tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post4139000887452539913..comments2024-03-23T20:37:37.891-07:00Comments on First Known When Lost: In TimeStephen Pentzhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comBlogger2125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-47912581437110148572019-02-03T22:30:52.095-08:002019-02-03T22:30:52.095-08:00Bruce: Thank you very much for those lovely and i...Bruce: Thank you very much for those lovely and inspiring thoughts. (Although I do, of course, thank you for your kind words, I fear you give me far too much credit when you suggest I have any sort of "sensibility" that differs from that of anybody else: these are things we all see and hear and feel, if we pause. I am reminded of what Philippe Jaccottet writes in his Landscapes with Absent Figures (and I will note for the record that I am not, and never will be, in his league): "All I have been able to do is to walk and go on walking, remember, glimpse, forget, try again, rediscover, become absorbed." (Translated by Mark Treharne.))<br /><br />As you have done so many times before, you have given us a wonderful poem by Dickinson which hits the nail on the head. Thank you. "So whether it be Rune,/Or whether it be none/Is of within." Perfect. I agree with you that "her life is a testament to her insight."<br /><br />The thoughts from Blake and Wordsworth are wonderful as well. I have been feeling for quite some time that I have failed to give Blake the attention he deserves, and your thoughts confirm that I need to correct my failing sooner rather than later. <br /><br />The thought of beauty being created (partly or wholly) by our own sensibility brings to mind a haiku by Shinkei (1406-1475):<br /><br />The one looking --<br />he also lends some color <br />to the moonlight. <br /><br />(Translated by Steven Carter.)<br /><br />As ever, thank you very much for stopping by, and for expanding and deepening the discussion.Stephen Pentzhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14882220887712092005noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5010170380967519230.post-19756007061485965802019-01-30T09:47:17.253-08:002019-01-30T09:47:17.253-08:00Steve,
In his poem about Tintern Abbey Wordsworth...Steve,<br /><br />In his poem about Tintern Abbey Wordsworth posits that beauty is half created by one's sensibility. Was it Blake who said that a fool and a wise man don't look at the same tree?" You describe with your customary grace and eloquence, always brilliantly a bit understated to add dignity and intelligence to your words, the effect the sounds of the birds had on you, their fugitive song during a hiatus from the wet and chill of dismal winter days. <br /><br />One could say that what you heard is the old augury that spring will come eventually, these few birds you heard the vanguard to bring the news. Would you admit that others, upon hearing these precursors of spring crying prophecy, would hear nothing but the squawk of noisy birds? <br /><br />Why would one person find revelation and wonder and mystery and promise in the sound of birds and another person hear nothing but an irritating cacophony seeping from a patch of woods? Would you say that the difference between the acute listener and the bored and agitated auditor ("Good God, what a racket those stupid birds are making) is a matter of sensibility in the hearer? <br /><br />Back to Blake a moment: he said that one must not see with the eye but through the eye. One who sees through the eye allows his imagination to participate in the perception of beauty; that is, the acute sensibility is complicit in the apprehension of beauty. <br /><br />My point--and I sometimes wonder whether I ever have a coherent one--is that "beauty" does not exist (we could quibble about this comment, I know) without a human sensibility to help give it birth.<br /><br />I once heard a woman who had returned from a tour of the American West sum her trip. She raved about the gaudy glitter of Las Vegas, but of her visit to the Grand Canyon she said, "Don't waste your time going to see the Grand Canyon. It's nothing more than a damn big hole in the ground." Would one be precipitate to conclude that this comment exposes a moribund sensibility. When I heard her say this, I didn't think she'd appreciate my quoting Keats to her. Perhaps I judged her unfairly but I immediately concluded she was a vulgar and coarse person, one certainly beyond my scope and ken to redeem.<br /><br />Below is a poem by Emily Dickinson in which she states clearly and unequivocally that whether the song of the oriole is "a common thing" or a "divine" thing has nothing to do with the bird. She says, "The tune is not in tree." No, the tune, its beauty and wonder is in the one who hears it. It is "in thee." Her life is a testament to her insight. <br /><br /><br />To hear an Oriole sing<br />May be a common thing—<br />Or only a divine.<br /><br />It is not of the Bird<br />Who sings the same, unheard,<br />As unto Crowd—<br /><br />The Fashion of the Ear<br />Attireth that it hear<br />In Dun, or fair—<br /><br />So whether it be Rune,<br />Or whether it be none<br />Is of within.<br /><br />The "Tune is in the Tree—"<br />The Skeptic—showeth me—<br />"No Sir! In Thee!" bruce floydnoreply@blogger.com