Author: Sysadmin

A bit more on the poem from yesterday’s blog. The author of “The Hound of Heaven” (1890) was Francis Thompson. He was a religious mystic who, like John Keats and Anton Chekhov, was trained in medicine; he preferred poetry and other literature. He died from tuberculosis at 47. As Wikipedia notes: “A lifetime of poverty, ill-health, and opium addiction had taken their toll on him, even though he found success in his last years.” Thompson had tried to commit suicide but was saved by a vision, then befriended and taken in by a prostitute (he called her his savior) who eventually left him.

I neglected to mention yesterday that a standard interpretation of this poem is that the hound of the title is a symbol for God. The hound remarks, “‘All things betray thee, who betrayest me…'” But the speaker evades divinity: “Across the margent of the world I fled,” margent meaning margin.  But he or she cannot find satisfaction in the material world: “Nature, poor stepdame, cannot slake my drouth,” meaning relieve his drought.

The hound of heaven blames the speaker’s evasions for his or her condition: “‘Lo! naught contents thee,  who content’st not Me.'” The use of a capital letter for the hound supports the idea that it is a metaphor for God.

 

 

This blog comes courtesy of my father who recommended the poem “The Hound of Heaven” to me. It was written in 1890 by Francis Thompson, an English poet.

Just read it and have a few thoughts. I think this poem is an example of Naturalism, a literary movement popular at the turn of the 20th century. Wikipedia defines the movement in philosophy as “the idea or belief that only natural laws and forces (as opposed to supernatural or  spiritual) operate in the universe.” But I think it is also spiritual in a way because it seems to represent rejection of the corporeal life.

It begins with the words “I fled Him,” referring to a hound that seems to represent man’s animal nature. The flight is done through “the labyrinthine ways” of the speaker’s mind. He avoids the hound because he is “sore adread/Lest adread, I must have naught beside.”

The poem also contains a bull (in the sense of an Irish bull) when it says, “Their sound is but their stir, they speak by silences.” It brings to mind Richard Head’s 17th-century remark in a preface to his book Nugae Venales that he plans “To speak with silence, and to write aloud.”

Towards the end of the poem, the hound says, “Alack, thou knowest not/How little worthy of any love thou art!” I think this poem is an intriguing combination of Naturalism, with its disbelief in spirituality and valorization of the animal qualities of the human, and a turn away from corporeal pursuits to a simpler type of existence, possibly a spiritual one. So it is an ambiguous poem to me. I think great poetry usually is ambiguous.

Returning after a hiatus since late last November. Had technical problems and issues in my personal life that diverted my writing to social media while this site seemed inaccessible to me.

Thoughts today on the ancient Greek and literary theory idea of anagnorisis, meaning the process of a character realizing their true identity, situation, and the significance of their actions. One of the most famous examples is when Oedipus in the play Oedipus Rex realizes he has mistakenly killed his biological father and married his biological mother, but there are many other examples of this literary device.

I think it resonates so much because most of us have had flashes of insight about our identity or past actions. I had them recently about things that have happened to me in the months since my last blog post. It is interesting because it usually leads to a major pivot in the life of the person experiencing anagnorisis. Because I like to tell jokes, something similar occurs when it becomes clear someone has been offended by one.  But laughter and irony are essential elements of my life.

In other news, I have had my publishing advisor accept my prospectus for a new book that I hope will be available this summer. It will be a collection of brief essays, poems, and jokes about the same length as my first book.

 

“Sad” by yours truly

Mr. Bill is sad.

He’s made the neighbors mad.

Some people think they are the POTUS,

And they have to show us.

Now they want Bill gone,

So he feels quite wan.

Congratulations US of A:

You have your first president militantly gay.

PS: I passed some pre-adolescent boys playing with a dead squirrel on the sidewalk and joking about eating it for dinner. Made me feel better about a bachelor Thanksgiving dinner of cheeseburger. Happy Turkey Day.

“Stalker 1,2,3” by yours truly

“Despite what you’ve heard, I am not a stalker.”

“That is fine. This is B—.”

“Nice to meet you Booby! Try to friendly.”

“That’s okay.”

“I’ll go away.”

“Stalker 2” by yours truly

“It’s me again. Never mind.”

“Are you in your right mind?”

“Right. Mind?”
“Stalker 3” by yours truly

“Are you okay?”

“Yes, as your upstairs neighbor, I can say ‘Daddy cares.’ And don’t  date bears.”

“What? Are these poems for children from broken homes?”

“That judgment is yours.”

 

“Ohh!”

“I don’t date whores, and am firmly opposed to it.”

 

 

 

“

“Miscell-toe-neous” by yours truly

Self-deprecation

“You come highly recommended.”

“Someone recommended me? They must have been smoking a lot of pot indeed.”

“Not sure about high, but I do come often. It could put me in a coffin.”

The New Regime

“Be unpaid. Be very unpaid.

Coz we will, we will mock you!”

No Drama

“No, no, no you don’t,

Gently if a ream,

Scari-lly, scari-lly, scari-lly,

Life isn’t as it seem.”

That Night

“They killed you that night.”

“But I put up a fight.”

“Bad dreams at fright?”

“Know wrong from right.”

“Someone turn on the light.”

“Well you may, well you might.”

“Despite potato blight.”

“Think sound, not sight.”

“It’ll be alright.”

“Right.”

Against Smoking

“M—-, don’t smoke.

Not a joke.

Date some bloke.

Or drink diet Coke.

But please don’t smoke.

Maybe you can pace.

Or spray my face with mace.

I deserve it, big disgrace.

Coming to get you.

Won’t forget you.”

Incest

“What’s wrong W—-? Are you a ‘shy guy’?”

“Hey, M—- just got a call from your sister. Says you couldn’t resist her.”

“That was a flop. Someone get a mop. I could kill you.”

“But will you?”

News Flash

News flash: Helen of Troy got a tattoo on Fantasy Thailand, but don’t take the car, you’ll kill your elf.

Three more haunted places around the world.

Dedicated to the Hindu god Vishnu, Angkor Wat was built in the 12th century “as a funerary temple” for a  king, part of a larger park. It was largely unknown to Westerners until the mid-19th century. This magazine entry calls it “an earthly microcosm of the Hindu universe” and bas-relief heads “that smile so mysteriously they might make just make the Mona Lisa look like Kim Kardashian.”

A few thoughts. As noted before, Henry James loved “aged ruins,” and this may be one. Also, people smoking too much pot seemed to be supporting crazy politicians in the developing world including Pol Pot, pardon the pun. Also the late 20th century movie In the Mood for Love ends with the hero taking solace in Angkor Wat after losing a love.

Oops. Two more to come.

 

“Acceptance (Kind of)”: by yours truly

“Poor more years! Poor more years!”

“Said with sneers! Said with sneers!”

“Fewer beers! Fewer beers!”

“The end nears! The end nears!”

“Hide those tears! Hide those tears!”

“Cut with sheers! Cut with sheers!” (Whoa, take it easy.)

“Don’t hate queers! Don’t hate queers!”

“Erase the blot in four more years!”

“On Not Killing Elves” by yours truly

“Kill your elf! Kill your elf! Kill!” “No, elves are gentle creatures, and we don’t really own them. Stop saying that.” “Kill it!” “Kill It, the Stephen King novel? Why would I want to kill a book I haven’t read. Now a few Russian ones maybe. Some say they are the best, but I don’t know…” “Kill!” “As you will. I’ll kill you, McGoo. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya. May move to California. I’ll be a big star. Sure to go far. Happy now?”