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Cenacle - In hidden crypts and dark vaults, cenacles of secret religion meet to keep their flame alive.

I like reading Browning very much. His poetry is stately. It doesn't make you feel, it makes you see. It is not built upon wispy sensations but on a train of thought. Or on that twilight zone where personality and thought merge and become indistinguishable. He does not try to understand the world through abstract arguments but by trying to reproducing mental states.His world becomes coherent when he "gets" the central cog, the cog that makes the machinery of the consciousness he is studying, work.

It is also astonishing how much he can imbue his verse with character while following metre and rhyme. He has what people say Henry James has but clearly does not -- craft. Well-crafted but able to convey passions either of the heart or of the mind.


Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came is one his most famous poems. The word used most often to describe it is "inaccessible" Alright, it doesn't tell us the whole story. It is a snippet of verse snatched from a dream. But does that make it inaccessible?

It is one of those poems which demand a lazy reading. It is a stream, not of the conscious, but of the sub-conscious. It does not lend itself to a reading with fully focused mind intent on seizing on meaning but rather to a not-particularly-focused reading which does not try to impose meaning or try to understand. Read in this latent manner, it immediately strikes you with the immediate veracity of dream life.

Browning is often quoted as saying, "When I wrote this, God and Browning knew what it meant. Now God only knows."

Now that we know it was conceived in a dream and written thereafter, like Coleridge's Kubla Khan, it is rather pointless to ask the questions about the plot of the Roland. Pointless because the poet himself probably does not know them. So, rather than searching for "meaning "which an omniscient Browning is hiding from us, let us take the journey as Browning did, as a dream.


The poem opens dramaticcally when a knight on a quest is given directions by a cripple. This tableau from many horror movies then takes the knight on the journey to the Dark Tower. The thrill of that tableau jumpstarted the dream and the search for the Dark Tower within that dream. When the poet woke up and found himself possessed with the manic energy in the wake of that dream, he rushed to pen it down.

Browning then spends a lot of time on describing the bleak territory through which the knight is passing. It is here that the poem loses some of its initial power and becomes more and more conventionalised. The poem loses the haunting dramatic nature and the extended descriptions use transparently conscious verbiage. Browning is holding onto his dream, rather than being in it. The poet is waking up and the after-effects of the dream life are wearing thin. Still, Byron is a formidable poet and he uses every ounce of his talent to give words to his night vision before it fades away.

It is also indicative of the dream action itself. In a dream, after the initial promise we tend to search a lot and look in all the places. We become self-conscious of the dramatic impulse of the initial trigger and try and find it or retain it. Either the dream changes or it, as it does here, become an endless search through vast tracts of emptiness.

Suddenly, the poet wakes up to the fact that his longish meanderings are not going to register the impact he wants and the story takes a sudden turn. The knight crosses an abrupt river and finds the said Dark Tower. Notice how quickly Browning implants the climax. He has to resolve this issue but he can't find any resolution. If he tries too hard, the vision will fade away from him. So, he ends the poem, with the attainment of the quest but ambiguous about what it all meant.

Many people search for a meaning in the poem and wonder what it referred to. I think it is self-referential. Like every dream, it records how it felt enacting itself. Like every dream it can't find what it started out is quest for and because it has not changed course midway or forgotten itself, it implants a Dark Tower, the climax it sought fully realising that it was not the thing it sought.

They also describe the hero as cynical or paranoid and he is neither. Because he is acting and feeling, just as any dream does. A dream is like a chess game played by one person who keeps changing the rules or the moves if he does not like the reality. That explains the so-called "cynicism." The quest of the Childe Roland, is not of any particular dream, but of the dream process itself.

The text to the peom can be found here.
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Everything by Harold Monro

May 7th 2007 14:17
Years ago, I'd read a beautiful poem in an anthology. I've forgotten what the title was or what it was about but remember how it made me feel. Strange huh? I also remember who wrote it. It was Harold Monro, a minor Georgian poet. There's very little of Harold to be found on the net and his books are not easily available either.

It is said that he was a repressed homosexual who spent his life making friends with poets and encouraging them. He was primarily a printer of poetry and he also founded the Poetry Review. While printing poems of others, he would sometimes write his own. When the First World War broke out, he volunteered and came back a disillusioned man.

It is said that is one of those "warpoets" who pioneered a more realist style of modern poetry.Nevertheless, war poetry is not his chief appeal. He writes poems that celebrates the quotidian life. He is able to find stillness and music in the humdrum melee. To find solitude he does not to repair to some sylan haunt or to an unspoiled copse. He does not excoriate the modern world but keeps probing it, chiefly for the echoes of his own souding.

