Las ondas del mar,
la tierra entera,
todo pueblo y
nación era mi dominio.
Entre todas estas
cosas buscaba reposo,
una heredad en que
instalarme.
--Eclesiástico 24: 6-7
Over waves of the sea, over all the land,
over every people
and nation, I held sway.
Among all these I
sought a resting place.
In whose
inheritance should I abide?
Wir haben uns
freilich nie um die Geheimnisse der Dichter bekümmert, wenn wir gleich mit
Vergnügen ihrem Gesange zugehört. Es mag wohl wahr sein, daß eine besondere
Gestirnung dazu gehört, wenn ein Dichter zur Welt kommen soll; denn es ist
gewiß eine recht wunderbare Sache mit dieser Kunst. Auch sind die andern Künste
gar sehr davon unterschieden, und lassen sich weit eher begreifen. Bei den
Malern und Tonkünstlern kann man leicht einsehn, wie es zugeht, und mit Fleiß
und Geduld läßt sich beides lernen. Die Töne liegen schon in den Saiten, und es
gehört nur eine Fertigkeit dazu, diese zu bewegen, um jene in einer reizenden
Folge aufzuwecken. Bei den Bildern ist die Natur die herrlichste Lehrmeisterin.
Sie erzeugt unzählige schöne und wunderliche Figuren, gibt die Farben, das
Licht und den Schatten, und so kann eine geübte Hand, ein richtiges Auge, und
die Kenntnis von der Bereitung und Vermischung der Farben, die Natur auf das
vollkommenste nachahmen. Wie natürlich ist daher auch die Wirkung dieser Künste,
das Wohlgefallen an ihren Werken, zu begreifen. Der Gesang der Nachtigall, das
Sausen des Windes, und die herrlichen Lichter, Farben und Gestalten gefallen
uns, weil sie unsere Sinne angenehm beschäftigen; und da unsere Sinne dazu von
der Natur, die auch jenes hervorbringt, so eingerichtet sind, so muß uns auch
die künstliche Nachahmung der Natur gefallen. Die Natur will selbst auch einen
Genuß von ihrer großen Künstlichkeit haben, und darum hat sie sich in Menschen
verwandelt, wo sie nun selber sich über ihre Herrlichkeit freut, das Angenehme
und Liebliche von den Dingen absondert, und es auf solche Art allein
hervorbringt, daß sie es auf mannigfaltigere Weise, und zu allen Zeiten und
allen Orten haben und genießen kann. Dagegen ist von der Dichtkunst sonst
nirgends äußerlich etwas anzutreffen. Auch schafft sie nichts mit Werkzeugen
und Händen; das Auge und das Ohr vernehmen nichts davon: denn das bloße Hören
der Worte ist nicht die eigentliche Wirkung dieser geheimen Kunst. Es ist alles
innerlich, und wie jene Künstler die äußern Sinne mit angenehmen Empfindungen
erfüllen, so erfüllt der Dichter das inwendige Heiligtum des Gemüts mit neuen,
wunderbaren und gefälligen Gedanken. Er weiß jene geheimen Kräfte in uns nach
Belieben zu erregen, und gibt uns durch Worte eine unbekannte herrliche Welt zu
vernehmen. Wie aus tiefen Höhlen steigen alte und künftige Zeiten, unzählige
Menschen, wunderbare Gegenden, und die seltsamsten Begebenheiten in uns herauf,
und entreißen uns der bekannten Gegenwart. Man hört fremde Worte und weiß doch,
was sie bedeuten sollen. Eine magische Gewalt üben die Sprüche des Dichters
aus; auch die gewöhnlichen Worte kommen in reizenden Klängen vor, und
berauschen die festgebannten Zuhörer.
