Nostalgia for the Present
At that very instant:
Oh, what I would not give for the joy
of being at your side in Iceland
inside the great unmoving daytime
and of sharing this now
the way one shares music
or the taste of fruit.
At that very instant
the man was at her side in Iceland.
Jorge Luis Borges (translated by Alan Trueblood), in Jorge Luis Borges, Selected Poems (edited by Alexander Coleman) (Viking 1999).
Some may say: "Stop thinking so much! Just live." I am not unsympathetic to this view. It is possible to slice things too thin, to overthink the riddle of Time and Existence. On the other hand, Borges is simply reporting What Life Is Like. In a beautiful fashion that most of us are not capable of. Hence, poetry.
Dane Maw (1908-1989), "Woolverton and Peart Woods" (1970)
"Nostalgia for the present" is in the same territory as a feeling I have described here before: an awareness, at the time something is happening, that you are experiencing something you will never forget. The event being experienced need not be "life-changing" or "important" (e.g., a birth, a death, a calamity). In fact, it is usually the case that this feeling comes out-of-the-blue on what seemed to be just another nondescript day. And then you want everything to slow down, or freeze in place. A vain hope, of course.
On the Road
Our roof was grapes and the broad hands of the vine
as we two drank in the vine-chinky shade
of harvest France;
and wherever the white road led we could not care,
it had brought us there
to the arbour built on the valley side where time,
if time any more existed, was that river
of so profound a current, it at once
both flowed and stayed.
We two. And nothing in the whole world was lacking.
It is later one realizes. I forget
the exact year or what we said. But the place
for a lifetime glows with noon. There are the rustic
table and the benches set; beyond the river
forests as soft as fallen clouds, and in
our wine and eyes I remember other noons.
It is a lot to say, nothing was lacking;
river, sun and leaves, and I am making
words to say 'grapes' and 'her skin'.
Bernard Spencer, With Luck Lasting (1963).
Dane Maw, "Scottish Landscape, Air Dubh"
While You Slept
You never knew what I saw while you slept.
We drove up a wide green stone-filled valley.
Around us were empty heather mountains.
A white river curved quickly beside us.
I thought to wake you when I saw the cairn --
A granite pillar of that country's past --
But I let you sleep without that history.
You did, however, travel through that place:
I can tell you that your eyes were at rest
As the momentous world moved beyond you,
And that you breathed in peace that quarter hour.
We seldom know what is irreplaceable.
You sang old songs for me then fell asleep.
I worried about what you were missing.
But you missed nothing. And I was the one who slept.
sip (Glen Coe, Scotland, c. 1986).
"And nothing in the whole world was lacking. It is later one realizes."
Dane Maw, "Langdale Falls, Westmorland"
6 comments:
Mr Pentz, what a delightful post.
" Nostalgia for the present" is such a wonderful phrase. I know exactly what you mean and your own words say it better than I can ""Nostalgia for the present" is in the same territory as a feeling I have described here before: an awareness, at the time something is happening, that you are experiencing something you will never forget. In fact, it is usually the case that this feeling comes out-of-the-blue on what seemed to be just another nondescript day. And then you want everything to slow down, or freeze in place.
The Bernard Spencer poem, I am familiar with, though it's wonderful to read again, and those words of your own that close this post capture one of those moments quite brilliantly.
Thank you.
Mr Ashton: Yes, "nostalgia for the present" is very nice isn't it? I came across the poem only recently, and I had one of those "shock of recognition" moments. As I say in the post, I'm sure we've all felt this, and Borges expresses it beautifully for us.
Thank you for your kind words about my scribblings. Please believe me when I say that I was loath to post my poem in the vicinity of real poems by Spencer and Borges. But I suddenly remembered it, and it does accurately reflect (in a halting, vague fashion) one of my experiences in this region of life.
As ever, thank you very much for visiting again, and for your thoughts.
After reading your current posting on "Nostalgia for the present," a provocative topic and an apt one,if not a piece of precious wisdom, I happened upon the following poem (see below). The subject of the poem is a comprehending and relishing of the present moment, as if understanding in one's marrow that we live in a capricious and uncertain world: the night must certainly follow the brightest day. I think of Marvell's imploration to his "coy mistress."
These are the happiest days
by Erica McAlpine
Miami
Under this canvas cabana, white bower
of unadulterated hope, I won’t tell
you these are the happiest days we’ll ever
pass. Best not to say.
Nothing will come and steal from us this hour
unless it’s our nagging, aggravating will
to think of things always as worse than they are,
to cloud up the day,
as it were. Otherwise, it’s in our power
to spend the whole afternoon drinking our fill
of sun (soaking now through the canvas over
us) and even say
what’s on our minds a little. Because showers
do come (look at Cornelia and Raphael—
one split second and she lost him forever).
It’s the normal way
of things to bloom and brighten, then turn sour.
We haven’t been singled out—we’re not bad souls.
But happiness rarely stays in place. These are
the happiest days.
Anonymous: thank you very much for the poem (which is new to me, as is the poet), and for the connection with Marvell. We never know when and where these moments will arrive, do we? Whether Iceland, "harvest France," Miami, Scotland -- we take what we can get.
The poem you post brings to mind Philip Larkin's "Days":
What are days for?
Days are where we live.
They come, they wake us
Time and time over.
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?
Ah, solving that question
Brings the priest and the doctor
In their long coats
Running over the fields.
Philip Larkin, The Whitsun Weddings.
Thank you again.
Forgive this intrusion, but isn't the name of the last picture "Langdale Fells", not "Falls"? It reminds me of a trip our family took to Cumbria decades ago.
Susan
Susan: I suspect it is a misprint. The Victoria Art Gallery (Bath) uses "Falls" in the title, which is what I used. But "Fells" is probably correct. Thank you for pointing that out.
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