A poem called Everything is not his best but is typical :

Since man has been articulate,
Mechanical, improvidently wise
(Servant of Fate),
He has not understood the little cries
And foreign conversations of the small
Delightful creatures that have followed him
Not far behind;
He failed to hear the sympathetic call
Of Crockery and Cutlery, those kind
Reposeful Teraphim
Of his domestic happiness; the Stool
He sat on, the Door he entered through:
He has not thanked them, overbearing fool!
What is he coming to?

But you should listen to the talk of these.
Honest they are, and patient they have kept,
Served him without his Thank-you or his Please...
I often heard
The gentle bed, a sigh between each word,
Murmuring before I slept.
The candle, as I blew it, cried aloud,
Then bowed,
And in a smoky argument
Into the darkness went.
The kettle puffed a tentacle of breath:--
"Pooh! I have boiled his water, I don't know
Why; and he always says I boil too slow.
He never calls me 'Sukie dear,' and oh,
I wonder why I squander my desire
Sitting submissive on his kitchen fire."

Now the old Copper Basin suddenly
Rattled and tumbled from the shelf,
Bumping and crying: "I can fall by myself;
Without a woman's hand to coax and flatter me,
I understand
The lean and poise of gravitable land."
It gave a raucous and tumultuous shout,
Twisted itself convulsively about,
Rested upon the floor, and, while I stare,
It stares and grins at me.
The old impetuous Gas above my head
Begins irascibly to flare and fret,
Wheezing into its epileptic jet,
Reminding me I ought to go to bed.

The Rafters creak; an Empty-Cupboard door
Swings open; now a wild Plank of the floor
Breaks from its joist, and leaps behind my foot.
Down from the chimney half a pound of Soot
Tumbles, and lies, and shakes itself again.
The Putty cracks against the window-pane.
A piece of Paper in the basket shoves
Another piece, and toward the bottom moves.
My independent Pencil, while I write
Breaks at the point: the ruminating Clock
Stirs all its body and begins to rock,
Warning the waiting presence of the Night,
Strikes the dead hour, and tumbles to the plain
Ticking of ordinary work again.

You do well to remind me, and I praise
Your strangely individual foreign ways.
You call me from myself to recognize
Companionship in your unselfish eyes.
I want your dear acquaintances, although
I pass you arrogantly over, throw
Your lovely sounds, and squander them along
My busy days. I'll do you no more wrong.
Purr for me, Sukie, like a faithful cat.
You, my well trampled Boots, and you, my Hat,
Remain my friends: I feel, though I don't speak,
Your touch grow kindlier from week to week.

It well becomes our mutual happiness
To go toward the same end more or less.
There is not much dissimilarity,
Not much to choose, I know it well, in fine,
Between the purposes of you and me,
And your eventual Rubbish Heap, and mine.

The chairs and tables, the uncomplaining furniture, the expectant pet, the warm fireside, these are the things he brings an immsense dignity to, hopping to find in their solidity his own sense of nothingness.

I do not share his penchant for subsidence but I , along with him, do enjoy the creaking sounds of the doors and the muggy feeling of old boots. I do remember what I like in his poetry even though I have not been able to find the poem I liked.

The text is quoted from this site which has some more poems.

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Browsing through the net I stumbled upon this Poetry for the War section of the Wall Street journal website. I know I am four years too late but some of these poems are very fine, to say the least. During Iraq War and much of the subsequent period, I was shut up in myself.It also did not help that I was not connected to the internet or glued to television and that, coupled with my traditional troglodytic existence meant that I was three or four years behind the world. It is only in the last year or so that I could put away my personal cares adequately enough to read and understand the world. It is a hard task to come out of your cave.

So, you must understand my pleasure at discovering the cache of these fine poems. They are written by amateurs mostly and are on the same scale of my intelligence. (I consider myself an amateur too; never been exposed to the sturm and drang of the art circles or the universities.) Many are good but what affected me most were not the sentiments expressed here ( although I agree with a lot of them) but rather a surprise that they express thoughts in the same metaphors that I've tried hard to acquire myself (Oh, my solipsism !)

Consider this poem by Colin Dodds :

I was never much of a smoker,
but it was all so thick in the air.

The gods were aroused, desirous.
Their pheromones of fire and screaming
overtook our plans.

The stink below Canal Street
makes us mad for retribution.
The race of airplanes
unleashes its warrior caste.

Bloodlust is no weaker,
nor more complicated to arouse
than any other lust.

In the bars, the restaurants,
we talk war until we love each other.

