Earth: Nursery for the Cursory

What is inspired by such a depiction? Do you feel anger, fear, disgust, happiness, joy, remorse, are you a simple log of emotionless void, or do you see beauty? Depending on who you are, where you are and come from, and what is affecting you right now, you might answer a bit differently, though I am sure there is some consensus on the general feeling, for those equipped: hate. If you feel negatively about this, then chances are you are in a rage, despite how small or non-existent it may seem. How dare such destruction happen. How dare this be allowed to happen. But you don't feel this way do you? You see wood, whether it be a pencil, a sheet of paper, or the beams holstering your home from the ground. A resource well exploited, a marvel to one's eyes left to ruin and splinters. So. Where to go now?

Reflecting on normal action, you get an idea. One so wrapped in encapsulation, you're hooked. You go out and speak you mind for those who will pass their mind a moment to you. You criticize the horrid powers that be for their contempt, for how complacent they are seated in power, choosing what is right for those who see those decisions not unless doctored and displayed in highlights for appeal. Exposing the cosmetics of propaganda and media is old news though. So, that momentum so painstakingly achieved decays as the stubs of a once young and murdered forest does some distance away. You stare defeated at the measly effort to rebuild what was lost, a small patch of saplings struggling to survive, over which you weep in utter sorrow. There is no sadness greater than yours, as you carry now two of that burden, one for the lost, and one for the let down, all of you. to sleep after such horror was a mere wish gone unfulfilled as the sheet crawled over you, wrapping you in endless sin and nightmares.

Of course none of this actually happened, what nonsense would that be. All shuffled away was that ghastly visage your inner mind so elaborate cooked up as some silly conscience beckoned for your consent, to which you scoffed at as you continued on your way to the nearby building, leaving the scrappy weather-sick poster all sad and alone on the pole with a flickering light in the parking lot of your summer time employment. As you take the next person's order, the experience was all but gone. However, as you passed under the shady light and glanced at the annoying picture plaster on its cousin, something caught your eye. No longer was there stubby trees and downtrodden mud on cloudy horizon. What you saw what an ember, one large and forcefully in a sky of smoky night, searing your eyes and soul with deadly pain as the scraps of the failed paper fluttered in cinders to the wind, forgotten by all. And as the last little trickle of light faded into obscurity, the pole simultaneously lost its life, leaving you in the abyss, cold and alone.

Post Script:

"I would rather give my life for a seed, then sow hate in my heart. For then, there is no return, only black."

(Hope is greater in magnitude than wrath, for with it we end joyously seeing beauty in the worst of places).

It's A Beautiful Thing...

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old, and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

An endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast

That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I

Will trace the story of Endymion.

The very music of the name has gone

Into my being, and each pleasant scene

Is growing fresh before me as the green

Of our own valleys: so I will begin

Now while I cannot hear the city's din;

Now while the early budders are just new,

And run in mazes of the youngest hue

About old forests; while the willow trails

Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails

Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year

Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer

My little boat, for many quiet hours,

With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.

Many and many a verse I hope to write,

Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,

Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees

Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,

I must be near the middle of my story.

O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,

See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,

With universal tinge of sober gold,

Be all about me when I make an end!

And now at once, adventuresome, I send

My herald thought into a wilderness:

There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress

My uncertain path with green, that I may speed

Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.

I once talked of beauty, and by transit also impermanence, but perhaps not the interrelation of the two, as one would definitely infer from something such as Death. Such beauty can also be found in the world around us, lost in our pursuit of speed to prevent that deep feeling of something missed, when we pass to ash from this plane. To realize inner beauty to delve into the true nature of something, beyond what can be comprehended of observed from mere sight. Lost in a fantasy are some who would prefer that world to the one they live in, but who can blame those who see what may not be there, but is certainly real enough for mere fancy. Such stances are like the seasons, deep and lasting in each their own domain, shifting ever in response to the stirring of time, the harp maiden of emotion bottled in spatial vacuum. We must experience the dainty pleasure of such, lest it be for nothing, but a wilting corner of despair for time immemorial.

However, these essential aspects are not only fleeting as their bodies show, but great spirits of power that are very much eternal, as the mind of the sapient would think so dearly of itself. But no spatial thought will compare to the sweetness of a cherry, or the brush of a gale flowing effortlessly through the lush. Sooner would one got to madness as before, then get the same necessary energy from the natural spectacle that surrounds the universe, especially those of life. It makes one wonder why there are those who would wish it harm, like that of an insect impeding progress on perfection, misguided at that. Although, when you mind wanders, it tends to traverse much farther than the initial glance, seeing as the map scale is quite the downgrade to many paces. Hopefully the mirror of life can convince a sort of sense to those who trifle in the means which are of little concern and all convenience, so that the flower might live to brighten another face, before it too is wizened alongside the overgrown patch, lying in wait for the inevitable loss of more than just "beauty."