We have certainly never troubled ourselves about the secrets of poets, although we have listened to their songs with pleasure. It may well be true that a special constellation is required for a poet to be born; for this art is certainly a truly wonderful thing. The other arts are very different from it and are much easier to understand. With painters and musicians one can easily understand their faculties, and with diligence and patience one can learn both. The notes are already in the strings, and only skill is required to move the latter and awaken them in a charming sequence. When it comes to pictures, nature is the most wonderful teacher. She creates innumerable beautiful and strange forms, provides the colors, the light and the shadow, and so, a practiced hand, a good eye, and knowledge of the preparation and mixing of colors is necessary to imitate nature most perfectly. How easy, then, are the effects of these arts and the pleasure they impart, to understand. The song of the nightingale, the rushing of the wind, and the magnificent lights, colors, and shapes please us because they pleasantly occupy our senses; and since our senses are so equipped for this by nature, which produces these things, we must also like the artificial imitation of nature. Nature itself wants to enjoy its great artificiality, and therefore it has transformed itself into human beings, where it now rejoices in its own glory, separates the pleasant and lovely from all things, and produces it in such a way that we can have and enjoy it in more diverse ways, and at all times and in all places. On the other hand, nothing of poetry can be found externally anywhere else. Nor does it create anything with tools or hands; the eye and ear perceive nothing of it, for merely hearing the words is not the real effect of this secret art. It is all internal, and just as those other artists fill the external senses with pleasant sensations, so the poet fills the inner sanctuary of the mind with new, wonderful, and pleasant thoughts. He knows how to arouse those secret powers in us at will and allows us to perceive an unknown, magnificent world through words. As if emanating from deep caves, ancient and future times, countless people, wonderful regions, and the strangest events rise up within us and tear us away from the familiar present. One hears strange language and yet grasps what it means. The poet's sayings have a magical power; even the ordinary words appear as charming sounds and intoxicate the spellbound listeners.
Poetry is able to
accomplish the “magical” in the way Novalis describes because of the almost
infinite elasticity of language. Words can summon up the unknown and make it manifest
because of their ability to bridge the outside world and inner consciousness.
And words are easily understood (at least their superficial meanings) and
instantly comprehended, drawing forth a response from the reader or listener
that needs no background understanding (such background understanding can enrich--but
can also obscure--the reader’s experience of a poem). On the other hand, the
impalpability of poetry means that it lacks the full visual impact of painting,
sculpture, or architecture, and the full auditory impression of music (even
though, in the art of song, poetry and music are combined). I remember that a
prominent poet once said to me he had taken up jewelry-making as a hobby, “. .
. because words are so intangible.” The lapidary arts allowed him to express
himself in a more material way than words and ideas would allow. But he didn’t
give up on poetry, and he continues to write hundreds of poems on every subject,
real or ideal, under the sun.
The worst form of idolatry must be the desire to make God in our own image. Or even worse, in the image of someone as troubled and deluded as Donald Trump. That temptation to see God as vengeful, cruel, exclusive, and indifferent, infects us and causes us to lose our humanity, our status as children of God. But the God that Jesus reveals is the opposite; He is the healer of our humanity: all-merciful, unconditionally loving, the friend of the poor, the hungry, the homeless, the stranger, the sinner. A God who abolishes fear, slavery, hatred, and arrogance—who is truly the way, the truth, and the life.
Cenizo (Leucophyllum
frutescens), also known as purple sage (even though it is not related to true
sage (the Salvia genus) or sagebrush (members of the Artemisia genus), is a
shrub with ash green leaves, and flowers in different shades of purple. It is widely cultivated as an ornamental and grows
wild in the southwestern U.S. (Especially Texas) and northern Mexico. Because
it is believed to flower before a rainstorm, it is also called the barometer
bush. This ability to predict rain may have to do with its ability to perceive changes
in humidity. It is very drought-hardy and can tolerate poor and alkaline soils. Although it is ubiquitous in gardens of the Southwest, it is less
known as an herbal medicine, even though its widespread use as a cold remedy and
mild sedative goes back centuries. The small, silvery-blue-green leaves can be
used as a tea, which is said to help with congestion, cough, fever, and chills
of the common cold. I can say from experience that it has very little taste,
and for colds, it is usually sweetened with honey. There have been a few
studies that suggest cenizo may be hepatoprotective, but this has not been verified
in humans and continues to be studied. I have also not heard of any side
effects when it is consumed as a tea in reasonable quantities, but as always,
people in special risk groups should consult a medical professional with any
questions or concerns before consuming it.
Dichter und Priester waren im Anfang Eins. Und nur spätere Zeiten haben sie getrennt. Der echte Dichter ist aber immer Priester, so wie der echte Priester immer Dichter geblieben. Und sollte nicht die Zukunft den alten Zustand der Dinge wieder herbeiführen?