Our conversations begin in diplomatic morass
and end in nuclear consummation,
tasting every permutation of horror in between.

And we hurry to the final explosion
just to be over with it, just to stop
wanting such things for a moment.

History and the old animal gods
squeeze us close.


We do all we can
to escape their embrace
and end up doing all that they ask.

I was thrilled to read this. You will my find my blog littered with commentary on mythologies. My interest in the ancient world developed when I began to read the Bible and the Beowulf, Odyssey and the Mahabharata and somehow I read in their arcane twisted interplay of gods and men a drama that is more germane to our existence. When we have banished myths and gods from our midst, we also have banished the only concepts that allowed man to perceive things bigger than himself and I do not mean abstract nonsense like eternity and but palpable entities like war, revolution, loyalty, insurrection and peace.

In ordinary times, we may scratch our heads at silly stuff like God, rituals and church attendance but only in times of stress, do we realise that gods and myths and epics are the secret language of a restless ming grappling with the world, not the "hereafter."

I called this blog Cenacle, primarily to talk about such forces, not just review books.

Then there is an ode to the Cowboy as well and you will find in the comment section my own take on what it means to be a cowboy!
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Carmen 63 by Catullus

May 2nd 2007 10:11
Yesterday I wrote about the self-castrating galli. Thier plight formed the subject of a very evocative poem by Catullus who also wrote in a meter called the galliambic, a metre seldom used before and never since. The translations all differ from each other quite wildly and having no Latin I have no way of distinguishing between the faithful and the sanitised renderings of the poem. Here's one which I found serviceable :

Carried in a fast ship over profound seas
Attis, eager and hurried, reached the Phrygian grove,
The goddess's dark places, crowned with woodland.
And there, exalted by amorous rage, his mind gone,
He cut off his testicles with a sharp flint.
While the ground was still spotted with fresh blood
Quickly took in his snowy hands a tambourine
Such as serves your initiates, Cybele, instead of a trumpet,
And shaking the hollow calf-hide with delicate fingers,
Quivering, she began to sing to the troop this:

Go together, votaresses, to the high groves of Cybele.
Go together, wandering herd of the lady of Dindymus.
Quick into exile, you looked for foreign places
And, following me and the rule I had adopted,
You bore with the salt tide and the violence of the high sea

And emasculated your bodies from too much hatred of Venus:
Delight the lady's mind with your errant haste.
Overcome your reluctance: together
Go to the Phrygian shrine of Cybele, to her groves

Where the voice of cymbals sounds, the tambourines rattle,
Where the Phrygian piper sings with the deep curved pipe,
Where Maenads wearing ivy throw back their heads,
Where they practice the sacred rites with sharp yells.
Where they flutter around the goddess's cohort:
It is there we must go with our rapid dances."

As Attis, the counterfeit woman, sang this to her companions,
The choir howled suddenly with tumultuous tongues.
The tambourine bellows, the cymbals clash again;
The swift troop moves off to Ida with hurrying feet.
Crazy, panting, drifting, at her last gasp,
Attis with her tambourine leads them through the opaque groves
Like an unbroken heifer refusing the yoke:

The swift votaresses follow their swift-footed leader.
When they reach Cybele's shrine, feeble and worn,
From too much toil they take their rest without bread (Ceres).
Sleep covers their eyes with a heavy blanket;
Their rabid madness subsides to a girlish quiet.
But when the golden sun with his streaming eyes

Purified the white sky, hard land, wild sea,
And drove away the shadows of night with his thundering horses,
Attis was aroused and Sleep went quickly from her
Back to the trembling arms of the goddess Pasithea.
Then from her girlish quiet, with no hurrying madness,
Attis remembered what she had done
And saw in her lucid mind what was missing and where she was.
Tempestuously she turned back to the shore.
There, looking at the open sea with tearful eyes,
With grief in her voice she addressed her native land:

"Land which begot me, land which brought me forth,
I am abject to abandon you like a runaway slave.
My feet have carried me to the groves of Ida
To be among snow in the cold lairs of wild beasts;
I shall visit their violent haunts.
Where, O my land, can I imagine you are?
My eye desires you and narrows as it turns toward you
In this short interval when my mind is unfrenzied.
Shall I be carried to the forests, from my far-off home?
Away from country, goods, friends, family?
From the Forum, palaestra, racecourse, and gymnasium?
There is nothing for me but misery.
What shape is there that I have not had?

A woman now, I have been man, youth, and boy;
I was athlete, the wrestler.
There were crowds round my door, my fans slept on the doorstep;
There were flowers all over the house
When I left my bed at sunrise.