I imagine that Endymion would be quite troubled by the bones underlying the fragrant spring of life from which they travel. They would seem like a premature autumn, a early reminder that the frost is coming, and thus vengeance is reaped as the land curls up inside itself to weather its oppression. Such a journey would suppress any notion that a gallop through the meadows held beauty, yet that beauty would remain despite the stricken dumbness. Such a thing as true beauty can never be removed or altered, only changed. In realizing that, perhaps Endymion would see a network, a sort of fungal spinning that always returned and never relinquished, only blossomed, not with petals, but with joy. For a world without Joy is very ugly, and a world that is without Beauty, has little joy. But perhaps saddest of all worlds, is one without Death, because then there would be no fear, and without that, little could exist outside of crystal. Hard, glistening, captivating, and thoroughly hollow. 

Fear? Illusion? Mirrors...

I spoke before of fear, perhaps the most regal of all emotions humans cling to, if rather reluctantly. There is perhaps no more universal, considered negative, emotion quite as unique or as powerful, especially in vexation, whether it be preventative or entrapping. You can be as angry or as happy as possible, but when faced with certain peril of which you avert, a certain stirring vortex is unleashed in your core that convulses at the thought of such experience, no matter what it may be, even a "pleasant" one like fluff, kittens, or rainbows. What makes this occur can be anyone's guess in some cases, but usually it is found to be a conditioning in which the person, when exposed to the stimulus, develops an aversion that overrides any faculty that one may use freely, until now. This is in itself rather frightening, as it simulates an ultimate fear of many, the loss of control. As it has been displayed in several movies and shows, when things break down, often times we who are normally so brazen and stern in way-making, are rendering useless in the wake of one's loss of action causing effect. Such is a feeling I get upon reading something as dreary as the Pit in the Pendulum, where Poe reiterates what its means to experience this fear, and inevitable demise looming over rather physically and with much reality, like that of the slicing pendulum of doom.

When in such situations, fear can be a cage for one's self, a barrier that traps you in its powerful trance of taunting emotion beyond all other possibilities, often without room to return sensibly. This can even render the one of experience unaware of the predicament or the emotion, as their focus can only see terror any which way, instead of some clawing mental phase or sweeping execution arm. Such occurs in the story, as the pendulum steadily becomes the bringing of utter destruction, which is in turn a way to relate the inevitable hellish pit to which the pendulum takes his very being, a place they indeed very heavily not to go despite the inevitability. What is curious is the effect the pendulum has to the victim into the pit, as while it is indeed an abyss, it frees the victim boundlessly as they observe imagined scenes of events quite in reverse, such as a French victory and the Inquisition being arrested by enemies. This is likely a result of the ultimate fear overriding one's sense, in a such a way as to be corrupt and even mirror-like. One must truly pity one who must experience the path to get there, and mourn those who enter the pit, from which no thrall of dread will return unscathed if ever at all. In this case likely not, as Death is entirely implied, but not certain, at all in fact.

Some of the more fortunate never reach this stage, they are more akin to a little scare upon the pendulum table, only to to be released with a dominate fear of the sharp and bondage. Preventative fear is quite simple in this regard, as I said prior with conditioning, as it is the person's aversion to exposure. Normally this means that one afraid of the dark would nigh never venture near anything remotely dim, for that present feeling encroaches at the mere hint of stimulation. I would suggest not trying to break the "curse" by shoving them in a room of fears, then returning later to find the howling gone and door still partially in tact, thus giving reason to open the portal. What steps out or retreats to the corner in a demonic jest is likely not the same one who entered before, thus I recommend now that you quickly remove yourself and flee at top speeds for your mistake. Perhaps next time we can gradually dim the lights over a time span and see if that works to their benefit, hopefully not raising them as hellish creature of bloody disdain and crazed fears now very real.

Magnificence or Macabre? (Maleficence!)

One may read something akin to the Red Death as a woe's tale of utter death in the face of uncertainty and unyielding disease, which is true. Is there not some fantastical fascination with the concept of death, that it is, in fact, intriguing to no end? That there is not but utter lust for what lies beyond the voids of endless sleep, a curious venture for the ponderous? With such a way it is perspective that drives any answer, no two quite the same, much as is many deaths, whether hack, slash, crush, or plain puree (by any means that is). Mr. Poe drives quite the perspective in his own way, weaving a massacre into a web of utter beauty, each gory piece another marvelous facet in the depths of horror. If only such could be the way of all similar scenes, and if only that truth were the one from which all were based. Perhaps then such fates would seems less dreary, so dismal, so eternally agonizing as to provoke the madness of curiosity, the killer.