--Novalis, Fragmente I
Whether or not Novalis is correct in his assertion, there is an element of mystery in all true poetry. The poet not only asserts what he or she knows, but also what the act of creating poetry itself reveals. The poet not only predicates what is known, but also what is not known and yet can still be expressed. This is one of the great powers of poetry. The poem itself influences the way that the poet creates. Novalis states that:
There are certain poems within us that seem to have a completely different character from the others, for they are accompanied by a feeling of necessity, and yet there is absolutely no external reason for them. It seems to the human being that he is engaged in a conversation, and that some unknown spiritual being is causing him in a wonderful way to develop the most obvious thoughts. This must be a higher being, because it relates to one in a way that is not possible for any being bound to appearances. It must be a homogeneous being, because it treats him like a spiritual being and only rarely asks him to be self-active. This ego of a higher kind relates to humanity as a human does to nature or a wise person to a child. (Novalis, Fragmente I)
Call it intuition or inspiration, poetry can be a means of revealing much more than the poet knows or intends—the expression of a wisdom that transcends even the poet’s own limited personal experience or knowledge.
 |
| The Return of the Prodigal Son, Rembrandt |
“I acknowledge my
transgression,” says David. If I admit my fault, then you will pardon it. Let
us never assume that if we live good lives we will be without sin; our lives
should be praised only when we continue to beg for pardon. But people are
hopeless creatures, and the less they concentrate on their own sins, the more
interested they become in the sins of others. They seek to criticize, not to
correct. Unable to excuse themselves, they are ready to accuse others. This was
not the way that David showed us how to pray and make amends to God, when he
said: “I acknowledge my transgression, and my sin is ever before me.” He did
not concentrate on others’ sins; he turned his thoughts on himself. He did not
merely stroke the surface, but he plunged inside and went deep down within
himself. He did not spare himself, and therefore was not impudent in asking to
be spared.
--from a sermon by St. Augustine
Poetry is an attempt to convey a reality that the poet has in some way experienced by attempting to capture its totality through metaphor. In such an endeavor, metaphorical language demonstrates superiority over mere descriptive language by incorporating both meaning and ambiguity (allowing for the poet to communicate the perceived and the intuited, the “seen” and “unseen” of reality). Novalis said, "Poetry heals the wounds inflicted by reason." The holistic experience of reality that metaphor engenders gives a poem its special texture, sometimes referred to as “mood,” that unique combination of sign and feeling. But feeling in this case refers to more than what is ordinarily understood as “feelings”; it is a kind of intuitional intersubjectivity and remains on the boundary of the expressed and the inexpressible by its very nature. That is why a poem will be understood in a number of different ways, depending on the mindset of the reader. The poet and the reader will inevitably have distinct experiences of the poem as well. But this does not mean that either experience is invalid. This “tension between congruence and incongruence” (Paul Ricoeur, The Metaphorical Process as Cognition, Imagination, and Feeling) is at the heart of metaphor, as it is at the heart of our conscious perception of totality. All art entails perceptual distortion by both artist and aesthete. But the metaphor, by its allusiveness and ambiguity, goes beyond this distortion to create in the reader a combination of experience and insight. All this has been expressed better and more clearly by others, but it is very much at the heart of my interest in poetry.
When the
indivisible Trinity willed eternally and undividedly the existence of beings
able to receive God, to have part in his delight, gladness, peace, joy, then
the Trinity created from nothing the rational mind made in God’s image. The
very fact of creation from nothing, the truth of—as I’ve already
mentioned—God’s perfectly gratuitous generosity makes nonsense of the notion
that some have had of a certain compulsion inherent in his nature that could
not be put to rest. Creation certainly is an effect of his natural goodness,
but only because he wills it. Blessed, no less, the Being that demands doing
good. Does not he who is compelled to do the good deeds demanded by the
goodness of his own nature do them gratuitously and freely?
By recognizing the gratuitousness of our coming into existence, we can we understand the fullness of God’s creative love. By knowing that our existence is a totally free and gratuitous act of God, we can begin to appreciate that we are complete only in God; that we are destined only for God; that we need nothing but God.
