular one would come least recommended by me however so integral to N's over-all "philosophy" the musings might be. And they are integral, best as I can tell.

At any rate, as so often I have in the past, I stumbled upon a gem of concurrence between the grumpy sage and I.

For a long time now (and longer and longer now and now), I have sought subjects for my poetry that disturb the common notion of beauty. I have modified my proclivity towards the Wordsworthian Sublime to include an adoration of the stultified mundane and the staggering mutant. (A modification Wordsworth himself made as he grew older, less assured of his faith in memory and nature. But enough scholarship already . . . I have no cigarettes, no booze, and my medication alone is a poor defense.)

So as to my affinity with N. regarding the above:

"To represent terrible and questionable things is, in itself, the sign of an instinct of power and magnificence in the artist; he doesn't fear them . . . There is no such thing as a pessimistic art . . . Art affirms [. . .] The things they [such artists] show us are ugly; their reason, however, for showing them to us is their love of ugliness [. . . ] What a relief Dostoievsky is!"

Bear in mind, I claim no magnificence as an artist nor fully subscribe to N's perception of the "instinct of power." However, if not the spirit of the argument then the stuff of the argument stands. Life is mostly gross. Mostly stubbed toes and F-bombs. Mostly venom and bile. Mostly cow-cud and llama spit. For every daffodil, a million weeds. For every wandering cloud, an ominous, hail-gorged dark one.

I will end this post with one more quote from N because 1] it is apropos and 2] it makes me giggle.

"It is absolutely unworthy of a philosopher to say that 'the good and the beautiful are one'; if he should add 'and also the true,' he deserves to be thrashed. Truth is ugly. Art is with us that we may not perish through truth."

And finally with a bonus quote from my poem, "Ten More on Sandstone Tablets":

I shall stop and smell the sewage, too,

Otherwise the rose is just a rose that’s just a rose.

back to a beauty

Water Wheel

The water wheel runs counter of time,

A Ferris of spillage

Reversing the mud-packed trudge

Of dialectic history.

Here the march is toward finitude.

Back to a beauty

Born of sediment and bone—grist

Of dinosaur, of godless

Wonders. Hearken the gurgle, the buckets’

Indefatigable churn.

The water wheel runs counter of time.

in the woods

Ether,

Maybe you've noticed something by now. How could you not? It concerns the ilk of poet to which I, humble blogger in your immateriosphere, belong. If, that is, I belong at all. But membership is another issue, not for today. For today, I confess the readily apparent. I am of a lowly sort of poet. Much out of favor in modernity, to say nothing (except this) of post-modernity. But there are those who remain on the outskirts--simple, rustic folk we are. We luxuriate in decay; we wallow in wet-clay. A deer in the distance through sycamore and pine: we stop and watch. And watch. And only turn away when the deer does, never for boredom or haste. A sky turns lavender in remnant light: we return to lavender associations--other sunsets, other instances of loss and deep, deep longing, other bracings for night. We are the nature poets. Untimely? Yes. Unsophisticated? Often. Unnecessary? Perhaps. But we survive. On the outskirts. In the woods. Unshowered, unshaved, unkempt. Eyes wide in wonder, peeled for fear of missing something lovely or so densely ugly only loveliness remains.

In my years of writing poetry, I have regularly tried my bulksome hand at more delicate poetry. More refined poetry. Or poetry with more chutzpah. More damn-it-all verve. And at times, I still try. I see what's being published in fancy journals and I try to emulate. To see if I can. Can I be the sort of poet who dresses in his Sunday best? Can I be the sort whose mortarboard cap and tassel seem permanently donned? My pride says yes, of course. Surely I am qualified. But in the end I fail. And for a while I am sad. Woebegone and pitiful.

Then I spot the deer's white tail--distant but indeed. And I watch and watch. Until it turns to leave. Or until the sky turns lavender and I am transported to a place where I belong. Which, fortunately, is right where I am. I am a nature poet.

I say all of that as introduction to this little number I wrote yesterday. It's still rough around the edges, but you've also probably noticed by now that that is how my poems usually remain.

Making Way

March again, again greeted warmly.

Birdfeeder rocks on its wire, nodding,

Empty. Birdsong: Halloo, it’s March again.

Knock, knock—the flame-crested pecker.

March, come in. Please do.

It brings wine and early flowers—house-

Warming. Brown-yellow grasses,

Days numbered, sulk in pear-tree shadows.

