I have found myself genuinely at a loss for words lately. I see many things, realize many things, go through many things, and yet nevertheless the articulation is not precisely present. The experience is, but the articulation less so. I am not troubled by this per say, indeed it is rather relaxing and enjoyable to simply sit by, listen, observe, and allow the apocalypse unravel itself before me. The Greek word apocalypse (ἀποκάλυψις) means to reveal or disclose or uncover. The root word is formed from kalupto (καλύπτω) which means to cover or hide or conceal. Adding the preposition “apo” (ἀπο) indicates the action is moving away from or antithetical (in various ways) towards the root word and hence we have apocalypse (ἀποκάλυψις) – moving away from concealment. It is interesting to consider that God hides things from us or is rather found in secret or in hiding, buried away covertly like treasure in a cave. Often the Lord would describe the Kingdom of Heaven in such a manner. This indicates that things, even with God, are not necessarily as they so seem, and it also further indicates that we are called upon to in-quire, to ad-venture, or quest-ion the world around us, what we see before us, to seek and verily ye shall find.
I have recently accomplished a joyful feat myself – I read the rather long autobiographical tome of a poem by William Wordsworth called The Prelude. It is wonderful to read and imbibe a poet, particularly Wordsworth – he is so bright, lucid, intelligent, and sensitive to both the natural world around him as well as the interior landscape before him. There are few things that get my engines revving than a really well-spoken naturalistic poet I must admit. And Wordsworth certainly does not disappoint. As I say the poem is quite long and most impressive. My professor from college claimed that after St. Augustine, it is the first autobiography of the Western canon, and there is much that can be said about such a powerful claim in a host of respects. To be honest I have so many topics and subjects that I could speak on regarding The Prelude from the political, philosophical, poetic, literary, theological, natural, technologic, the poem really does span such a wondrous range and depth and all centered through the prism of this one alive and lucid poet of a man. It is quite joyous to read and to ruminate upon. I could not recommend it more highly.
And yet here I sit still really in a daze or stupor or ecstasy of sorts perhaps. I admittedly do not have much to say other than to express the joyousness of this poem and poet. I am very much a part of this poem and I appreciate the poet’s efforts to speak so well and so brilliantly both in terms of style, subject matter, form, and function. If you are so inclined I encourage you to pick it up if the time and ability arises – here you will find a link to one of the versions and editions I own and read if you are interested. I chose to focus upon the 1805 version as it seems to be closer to the original heart and passion and outpouring of the actual poem when it was first created and formed. The 1850 version, albeit the posthumously published version, does seem to have more edits and restrictions upon the text from a man much older and perhaps wiser or merely prudent in his later years. These 1850 edits, to my brief comparison while reading the 1805 version, seem to make the 1850 version more restrained, hesitant, perhaps even guilty or admonishing of his younger and admittedly more rash years. But is it not true that there is something wonderful and liberating about our irrational, impetuous selves? Particularly those of a genuine poet – like an electric live wire the poet has a tendency, if not a natural reflex or need even, to over-extend, over-enthuse, over-emote. I suspect this is true for Wordsworth in particular and the modern poet in general since his time.
Wordsworth is a very interesting poet in the larger span and chronology of poetry itself for he does appear to mark a watershed in the craft and consideration of poetry to the mind of man. Before Wordsworth and Coleridge, his writing partner and friend, poetry has a rather distinct and clear form, sound, and purpose, and both reader and writer felt most obligated to follow along in this tradition. Wordsworth and Coleridge are indeed some of the first poets (if not the first) to openly break from many of these traditions and even go so far as to literally explain and justify and articulate in rather profound detail precisely how and why they are doing such. This explication can be found in the Preface to Lyrical Ballads; Lyrical Ballads being the two volume set of poems which Wordsworth and Coleridge wrote and published together in 1798. This publication indeed marks the beginning of the modern age of poetry, an age we still live in to this day, and frankly has only marginally transformed since. If you wish to read the Preface you can find a link to it here. Again I could speak luxuriously just on this Preface itself let alone the book of poems it introduces, and yet at this time I rather strangely am unable or perhaps redirected towards a different type of discourse here today. A more musing discourse it would so seem.
Poetry, particularly very good poetry, is a wonderful and challenging form to read, making it healthy and sharpening for the mind, but unlike say philosophical writings which also are sharpening mentally, poetry is also awakening and enlivening for the heart and soul of a man. It speaks to the living core of our being a hot furnace within alive with passion, pain, joy, suffering, connected to the earth and mountains, the moon bright and shaded over by clouds, the rain smattering upon our faces, the wind, sunlight, sounds ringing far off in the distance across the field. There is joy in this. Life abounds in poetry for it flows through the poet and he etches this life into his words the phrasing the sounds and images they hit us like rapid successive fire upon our hearts and minds and our bodies too. My professor would often say to us when reading poetry, “You have to read the poem deep into your bones so you can understand it.” Deep into your bones I always loved that. To let it sink into you like a rock being pushed into soft mud the poem must get into us, live inside of us, we must co-habit the poem so that ultimately we aren’t reading it per say, though of course we are, but we are more drinking it living it and seeing the world through its eyes and being radiant and alive surging electric. And the more you read the more you accustom yourself to it, the more it accustoms itself to you and you both become one together. A unity forms a synthesis and bonding and soon you are alive the poem is pouring out of your eyes the world transformed altered into a new landscape a shimmering gleam in sunlight fresh after the rains your body sprite. This is how we read poetry together. This is what poetry is for. It is a bodily experience as much as it is an intellectual and emotional one. There is fullness to poetry that no other form of writing seems to really have. The novel is less physical, but can certainly approach poetry.
I have been writing poetry for many years now. I hope perhaps in the coming days, perhaps this year to finally one day publish some of my own writings to share. There is much that can be done indeed. So many blessings do abound. I am grateful and I have cherished reading The Prelude and am so glad to have accomplished the task and enjoyed it all along the way. What a blessing is a book. I have been busy with life and so have not written much I must confess. I hope you have enjoyed our meandering stroll together here today with my dear friend William Wordsworth, The Prelude, so wondrously written, and this mystic form we call poetry. May it ring, hum true, free, glad in your heart forevermore.