Arthur Machen's "N"

 I recently reread the Arthur Machen story, “N,” and have been thinking about its place in the canon of writings that have influenced the modern psychogeography movement, as well as the underlying mystical concepts that Machen employed in writing it. I find it easy to connect those ideas to Novalis’ Magical Idealism, as well as his theories about poetry and the Golden Age.

     The first time that I read “N,” I was initially troubled by what seemed its lack of a central message or point, beyond being a celebration of the streets of London and the pleasures of exploring urban life in general. Lin Carter, the fiction writer and historian of the fantasy genre in literature, praised Machen’s ability to make the streets of London and the stories that he found there into a veritable Arabian Nights. Carter described the world of Machen’s episodic novel, The Three Impostors, as “Bagdad on the Thames.”

    It took me several readings to see beyond the sumptuous urban landscape that Machen describes in “N”, and also, his characters as more than just former or current practitioners of dérive, the term that Guy DeBord and the Situationists used to describe an activity where “one or more persons during a certain period drop their usual motives for movement and action, their relations, their work and leisure activities, and let themselves be drawn by the attractions of the terrain and the encounters they find there.” [Guy Debord, "Theory of the Dérive," Internationale Situationniste #2 1956] Psychogeography was the name that the Situationists gave to the study of this type of activity, but the term is now commonly used to refer to its practice as well, having superseded dérive, at least in the English-speaking world.

    Machen’s “N” begins with a social gathering of old men who share their glorious memories of the streets of London during the bygone era of their youth. These nostalgic reveries lead to a discussion of a magical park in the (fictional) neighborhood of Canon’s Park, in Stoke Newington, part of an inner London borough. One of the old men mentions that a cousin once visited Canon’s Park and found a place there that possessed unearthly beauty. Another of the participants in the discussion, who grew up in Stoke Newington, insists that no such park exists. A short time later, one of the participants in the discussion, who has been curious about this mysterious park, encounters a mention of it in a book. The author of the book puts forth several strange theories related to the park, which he glimpsed for a moment with his own eyes. At one point, the author of the book writes, “Some have declared that it lies within our own choice to gaze continually upon a world of equal or even greater wonder and beauty…This method, or art, or science, or whatever we choose to call it is simply concerned to restore the delights of the primal Paradise…” An acquaintance of the author, who shows him the mystical park, suggests, based on ideas that he attributes to William Law and Jacob Böhme, that matter itself was, before the Fall, “a soft and ductile substance, which could be moulded by the imagination of uncorrupted man into whatever form he chose it to assume.” I want to remark that this is an idea which somewhat resembles Novalis’ Magical Idealism with its belief in the power of the imagination to mold reality itself, as well as his thoughts on the Golden Age as a state of the individual’s oneness with all things, physical and spiritual, that he derived from Hemsterhuis. It is also important to note that Novalis equated the Golden Age with the innocence of childhood, and to recall that the old men at the beginning of the story reminiscence about the London of their youth as a kind of lost paradise which has passed away forever.

     This may be a moment to comment on something that I noticed about the structure of the story. Aside from my struggling with the unfolding theme, which I came to comprehend only with difficulty, I realized that Machen’s method of piecing together the story by having a character compile its elements from random conversations, careful enquiries, and books, was something that I had encountered before. The slow buildup of evidence of the impossible, or at least the supernatural, leading to an incredible conclusion, reminded me—on a purely literary level—of certain stories of Jorge Luis Borges, “La otra muerte,” for instance. It’s interesting to note that Borges was a huge fan of Machen, and also of Novalis.

