Wednesday, October 15, 2008

Ghost gives me T.S. Eliot. Not With a Whimper But A Bang.

Ghost you are a lovely presence. Thank you for this: T.S. Eliot by Marlon Brando. It could also be Joe the Plumber. Am I the only one who sees the resemblance? Besides you Randal.

William Blake

After falling madly in love with TS Elliot, my second poetic infatuation was William Blake. The first of his poems I read was The Tyger, which found me in an adolescent search for God. I wrestled with Blake like the Angel of Death in my quest for God and never lost my love of Blake, but gave up on God long, long, long ago. Now The Tyger seems like a vaguely menacing nursery rhyme.

THE TYGER

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

By William Blake