Inevitably, this image is compared to with Darkness and evil, its seeming synonym of all ages to and fro. As such we give it a face to hate, a masque to be abhorred with every fiber of sensible being for what it is deigned, not is in actuality. The real figure beneath the masque could be as real as the veneer, a whisper of a cruel humor lost in time, or perhaps as in contrast to the masque as to burn with its holding in each agonizing moment, all caused by the victim in a craze of misguidance. Perhaps we would do better to pity those we admonish for their actions, who knows what grinding nature that subjugation might inject into the fractured psyche, longing for release in its twisted prison of flesh and horror. Such is unlikely, but surely not impossible in the slightest. All possibilities are at odds to be heard, and all must to see that perhaps we the angels are the monsters of the deepest hellish abyss.

 It is curious to ponder the beauty of some figment such as Death, or especially one of its agents like that of the Red Death. Even if all positive or even neutral possibilities come to be null and void, the visual wonder is still present in the smock of the reaping hand, a marvel not beautiful because of its looks like that of some model to most others, but to an awe struck audience in observance of such power, we tremble with decadent fear and proceed where the wind becks. Such novelty is not to be underrated, since if one was to not experience this particular rapture of their will, then one would find only doldrums and a misery not of loss, but a lack of. Much like if one had an everlasting familial tree, its would be tedious and bothersome to be all inclusive or exclusive, there would simply be too many eyes to pry, simply because they cannot die. So to have what seemingly little there is, is a great blessing few realize when too much is had, a sort of drunken stupor, and all painfully see when all is indeed gone.

I suppose my moral comes in the form of a legend, one that seems so fragile, but yet unstoppable. There is an agent, who bears Death as its Masque, a masque so tainted in blood as to be of the blood itself in turn. This agent brought the wrath of Decay upon the Land, and Darkness followed in the absence of Life, like its own disease. So, the great of the healthy and afflicted bore their own will against the great butcher of lights, only to have a costly victory, well unworthy of its weight. While the Blood has dried and gone away, so had any purity remaining in the Land, as each Hand dipped to receive the spoils, their just desserts were as infectious as the Disease's superior, a hazard brought by the Justified. So the Land remained in Death, ever Decaying and Darkening with each passing light. However, a great lesson was said, as Death lives, we remain, but as it goes away, never one to be destroyed, we truly disappear, the ultimate fear. As without such a grim thrall for the deceased, they had no place to go, mere Shadow engulfed them on their derelict wayward wanderings.

Keats within on top of Keats (Fanny)

Fanny Brawne

 

 

 

Aside of poems, I thought it just to critique a more general sense of Keats and his poetics, with particular attention on Fanny, his forever in waiting bride.

 

 I personally found Keats to be a bit deep in one sense and shallow in another. His personality was rather a mix of both sets, as he often retained stubborn character towards others, despite what they did or said for the most part, but also took their critiques to heart very seriously. I would like to consider that this meant he built upon his prior models and improved, which seemed at least partly true. He did begin with Shakespeare, toss it through the Romantics, and then gave his own spin to things, as often poets do. While this did make him unique, some things he incorporating were rather frustrating to examine in each instance, particularly with regards the natural Romantics and the romantical love.

 

His romantic roots were dandy for giving one a great image in the face of natural facets, while also being a soft ground to sow the seeds of love, which stayed figurative. However, as the later part of Keats' work evolved, this part remained raltively similar, almost to a point where it became a sort of mini-archetype for Keats to use, albeit with slight adjustment to reflected the more unique feel of each work. So, if I had to pick some more than love to critique, my view would fall here for its repeated appearance, but only tarish is its seeming lack of evolution, but not in a destitute sense.

 

The love aspect was not exactly omnipresent for Keats, but where it did mostly show up, it came out a slightly different but similar beast. I was tempted to reverse the role given to the romantic here, but thinking further, it was the love image that fit the nuances of the romantic as versus the reverse. Whether it was a contour lying nearby or a shape in the sky, Keats found a way to make the person portrayed different, while still feeling like Franny was in each one. Sadly, I am quite shorthanded on explained or critiqueing this poetic, but it was definitely worth mention versus mere adversion of it.