    But to get back to the story and its theme: eventually, more reports of the park, which appears to be a veritable Garden of Eden, convince the old man who was part of the original group at the beginning of the story that the place actually exists. He meets a young man one day on the streets of Stoke Newington who verifies its existence as well. The story ends rather abruptly, which I think was partially responsible for my initial feeling that it seemed to end up somewhere, but personally, I couldn’t tell where that was. However, several re-readings finally led me to the conclusion that those who experienced the Edenic park were true psychogeographers. They were all people who experienced and accepted the park as a magical place because they came to it without agendas, certainties, or calculations. As in childhood, they were able to see the world and its wonders with innocent eyes and imagination, in the “ambience of play,” [Debord], and without needing or desiring to commodify or rationalize their experience. The old men who had only their memories of a lost Eden, and who were “now sitting among desolate rocks, by bitter steams,” having lost their way (like the young apostate in Hesse’s Die Morgenlandfahrt [«Er hat es sich schwergemacht, den Glauben wiederzufinden…»]), could not return to innocence. But those who saw and encountered the prelapsarian park were still living the experience of wonder, and the city and the world were still places of “magical habitations, supernal dwellings, more desirable to the eye than the fabled pleasure dome of the Eastern potentate, or the bejewelled hall built by the Genie for Aladdin in the Arabian tale.”

We Act in Faith

We act in faith - and miracles occur. In consequence, we are tempted to make the miracles the ground of our faith. The cost of such weakness is that we lose the confidence of faith. Faith is, faith creates, faith carries. It is not derived from, nor created, nor carried by anything except its own reality.

                                                                                   --Dag Hammarskjöld, Vägmärken

This is a great paradox. People who make miracles the basis for their faith run the risk of encountering all sorts of skepticism, doubt, and even theological problems. Faith can’t be about miracles, because it springs from a higher certainly. Miracles are gifts, but the greatest gift is faith. I have, myself, witnessed probable miracles on a few occasions, given the definition that a miracle is an event that entails divine intervention in the suspension of natural physical law. But what is that compared to faith; to the relationship with God from which true faith is derived? What does faith need but the love of the Other, the person that one has faith in?

     St. Alonzo Rodriguez (in his Autobiography) said of his own supernatural experiences: “So great is my aversion to such things that I would prefer not to speak or write about them and that no one should know of them. For they bring more danger than profit and the world esteems them highly, though there is little light in them, when it should make much of solid virtues. Sanctity consists in the love of God and of one’s neighbor, and in profound humility, patience, obedience, and resignation, and the Imitation of Christ our Lord.”

     In his Das Allgemeine Brouillon (a title which I borrowed when I give this space a name), Novalis said, “All faith is wondrous and wonder-working.”

December 12, 2025

 

Nach dir, Maria, heben

Schon tausend Herzen sich.

In diesem Schattenleben

Verlangten sie nur dich.

Sie hoffen zu genesen

Mit ahndungsvoller Lust –

Drückst du sie, heil'ges Wesen,

An deine treue Brust.

 

Following you, Mary,

A thousand hearts are eagerly arising.

In this shadowy life,

They long only for you

And hope to be healed

With a sense of joyful expectation—

If you, holy one,

Will press them to your faithful breast.

 

                     —Novalis, Hymnen an die Nacht

Submitting

 

I want to talk for a bit about the strange ritual of submitting work to literary journals. There is so much about it that remains utterly arbitrary. I ask myself: why do I enter my work into these literary beauty pageants that feature work from writers who are more educated, talented, and inspired than me? Why, too, is the work that ends up being accepted so often the stuff that I feel is not the best or most exciting and is certainly not the work that I expected to be popular or trendy. I sometimes feel like the writer in one of Akutagawa’s stories who is asked to write an eulogy for a person that he was barely acquainted with, and he slaps together a trite, mawkish, flippant, and affected piece, only to find that it gets a sincere and powerful emotional response when it is read at the funeral. On the other hand, a short story that he has just published is torn to shreds and cruelly mocked by a prominent literary critic, leaving him to wonder how a piece of writing that he put together with no real effort or dedication has succeeded so well with its audience while a work that he poured his heart and soul into did not.