Smokewhitebloom stench. Pear trees.

Lovely and sour. March. Not quite

Spring. A petal on the lip. Tongue-tipped.

Today’s lesson is flesh.

How to greet it warmly, when

To eat it madly. Birdsong: March,

How do? How do you do? Food

For the rocking feeder. Finches

Await. The squirrel awaits. Summer

Awaits. Spring, come in. Please do.

February fronts, hot on cold,

Storm swept

Acorn and sweet-gum ball,

Lingering, last leaves.

Way-made for purple clover tufts.

Way-made for ample rain. Tomorrow’s lesson

Is flesh, continued. A lip on the petal.

Finger-tipped tongue. How and when?

March, how do? Please do

Come in. Birdsong again, house-warming.

snapshots of Snapshots

Here are some snapshots from Snapshots of a Voyage, as promised. It is a blank verse retelling of Charles Darwin's journey on board the Beagle with Captain Robert FitzRoy and of his exploits on various continents and islands around the world. I have tried to be faithful to the idiosyncrasies of Darwin's manner and phraseology as gathered through his letters and diary. It is easy, I think, to amalgamate Darwin the living breathing human, with Darwinism, the theory of evolution which sprung from his scientific aptitude.

Of those whom our retrospect makes giants, research generally proves to be of average height. This is especially true at this stage of Darwin's life. At the age of 22, a young man embarks on a remarkable journey of discovery--of self as well as of the natural world.

(These excerpts may seem like a lot but the work itself is 24 pages long. So I've been extremely selective. The pictures are for purposes of the blog, they are not a part of the poem itself. Which is to say, I'm not a multi-media artist. Not cool enough for that.)

***

Can one

Take back harsh words or do they pollute

Until the end of time? At any rate,

This place is gorgeous, Father. Let that be

The final word on Salvador. The grass

Is elegant. Has that been said of grass

Before? Even the greedy weeds possess

A beauty to match the flowers.

Collage

Of sound and silence, chaos of delight.

***

A veritable sailor is your Charles,

Dear sisters—taking sport in furling sheets

Against the Samarang. A regular

Man o’ war befuddled by our Beagle.

There I was, picture this, both hands engaged

With the main-royal, studding-tack betwixt

My teeth. A major breakthrough with the men.

Imagine me, the seasick note-scribbler,

Ensconced in quarter-deck tomfoolery,

Allowed in sacred precincts, bawdy tales

Fantastic with the lies of otherwise

Shy seamen.

***

Beagle boasts

A fiddler. Funny fellow, this one is—

Up to one thing or another all day.

Mostly tinkering. Occasionally

He helps me with my obsession—the birds.

Me and my man, Syms Covington, have caught

Some eighty species. Slit ‘em and gut ‘em

And jot yoor’n letters, he sings while we seive

The entrails through our fingers. What a joy

That Covington is.

What a bloody mess!

***

What Eden is this

Where reptiles rule? Is all temptation moot?

All knowledge native? Where, Creator, hide

Your likenesses? Erasmus, get a load

Of this, because I’ve said nothing yet

Respecting their monstrosity:

Eight grown men to shuffle these tortoises

A mere ten feet. Humdingers fourteen stone

At least. And damned disgusting iguanas—

These clumsy imps of darkness.


***

I hear the grunts behind a hut—three, four,

Perhaps five heathens forswearing the laws

Of their Creator. Dipsomania

Abounds, all manner of vice oozes, seeps

Through street-ruts, pools and festers.

A woman wails. A missionary daubs

A single tear with a grime-stained sleeve.

I am on the verge myself. A child wails.

A mongrel dog lies dead in our path,

Flies swarm the mange and feast. I cry.

Now FitzRoy takes my hand. Deluge—my tears

Like God’s bursted firmament. Heaven help

These creatures. Oh, Fitz, they need Christ.

***

By elephant,

I clomp through the Mauritian wilds.

The scenery bewitches. Oh, a sweet

Virginia would be nice. A lovely girl

For romance and idle nights beneath stars.

***

Cape Town—another little embryo

Of England hatching. Nations send their men

To lose their tongues and spend their hearts out.

***

Yes, there is much of matter—bugs and beasts,

Stone and tree, lava and river—to see;

But there’s a sense in solitude, amidst

The temples nature built, that matters most . . .

More stirs in the chest of man than mere breath.