Keats

I recently read a lecture on Mathematics (introductory part of the lecture), delivered by David Hilbert at the turn of last century, a sort of looking back at and looking forward to and gathering some of the biggest unsolved questions or wonders then in Maths. But as did so, he did one of those old-fashioned things, which perhaps finds itself a place in many rituals, and perhaps is a really nice thing generally - that, of recalling to mind. Recalling to mind certain things to bring forth or sort of invoke a frame of mind, a background which lets both the speaker and the listener perhaps orient to or share some of the common frame, the hypothetical thought space where the speaker can then unfold some of his thoughts. Seeing that done beautifully, one wonders why don't we do that more often. Anyway, this practice of recalling to mind, seems to be an age-old thing, as things that endure, generally are strong, and strong generally are beautiful and sensible, and perhaps encapsulate wisdom in practice. Even if the reader is the self, even if it is a note to self recalled often - perhaps just to invoke the companionship of some words.

So here, recalling these words from Keats: 

"As tradesmen say everything is worth what it will fetch, so probably every mental pursuit takes its reality and worth from the ardour of the pursuer—being in itself a Nothing. Ethereal things may at least be thus real, divided under three heads—Things real—things semireal—and nothings. Things real, such as existences of Sun moon and Stars—and passages of Shakspeare.—Things semireal, such as love, the Clouds etc., which require a greeting of the Spirit to make them wholly exist—and Nothings, which are made great and dignified by an ardent pursuit—which, by the by, stamp the Burgundy mark on the bottles of our minds, insomuch as they are able to “consecrate whate’er they look upon.”"

I am relatively new to Keats. Name heard often, a poem or two, but after recently acquiring a poem collection in a second-hand book sale, I seem to come across Keats' words more often. And then as one reads others, and reads Keats again, perhaps something that personally strikes me is a zest, a freshness, a proximity to life - the words that spring highest. Some writers when they write can weave the life around them in their words, so when you open their lines, it is a fragrance fresh from their time, that comes forth and surrounds you. 

I still read Keats. Beginner stages. Just a little read so far. Some poems, a few letters. Poems take a while generally with me. A beginner to poetry in a way. I read a poem and then let the poem pick me up as it would. Sometimes, one finds oneself reading the poem again and again, over days, months. Sometimes, years. Some fragments then become part of you, coming up to converse with you at times as strangers, at times, as yourself. With Keats, it is mostly the life in his words, then, his humility, his perspective, his good sense that his quotes I write here and there on little notes and scraps and some here following too, hoping the words find me again and again.

I scarcely remember counting upon any Happiness—I look not for it if it be not in the present hour,—nothing startles me beyond the moment. The Setting Sun will always set me to rights, or if a Sparrow come before my Window, I take part in its existence and pick about the gravel. 

Words penned some two hundred years ago, can brighten up any reader instantly. Here too, the recalling to mind things simple and basic to turn around any head lost or overwhelmed, a setting to rights.

To a beginner keen to learn more, the joy of hearing a poet's words on poetry is an introductory lesson of sorts, an appreciation of what perhaps the poet appreciates, himself perhaps exploring the shape of his own thoughts on paper as he writes and reads, and writes:

In poetry I have a few axioms, and you will see how far I am from their centre.

1st. I think poetry should surprise by a fine excess, and not by singularity; It should strike the reader as a wording of his own highest thoughts, and appear almost a remembrance.

2d. Its touches of beauty should never be half-way, thereby making the reader breathless, instead of content. The rise, the progress, the setting of Imagery should, like the sun, come natural to him, shine over him, and set soberly, although in magnificence, leaving him in the luxury of twilight. But it is easier to think what poetry should be, than to write it—And this leads me to

Another axiom—That if poetry comes not as naturally as the leaves to a tree, it had better not come at all.

I feel, one can perhaps recall to mind things. Or one can recall to mind atmospheres. Some words can help recall to mind states. In the calculus of things, perhaps states are an integration of atmospheres traversing a being. Perhaps that few artists can do, which is an everyday magic of living (a pre and post workout self for example), but in words, only perhaps poets find their way around it. And hence, perhaps prose by poets is one of the best things one can ever read. It has pleasures beyond reading. And hence, this note from Keats. His appreciation of the transformation that happens on encounter with a waterfall, "I live in the eye".

What astonishes me more than any thing is the tone, the coloring, the slate, the stone, the moss, the rock-weed; or, if I may so say, the intellect, the countenance of such places. The space, the magnitude of mountains and waterfalls are well imagined before one sees them; but this countenance or intellectual tone must surpass every imagination and defy any remembrance. I shall learn poetry here and shall henceforth write more than ever, for the abstract endeavor of being able to add a mite to that mass of beauty which is harvested from these grand materials, by the finest spirits, and put into etherial existence for the relish of one’s fellows. I cannot think with Hazlitt that these scenes make man appear little. I never forgot my stature so completely – I live in the eye; and my imagination, surpassed, is at rest.

At times, words obscure. At times, words reveal or illuminate. Generally a poet's words reveal. They illuminate the subject touched, they reveal the poet's world, ways, thoughts and approach to life, and perhaps, inadvertently, they reveal the poet. Poets are integrators that way, artists of words, their words seem to be very close to the fount of their own lives, often spanning the breadth and depth of living in a few words.

Perhaps a poet's words are like a concurring hum or a variation on a theme, a music, which, in a various way, repeat the same fount close to the poet, the fount of its own living, just another way to see or say the same thing, a new rejoicing in the approach to the only fount one knows. Perhaps.

New year post

I like reading book blogs. And posts by different people on books, poems, essays, things they have liked and shared, added with their personal notes on the things. There is the joy of discovery, of reading, of sharing.

So in that spirit, hoping to add a few posts this year. I like reading my own old posts too. 

Little to report on the yearly reading. Haven't been tracking it that well. Little closed completely. Yet, a lot opened and explored. A Shakespeare. A Russian novel begun early in the year, started reading again later in the year, and still continues. A lot of reading on reading. 

New year. A time for refresh. Some new resolutions. A new reason to begin. Not that beginning needs reasons. Yet, a new year seems symbolic enough to accompany it. This year, hoping to post more here. Perhaps, instead of waiting to post after I finish a book, which I have not been tracking on the recent-reads that well, I thought, perhaps a poem, an essay, a note.