Shall I be a waiting maid to the gods, the slave of Cybele?
I a Maenad, I a part of myself, I impotent?
Shall I live above the snow line on green Ida?
Shall I pass my life under the rocky peaks of Phrygia
Where the doe runs in the woods, where the boar mooches in the glade?
I regret now, now, what I have done, I repent of it, now!"
As these words hurried away from her pink lips,

Bringing a new message to the ears of the gods,
Cybele, letting her lions off the leash
And urging forward the beast on the left hand,
Said,

"Get on, be fierce, see that he's driven mad;
Make him insane enough to return to the forest
He has had the impertinence to want to be out of my power.
Come on, lash around with your tail till you hurt yourself:
Make the whole neighborhood ring with your bellowing roar.
Be fierce, shake the red mane on your muscular neck."

Thus the threatening Cybele, and she wound the leash round her hand.
The beast stirs up his courage and rouses himself to fury.
He is off, he roars, he breaks up the undergrowth.
When he came to the wet sand on the whitening shore
And saw tender Attis by the waters of the sea,
He charged: Attis, mad, flew into the wild woods:
There, for the rest of her life, she lived as a slave.

Great Goddess, Goddess Cybele, Goddess lady of Dindymus,
May all your fury be far from my house.
Incite the others, go. Drive other men mad.

The text is quoted from this site.


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Hamlet's Rejoinder

April 21st 2007 10:52
Yesterday, I wrote about Vtech massacre. There is a passage in Hamlet which has been haunting me since I first read it. I should like to quote it in this context, for it befits the moral situation of this whole sad business.

Hamlet: Aye, marry, is't,
But to my mind, though I am native here,
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honored in the breach than the observance;
This heavy-headed revel, east and west,
Makes us traduced and taxed of other nations;
They clepe us drunkards, and with swinish phrase
Soil our addition, and indeed, it takes
From our achievements; though performed at height:
The pith and marrow of our attribute;

So oft' it chances in particular men,
That for some vicious mole of nature in them,
As in their birth wherein they are not guilty,
(Since nature cannot choose his origin,)
By their o'ergrowth of some complexion,
Oft' breaking down the pales and forts of reason,
Or, by some habit, that too much o'erleavens
The form of plausive manners, that these men
Carrying, I say, the stamp of one defect
Being nature's livery, or fortune's star,
His virtues else be they as pure as grace,
As infinite as man may undergo,
Shall in the general censure take corruption
From that particular fault; the dram of evil
Doth all the noble substance of a doubt,
To his own scandal.

I am not a native nor manner born to America but this is what I would quote in solidarity with that country.
The text is is taken from this site.

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Out of the Blue by Simon Armitage

September 6th 2006 04:38
Sunday Times published “Out of the Blue” a poem by Simon Armitage, Britain’s “unofficial poet laureate” this Sunday. Armitage is known for making politically blunt, or blasé, comments depending on whether you read the poem from left to right or right to left. But this poem is intentionally not political but “commemorative or elegiac".

It’s a long poem. It begins with a man waking up to his daily breakfast and follows his every step. A little later, he is there on the 80th floor looking down on America and feeling the exhilaration. He has arranged around his desk, the clutter of memories. The towers are standing. All is set.

Then, the poem segues into a long, slow-mo shot of the attacks : the initial “thump”, the rush of the people to phones, their desperate talk, the heat and the smoke, the distant rush of fire engines and then, the fall. But, before disappearing completely everyone needs that death clarity moment, you know the one where you are just a zillionth of a second away from dying and everything becomes clear to you as it never was. I don’t know because I never died before. But, the man has the moment where the clutter of memories flashes before his eyes like a cartoon strip and it ends.

Like this:

what false alarm can be trusted again?
What case or bag can be left unclaimed?
What flight can be sure to steer its course?
What building can claim to own its form?
What column can vow to stand up straight?
What floor can agree to bear its weight?
What tower can vouch to retain its height?
What peace can be said to be water-tight?
What truth can be said to be bullet-proof?
Can anything swear to be built to last?
Can anything pledge to be hard and fast?
What system can promise to stay in place?
What structure can promise to hold its shape?
What future can promise to keep the faith?


Is this any different from those countless poems or novels that you have read before? You know the ones where the hero starts his day with an erection, I mean the sensation of his own power, and before long, he collapses into something or something collapses into him (like being shot by a robber who is a good man but is just hungry) but there is a collapse and look he is not so erect now. How dare you, you purveyor of money and trade and capitalism, feel conscious of your own power? Do you not know it is all dust ashes and smoke (or smokescreen)?


You can read the poem and the poet's interview here.
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