     Every writer who submits work must decide when a piece is ready to be reviewed by editors and be able to fly on its own. I suspect that this moment comes for most of us when we feel that everything “works” in a piece of writing, the language, the story, the pacing, and the ending. But I know there are works I have written and carefully edited that I immediately wanted to improve upon as soon as they were published.  A word here, a comma there, a bit of added color. I am constantly making little changes even after a piece has been published, perhaps because I’m secretly hoping for the opportunity to one day publish a “canonical” version, perhaps in a book. One of my children is a filmmaker, and he says that he always sees small details in his films that he would like to change, “mistakes” that probably nobody else ever even notices, once his work is in the public eye. But where does the perfecting of a piece end? I think of the painter Apelles in John Lyly’s Elizabethan drama, Campaspe, who, when asked by Alexander the Great when his portrait of Campaspe will be finished, answers, “I’ll never finish: for always in absolute beauty there is something above art.”*

     I think that anyone who does a lot of submitting has probably made mistakes in carrying out the submission process, which is almost always done these days by email or through a submission manager. Some mistakes are the types of things that would have been easier to catch in the days of paper submissions (something that I was briefly familiar with at the beginning of my writing and submitting endeavors, before submission managers became the thing). But maybe submission managers and email are really not to blame for my mistakes. I’ve sent cover letters with the wrong story name, and I have even sent the same story or poem or essay—I can’t remember which—to the same journal twice, and I’ve done a host of other things which probably cause editors to question not only my professionalism but also my sanity. On every occasion it’s been accidental, but it still speaks volumes about my ability to carry out simple tasks. And I know that editors are busy people trying to do their best while being snowed under by endless submissions from people like me. Submissions are always a gamble, but I’ve probably not helped my odds on more than one occasion by—again, accidently—not following a journal's guidelines to the letter. I continue to submit, and maybe make an occasional mistake in the process of doing so, but it’s a necessary step in getting my work out into the sprawling literary world.

 *I converted this quote into “modern” English for clarity

Dreams

In wunderliche Träume flossen die Gedanken seiner Seele zusammen. Ein tiefer blauer Strom schimmerte aus der grünen Ebene heraus. Auf der glatten Fläche schwamm ein Kahn. Mathilde saß und ruderte. Sie war mit Kränzen geschmückt, sang ein einfaches Lied, und sah nach ihm mit süßer Wehmut herüber. Seine Brust war beklommen. Er wußte nicht warum. Der Himmel war heiter, die Flut ruhig. Ihr himmlisches Gesicht spiegelte sich in den Wellen. Auf einmal fing der Kahn an sich umzudrehen. Er rief ihr ängstlich zu. Sie lächelte und legte das Ruder in den Kahn, der sich immerwährend drehte. Eine ungeheure Bangigkeit ergriff ihn. Er stürzte sich in den Strom; aber er konnte nicht fort, das Wasser trug ihn. Sie winkte, sie schien ihm etwas sagen zu wollen, der Kahn schöpfte schon Wasser; doch lächelte sie mit einer unsäglichen Innigkeit, und sah heiter in den Wirbel hinein. Auf einmal zog es sie hinunter. Eine leise Luft strich über den Strom, der ebenso ruhig und glänzend floß, wie vorher. Die entsetzliche Angst raubte ihm das Bewußtsein. Das Herz schlug nicht mehr. Er kam erst zu sich, als er sich auf trockenem Boden fühlte. Er mochte weit geschwommen sein. Es war eine fremde Gegend. Er wußte nicht wie ihm geschehen war. Sein Gemüt war verschwunden. Gedankenlos ging er tiefer ins Land. Entsetzlich matt fühlte er sich. Eine kleine Quelle kam aus einem Hügel, sie tönte wie lauter Glocken. Mit der Hand schöpfte er einige Tropfen und netzte seine dürren Lippen. Wie ein banger Traum lag die schreckliche Begebenheit hinter ihm. Immer weiter und weiter ging er, Blumen und Bäume redeten ihn an. Ihm wurde so wohl und heimatlich zu Sinne. Da hörte er jenes einfache Lied wieder. Er lief den Tönen nach. Auf einmal hielt ihn jemand am Gewande zurück. »Lieber Heinrich«, rief eine bekannte Stimme. Er sah sich um, und Mathilde schloß ihn in ihre Arme. »Warum liefst du vor mir, liebes Herz?« sagte sie tiefatmend. »Kaum konnte ich dich einholen.« Heinrich weinte. Er drückte sie an sich. »Wo ist der Strom?« rief er mit Tränen. »Siehst du nicht seinen blauen Wellen über uns?« Er sah hinauf, und der blaue Strom floß leise über ihrem Haupte. »Wo sind wir, liebe Mathilde?« »Bei unsern Eltern.« »Bleiben wir zusammen?« »Ewig«, versetzte sie, indem sie ihre Lippen an die seinigen drückte, und ihn so umschloß, daß sie nicht wieder von ihm konnte. Sie sagte ihm ein wunderbares geheimes Wort in den Mund, was sein ganzes Wesen durchklang. Er wollte es wiederholen, als sein Großvater rief, und er aufwachte. Er hätte sein Leben darum geben mögen, das Wort noch zu wissen.