 

As a character, Keats became as frustrating as he was interesting. From his deep profound way of words, there was an air above them that simply made solely reading them a bit tiredsome from piece to piece, for reasons already said. While that did not stop me from trying, I do feel it dampened the power of my response after going through such a plethora of work as Keats'. Though, once reovered later and the tear has worn off, I definitely will return with gusto again, for wear is half the fun in such an adventure. Although, for poetry the wear can be quite more... daunting. So, would I reccommend Keats? Of course I would, as his poetics are stellar, but I would encourage it with a a bit of biographic context, which is in itself porblematically metaphorical early on, for it opens new meaning into Keats thought, as well as what he mean and why he says what he does. After all, beauty is truth, truth beauty, and all is known for that is all you need to know (Keats' golden line - Urn).

A Fabled Urn... The Grecian Charade

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
Of deities or mortals, or of both,
In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?
What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal yet, do not grieve;
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss,
For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
For ever panting, and for ever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
When old age shall this generation waste,
Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know."

 

 

 

Supposedly this pillar of text holds Keats' model of poetry, how it should be and what it is, but I see a much fairer story therein. Each depiction on the urn takes a romantic stab at people and nature, how they are so at seeming odds, yet necessary to balance in a sort of dance of surival. In response the senses are assailed, each with its own sharp attunement.

 

The sounds assials hearing, from each mannerism of instrument the festival begins, yet the ritual is lost on you as you dance along, heedless of the end rhytmn that spells out fate. The sound is so serene and near divine as to touch your very soul, to stir it from its keeping with the heart of hearts hidden from even nature. This stirs out the primordial, love, as expressed by the loveliness of your neighboring love, who lies outside your grasp, tantalizing in the tempo of song. The crescendo rises with emotion, joy and happiness, boundless in its entry. Love is to be entertained even further, but not further may you sway forth, as you are exhausted and left wanting. Wordless, the scene parts, as the once familar surroundings become the focus over the rambling din.

 

All have come to the celebration, all assemble for the passage of nature, much like passion and in mass. Ever more, she persists, away from you and further still, just like all others from mountain and town. But what is this maiden of branch and thorn, what beauty does she hold, what truth is posssessed? The clue lies in the question, as true beauty cannot be reasoned, it simply is and will be. This is simple to know and all you need, but to recieve such understanding would sooner lead to one's own destruction than full comtemplative meaning.

 

In finally, the poem is indeed an opus of what a poem should be, truly beautiful. Achieveing this is quite natural when taken as such, natural. Though, the story the urn tells is not a fairy tale of epic proportions to which we all are familiar, it holds power in its assailment of what love can mean. More than a simple trinket it is taken in spirit over physicality, where it not only to be understood but take on unconditional meaning. Minus that, you have a simple empty pot that seems nice, but like all ceramics, crumbles soon after maker, leaving ruin where was once such life.

 

There are many ways one can view this poem, i chose this way to express there can be a story to something "generic," and it can hold subjective over objective perception. Thusly, the poem will likely discern in meaning differently to different people as all things do, but I still hope that even though these things may be analyzed, they are not quite definite not matter how literal they are, or even metaphorical. Although being non-literal can be an aid in this area duely.

Twinkle, Bright Star, Sparkle...

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.      

 

 

This poem is quite like the one I analyzed before On Autumn, it holds a cosmic spin to its descriptive beginning, and a reference to an avatar of love, a bit different in each. Here the avatar is quite physically described as versus the more metaphorical representation in the sky as priorly discussed. This lends it a certain air that is quite visible, even those without some kind of lover like that Keats knew can visualize the sweet figure nearby as they rest. While I'm not a romantic, and do in fact prefer the other lover image, I can relate my adoration for this poem in its integral star, versus stars, image. This star is a bit ambiguous as far as what it exactly represents in itself, but I like to think of it as Keats' non-loneliness, his coupling, which was inevitably at a standstill where it would bring him further into self succlusion, at least physically. With this beign so, that symbol remains distant until the image shifts to the moment being right beside him, a lover's form at rest. Here, he can live that impossible event, his marriage, in media res, if only for a brief while. However, even though the possibility is quite distant, the description that the love is the only thing keeping him alive is both accurate and quite paradoxical in that the love is not really furfilled. This draws another parallel to the prior poem in its open and deadly end, a type of end I particularly am quite fond and enjoy, even using it myself. It adds a certain alluring element of the inevitable, yet unpredictable future, and thusly creates an atmosphere of intrigue so that one wants to know what the next moment holds, to be sure that is not simply the end. This is perhaps the greatest  challenge of Keats in his fianl year as he had to face death head on, without comfort of love beyond mere writing. But sometimes writing can unleash the soul, however it often boxes it into candied emotions, quick to be resorbed by the masses. I'm not sure what security Keats had in mind for when his body was not longer able, but I think that whatever it might have been, Franny would certainly been there.