Antiquitopia

One of the benefits of reading a lot of German scholarship the past six months--a lot more than I typically do anyway--is that my reading comprehension is much higher and, therefore, it spills over into other, more enjoyable fields, such as poetry.  So, putting my German to good, and more relaxing, use, I have been reading some Rilke.  And I repeatedly return to this poem from The Book of Hours , which, so far, is one of my favorites: Ich bin, du Ängstlicher.  Hörst due mich nicht mit allen meinen Sinnen an dir branden? Meine Gefühle, welche Flügel fanden, Siehst du nicht meine Seele, wie sie dicht vor dir in einem Kleid aus Stille steht? Reift nicht meine mailiches Gebet an deinem Blicke wie an einem Baum? Wenn du der Träumer bist, bin ich dein Traum. Doch wenn du wachen willst, bin ich dein Wille und werde mächtig aller Herrlichkeit und ründe mich wie eine Sternenstille über der wunderlichen Stadt der Zeit.

Only on the level of analogy have I ever experienced intellectual pleasure. For me the only manifest truth in the world is governed by the spontaneous, clairvoyant, insolent connection established under certain conditions between two things whose conjunction would not be permitted by common sense. As much as I abhor, more than any other, the word therefore , replete with vanity and sullen delectation, so do I love passionately anything that flares up suddenly out of nowhere and thus breaks the thread of discursive thinking. What comes to light at the moment is an infinitely richer network of relations whose secret, as everything suggests, was known to early mankind. It is true that flare quickly dies out, but its glimmer is enough to help measure on their dismal scale the exchange values currently available that provide not answer except to basic questions of a utilitarian nature. .... Poetic analogy has this in common with mystical analogy: it transgresses the rules of deduction ...

The following is the opening to the twelfth Sabbath Song in the Songs of the Sabbath Sacrifice. It is rarely noted, although occasionally is, how poetic these Songs can be at times. In fact, in my dissertation where I discuss this, I do not have time to discuss its poetics either. Perhaps these can be some preliminary observations for a later project. The passage is most notable for the difficulty in finding the beginnings and ends to phrases, but I think following the parallelism provides some clues. For now, I am going to forego discussing the obvious connections with Ezekiel 1. For the Sa[ge. The song of the sacrifice (עולת)] of the twelfth sabbath on the twenty-first of the third month. Praise the God of wond[rous years (?)] and exalt him according to the glory in the tabernacle [of the God/s of] knowledge ([הכבוד במשכ[ן אלוהי] דעת]). The [cheru]bim fall before him and they b[le]ss. When they raise themselves, a quiet voice of God (קול דממת אלוהים) [is heard] and tumul...

...writing a poem you can read to no one is like dancing in the dark. (Ovid, Black Sea Letters IV.2.33-4)

Inspired poets' predictions do not fail of fulfillment: a new laurel-wreath for Jove while the first's still green! These are now my words you read (I'm away on the Danube, its waters drink for the ill-pacified Goths): no, this is the voice of a god, a god's inside me, it's a god that makes me predict and prophesy! (Ovid, Black Sea Letters III.4.89-94) Ovid claims inspiration...in a very literal sense. A spirit is in him, a god's inside him. The god possesses him. Poetic inspiration and prophetic inspiration are inseparable: each divinely inspired, each folding into one another. Inspired speech is heightened speech, poetic speech. They flow from the same source: Apollo.

Memorization is something that is quickly flying out the window. Growing up, we were encouraged to memorize swaths of the Bible, something I should probably do more of (but now in Hebrew, Aramaic, and Greek). If that's not your ticket, how about modern poetry? An article in the NYTimes talks about reasons for and gives tips how to memorize some Auden, Yeats, Chaucer, Shakespeare, etc., in tiny increments each day. With just a few lines each day, over time you'll have a vast collection of poems at your memory's disposal. There have been a few times I have pulled a few lines out of Shakespeare when relevant for my class (and not just when I was teaching Shakespeare). And I've actually been wanting to read some W.H. Auden, but haven't had the chance. The best reason beyond any cultural literacy, etc., is just for your own pleasure. Why not give a short poem a shot? Here is a poem by W.H. Auden : The Fall of Rome The piers are pummelled by the waves; In a lonel...