 

The thoughts of his soul flowed together in strange dreams. A deep blue stream shimmered from the green plain. A boat floated on the smooth surface. Mathilde sat and rowed. She was adorned with wreaths, sang a simple song, and gazed at him with sweet melancholy. His chest was heavy. He didn't know why. The sky was serene, the tide calm. Her heavenly face was reflected in the waves. Suddenly, the boat began to turn. He called to her anxiously. She smiled and put the oar into the boat, which continued to turn. A tremendous fear seized him. He threw himself into the stream; but he couldn't get away; the water carried him. She beckoned; she seemed to want to say something to him; the boat was already filling with water; yet she smiled with indescribable sincerity and gazed serenely into the whirlpool. Suddenly, they were drawn downwards. A gentle breeze swept over the stream, which flowed just as calmly and brilliantly as before. The terrible fear robbed him of consciousness. His heart had stopped beating. He only came to when he felt himself on dry ground. He must have swum far. It was a strange region. He didn't know what had happened to him. His mind was gone. Thoughtlessly, he walked deeper into the land. He felt terribly weak. A small spring flowed from a hill, sonorous as chimes. He scooped a few drops with his hand and wet his dry lips. Like an anxious dream, the terrible event lay behind him. On and on he walked; flowers and trees spoke to him. He felt so comfortable and at home. Then he heard the simple song again. He ran after the music. Suddenly, someone held him back by his robe. "Dear Heinrich," called a familiar voice. He looked around, and Mathilde caught him in her arms. "Why did you run from me, dear heart?" she said, breathing deeply. "I could barely catch up with you." Heinrich wept. He pressed her to him. "Where is the river?" he cried with tears. "Don't you see its blue waves above us?" He looked up, and the blue river flowed softly over their heads. "Where are we, dear Mathilde?" "With our parents." "Will we stay together?" "Forever," she replied, pressing her lips to his and clasping him tightly, so that she could not tear herself away from him. She spoke a wonderful, secret word into his mouth, which resonated through his entire being. He was about to repeat it when his grandfather called, and he awoke. He would have given his life to remember that word.

                                                                                     -- Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

How much of my work has been inspired by dreams! Yet where do dreams come from? Last night I dreamt of something that I knew could only happen in a dream. And yet, at the time of the dream, I was certain that it wasn’t a dream. I am one of those people who could not ride a bike until I dreamed that I was riding one. (This is not an uncommon phenomenon.) People often speak of finding solutions to their problems in dreams. I have never received the “solution” to a problematic story in that manner, but I have received true inspiration for some of my stories. A satisfying dream always has a good story at its core. Not to mention new experiences, plenty of exciting action, interesting settings, and sometimes even a lesson. But in the end, our dreams fade, and so often upon waking we forget—and know we have forgotten—some pivotal insight that was given to us in a dream.

