Poems from the inn of William Blake

Thursday, August 29, 2024

Memorial of the Passion of Saint John the Baptist

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Poems from the inn of William Blake

The foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom.

Aristotle and many after looked for truth, goodness and beauty to guide humanity into the light. Poetry finds its place in this triangle of wonder, sometimes finding me before I find it. The words of so many pave the paths in the heavenly kingdom, and we can just walk one way and then the next, listening, listening, listening.

Where is the wise one, where is the scribe? Has not God made the wisdom of the world foolish? Be vigilant at all times and pray, that you may have the strength to stand before the Son of Man.

Lately I’ve been surprised by William Blake, who would be the better part of 300 years old by now. Although he and his wife had no children, his poetry and art have covered the walls of many a nursery in the last 30 decades, his Songs of Innocence and Experience, and although his religion was too sacrilegious for his times, it has a certain attraction for me. His thee’s and his thou’s often send shivers down my spine.

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?

 

When the stars threw down their spears

And water’d 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?

But Mr. Blake, painter, engraver, visionary and poet, knew that as in the Bible’s Eden there must be a lamb alongside the lion, and he penned a poem for the lamb, too.

Little Lamb who made thee?

Dost thou know who made thee?

Gave thee life and bid thee feed

By the stream and o’er the mead;

Gave thee clothing of delight,

Softest clothing wooly bright;

Gave thee such a tender voice,

Making all the vales rejoice:

     Little Lamb who made thee?

     Dost thou know who made thee?

 Little Lamb I’ll tell thee,

 Little Lamb I’ll tell thee:

He is callèd by thy name,

For he calls himself a Lamb:

He is meek and he is mild,

He became a little child:

I a child and thou a lamb,

We are callèd by his name:

Little Lamb God bless thee!

Little Lamb God bless thee!

 Biographer Alexander Gilchrist said Blake “neither wrote nor drew for men, but rather for children and angels.”

When the stars threw down their spears …

Could I myself make A Visit to William Blake’s Inn? Read his poetry day and night? Rage, rage against the dying of the light?

Falling in love with Blake’s poetry as a child, Nancy Willard wrote her own book of poetry when she grew up, and in it told a story about the inn and its inhabitants.

That night the tiger rose and said,

“What is this rumbling overhead

That robs me of  repose?”

To which the rabbit made reply,

The moon is entering the sky,

a-twirling on her toes.” …

The old sun danced, the new moon sang,

I clapped my hands; the morning rang

As creatures clapped with paw and fang,

And fell asleep at last.

Now spring has sprung, and the proprietor comes to tear open the shutters and throw up the sash. Mr. Blake’s come home at last.

The man in the marmalade hat

bustled through all the rooms,

And calling for dusters and brooms

he trundled the guests from their beds,

Badgers and hedgehogs and moles.

Winter is over, my loves, he said.

Come away from your hollows and holes.

Now beat the gong and pound the drum.

Call out the keepers and waken the sleepers.

The man in the marmalade hat has come!

This strange man with the sticky orange hat spent his life seeking visions and then seeking reprieve from them. He wrote and painted and etched hundreds of mysterious masterpieces.

One of his poems became the alternative British national anthem and is now accompanied by solemn sacred music, often played at funerals, weddings and soccer matches, titled “Jerusalem”:

And did those feet in ancient time

Walk upon England’s mountains green:

And was the holy Lamb of God,

On England’s pleasant pastures seen!

 

And did the Countenance Divine,

Shine forth upon our clouded hills?

And was Jerusalem builded here,

Among these dark Satanic Mills?

 

Bring me my Bow of burning gold:

Bring me my arrows of desire:

Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!

Bring me my Chariot of fire!

 

I will not cease from Mental Fight,

Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:

Till we have built Jerusalem,

In England’s green and pleasant Land.

Perhaps, when he learned what became of his poem, Mr. Blake turned over in his grave. Or perhaps he just cocked his head, winked, and returned to the spring cleaning of his inn.

The earth is full of the kindness of the Lord, and the plan of the Lord stands forever.

 (1 Corinthians 1, Psalm 145, Mark 6)

(posted at www.davesandel.net)

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