New Poem

A new poem of mine that I am very proud of was just published over at Packingtown Review, a very attractive journal out of Chicago. I’m really honored to be in their pages. I also had a poem published in a print journal recently, but the publisher asked that contributors hold off announcing that their work was featured there until the official release this fall. Although it’s their Spring Issue and has already been printed, they are going to officially release it this fall with their online Fall Edition as part of a launch celebrating their journal’s 20th anniversary. Seeing these poems get published has been a nice break in the midst of spending so much time—like so many other people—working with the anti-Trump resistance. But for now, the struggle continues, and hopefully my writing will, too.

"Woe to you who are rich"

 

“Woe to you who are rich,” said Christ with no reservations or explanations. He did not say this so that others might multiply in his name reservations and explanations until we are given to understand that he meant the opposite.

     There exist among us, as you know, castes of thieves, the Grounds. “Castes” is not the right word, for they are only tribes of poor pariahs. However, they look upon robbery as their function in society and even have their own code of honor and sacred books! Foreigners who make a study of the peoples of India are astonished at so monstrous a custom. They are right, but let them also look at home and the world over. They will see that there is a caste of thieves everywhere and, horror of horrors, it is even the first and the most honored. It is the caste of the rich and mighty.

     The rich man will never set his hand to the plough. Not that he is afraid of hard work (he will work willingly enough at hunting and on the golf course), but because the code of honor of his caste forbids it.

     What is the function of the rich man in society? To interfere with those who go to work, wait for them at the turn of the road and hold them up for ransom.

     With the loot they amass they can give themselves up to play, or else to business and intrigue, or win fame, or wallow in debauchery, according to their tastes and opportunities.

     As for the worker, he works both for himself and for those who do nothing, and the less these do the more important they take themselves to be and the greater their weight.

                                                                      --Mahatma Gandhi, quoted by Lanza del Vasto in Gandhi to Vinoba

Tomorrow . . .

Tomorrow, a leader who is open about his authoritarian and fascist tendencies assumes power in this country. Even though there is much to criticize in the democrats and plenty of reasons not to want to vote for most of their candidates, the choice of a leader who has no respect for the rule of law is the worst decision voters could have made. And why did they make that choice? One word: inflation. Instead of blaming the billionaires who are actually responsible for inflation (as labor leader Humberto Selix used to say: “Inflation is rich people inflating their pockets with poor peoples’ wages”), voters elected a billionaire who is beholden to his billionaire cronies. America has truly sold its birthright for a bowl of soup! A bowl of soup that is only going to get more out of reach. Hopefully, future buyer’s remorse will be enough to wake people up to the terrible choice that they have made. But will it be too late? And will it be enough to drive people to call for change in a system that has been making America more and more unequal, and life harder for the poor and middle class for a whole generation?

The Poetry of Novalis

Einst da ich bittre Tränen vergoß, da in Schmerz aufgelöst meine Hoffnung zerrann, und ich einsam stand am dürren Hügel, der in engen, dunkeln Raum die Gestalt meines Lebens barg – einsam, wie noch kein Einsamer war, von unsäglicher Angst getrieben – kraftlos, nur ein Gedanken des Elends noch. – Wie ich da nach Hülfe umherschaute, vorwärts nicht konnte und rückwärts nicht, und am fliehenden, verlöschten Leben mit unendlicher Sehnsucht hing: – da kam aus blauen Fernen – von den Höhen meiner alten Seligkeit ein Dämmerungsschauer – und mit einem Male riß das Band der Geburt – des Lichtes Fessel.

                                                                               --Novalis, Hymnen an die Nacht, 3

Once when I shed bitter tears, when my hope dissolved in pain and I stood alone on the barren hill that concealed the shape of my life in a narrow, dark space—as alone as no lonely person had ever been, driven by unspeakable fear—powerless, only an idea of misery. As I looked around for help, unable to go forward or back, and clinging with endless longing to the fleeing, extinguished life; there came from the blue distance—from the heights of my old bliss—a twilight shiver, and suddenly the bond of birth—the fetters of light—were broken.

Novalis, in his prose writing, especially his fragments, is an explorer: observing, pondering, developing half-formed, tentative ideas. His prose work is insightful but contingent.

     But in his poetry, he is a prophet: intuitive, confident, wise. His fragments are speculative, but his poetry (which sometimes, as with the above fragment, takes the form of what is commonly called “prose poetry”) is consummate, imperative, visionary, sure.

December 12, Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe

 

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?

                --Sirach 24:6-7

"The poet's sayings have a magical power"

 

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.

                                                                                         --Novalis, Heinrich von Ofterdingen

 

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.  

Idolatry

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

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.

Event

Inspiration

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?

 Poet and priest were one in the beginning. Only later times separated them. But the true poet is always a priest, just as the true priest has always remained a poet. And should not the future bring about the old state of things again?

                                                                                                           --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:

 Es gibt gewisse Dichtungen in uns, die einen ganz andern Charakter als die übrigen zu haben scheinen, denn sie sind vom Gefühle der Notwendigkeit begleitet, und doch ist schlechterdings kein äußrer Grund zu ihnen vorhanden. Es dünkt dem Menschen, als sei er in einem Gespräch begriffen, und irgendein unbekanntes, geistiges Wesen veranlasse ihn auf eine wunderbare Weise zur Entwicklung der evidentesten Gedanken. Dieses Wesen muß ein höheres Wesen sein, weil es sich mit ihm auf eine Art in Beziehung setzt, die keinem an Erscheinungen gebundenen Wesen möglich ist. Es muß ein homogenes Wesen sein, weil es ihn wie ein geistiges Wesen behandelt und ihn nur zur seltensten Selbsttätigkeit auffordert. Dieses Ich höherer Art verhält sich zum Menschen wie der Mensch zur Natur oder der Weise zum Kinde.

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.

"I acknowledge my transgressions"

 

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

World Bee Day 2024

 

Poetry

 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.

Grace

 

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?

                                                                               --Blessed Isaac of Stella, 8^th Sermon for Sexagesima

 

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.

Typos

A poem of mine that recently appeared in an online journal contained a rather glaring typo—for some reason the editors misspelled my name in both the table of contents and on the page where the piece appeared. Oddly enough, my name was spelled correctly in the accompanying bio. I went back and checked all the documents I had submitted through their submission system, as well as an electronic contract that they had asked me to fill out and sign.  My name was spelled correctly on everything.

     I have had several pieces published both on-line and in print over the years that contained typos, but this seems to be occurring with increasing frequency of late. In a couple of cases, I actually submitted something with a typo in it and it was accepted without the editor noticing the typo before it was published. On another occasion, I discovered a typo in the original manuscript after it was submitted and accepted. I notified the editor who was working on the piece, and she thanked me for bringing it to her attention and assured me that it would be corrected before publication. It wasn’t.

     Recently, what I have found to be even more common are typos introduced by the editors themselves during editing (things like substituting a homophone for a word that I used properly, changing punctuation or italics but not taking out the original ones, improper capitalization or removal of diacritics [especially in Spanish phrases], and simply leaving out a word or line). Typos in a piece of writing are hardly something to get upset about, considering the many other things that I deal with in daily life, and especially bearing in mind the state of the world at large. As my mother used to say, “What does it matter in the light of eternity?” I only wish to comment on the proliferation of typos in published work (especially on-line) in the hope that editors might be more aware of it—not to say that most aren’t already aware—and to consider always taking the extra step of giving contributors an opportunity to proofread their work before it is published. This isn’t a perfect solution, but it is a good tool to catch those minor errors that can slip past a busy editor’s eyes, especially things like having one’s name misspelled.

(Update: After a little back and forth with the editors, the misspelling of my name that originally occasioned this post was eventually—and fully—corrected by them, which I am sincerely grateful for.)