10-12-2013, 02:17 PM
third revision
Novalis
I.
Not long after his final song played out,
his friends and colleagues put him down in turn:
as if his Hymns left them no room to doubt,
that Night was nothing fit for one to yearn.
Like frost, their whispers clung to mortared walls,
of Academe, where icy forms congealed,
in Reason’s shape, throughout each of the halls,
stifling such warmth his Heart never concealed.
Yet though Sophia’s absence stirred his grief,
the hollow left behind made space to grow:
with wisdom’s pretense shed for true belief,
as often, men must feel what they can’t know.
And so his fertile tears fallowed the earth,
from which such azure blossoms came to birth!
II.
I struggle to envision him beside,
her grave, a scene that seems from out of time.
I ask they who fancy themselves allied,
with Logos, if they can do more than mime,
his words, which cast for us a silhouette,
whose backlight penetrates the Wasteland through,
and offer those who’d listen a vignette:
the glowing glimpse of an epoch more true.
Amid the sparks of all such remembrance,
that glimmering day of mourning now comes clear:
as his mind’s eye lost mortal encumbrance,
and rose to Night’s abode so far from here.
Thus devotion thrust his spirit above,
as wind to feather, so fierce was his love.
III.
Today, we’re greeted by the sun’s risings,
that burn the Night, as eldritch fog away,
and compel our concern towards worldly things,
stranded amid the mundane tones of Day.
Our Learned Men never cease to expound,
that in each case an object lies beneath:
as if by measurement they’d finally found,
the clockwork for which Spirit’s but the sheath.
And yet, no calculation can compare,
to rapture, as a lover’s hand grips mine:
nor to the glories that the Hymns lay bare,
to me, as I imbibe each verse and line.
Against all time, their secret speaks softly:
Losing itself, love gains Eternity.
first draft
Not long after his final song was sung
did friend and colleague put him down in turn
as if the world from it a sickness flung:
a rash, wrought by how bright his star did burn.
Like smoke, their whispers clung to the arid
halls of Academe, where sterile thought
curbed every trace of any tender bid
could move a heart to seek the things he sought.
Yet all such men fail thereby represent
what still remains the greatest human wealth
and lay in what is labeled sentiment
with scorn, by those who’ll never know the health –
of he, whose tears of loss fallowed the earth
from which such azure blossoms came to birth!
NOTES: I tried to take all criticism to heart, eliminate the Yoda-speak, trim up the meter, etc. Thanks to those who contributed; even so, I'm not terribly excited about how this poem turned out, so I'll probably just move on to something new.
In its defense, I'll say that if you know nothing of the story of Novalis and his fiance, this poem will likely mean much less to you than if you did. He is a fascinating figure. At least, he was fascinating enough for greats such as Herman Hesse to find a great deal of inspiration from. This poem was meant as a tribute to Novalis, in light of the fact that his lover's death was the event that congealed his magnum opus. After reading it through and meditating upon it, I would stake the claim that the latter contains no discernible trace of unresolved bitterness or resignation, but only the rapture of one whose suffering served to elevate his spirit. If anyone is interested in broadening their horizons, they can find a link to an English translation by one of Novalis' most loving students, George MacDonald, here:
http://www.logopoeia.com/novalis/hymns.html
Novalis was also decried by many contemporaries, including the idealist philosophers Schelling and Hegel, for being what modern parlance might call "too emotional." I try to highlight the logocentric bias of those who would so quickly criticize a man of his disposition. If you're confused about the ending reference, Google "the blue flower," which was Novalis' pet symbol for an impossible/ideal object of desire.
Novalis
I.
Not long after his final song played out,
his friends and colleagues put him down in turn:
as if his Hymns left them no room to doubt,
that Night was nothing fit for one to yearn.
Like frost, their whispers clung to mortared walls,
of Academe, where icy forms congealed,
in Reason’s shape, throughout each of the halls,
stifling such warmth his Heart never concealed.
Yet though Sophia’s absence stirred his grief,
the hollow left behind made space to grow:
with wisdom’s pretense shed for true belief,
as often, men must feel what they can’t know.
And so his fertile tears fallowed the earth,
from which such azure blossoms came to birth!
II.
I struggle to envision him beside,
her grave, a scene that seems from out of time.
I ask they who fancy themselves allied,
with Logos, if they can do more than mime,
his words, which cast for us a silhouette,
whose backlight penetrates the Wasteland through,
and offer those who’d listen a vignette:
the glowing glimpse of an epoch more true.
Amid the sparks of all such remembrance,
that glimmering day of mourning now comes clear:
as his mind’s eye lost mortal encumbrance,
and rose to Night’s abode so far from here.
Thus devotion thrust his spirit above,
as wind to feather, so fierce was his love.
III.
Today, we’re greeted by the sun’s risings,
that burn the Night, as eldritch fog away,
and compel our concern towards worldly things,
stranded amid the mundane tones of Day.
Our Learned Men never cease to expound,
that in each case an object lies beneath:
as if by measurement they’d finally found,
the clockwork for which Spirit’s but the sheath.
And yet, no calculation can compare,
to rapture, as a lover’s hand grips mine:
nor to the glories that the Hymns lay bare,
to me, as I imbibe each verse and line.
Against all time, their secret speaks softly:
Losing itself, love gains Eternity.
first draft
Not long after his final song was sung
did friend and colleague put him down in turn
as if the world from it a sickness flung:
a rash, wrought by how bright his star did burn.
Like smoke, their whispers clung to the arid
halls of Academe, where sterile thought
curbed every trace of any tender bid
could move a heart to seek the things he sought.
Yet all such men fail thereby represent
what still remains the greatest human wealth
and lay in what is labeled sentiment
with scorn, by those who’ll never know the health –
of he, whose tears of loss fallowed the earth
from which such azure blossoms came to birth!
NOTES: I tried to take all criticism to heart, eliminate the Yoda-speak, trim up the meter, etc. Thanks to those who contributed; even so, I'm not terribly excited about how this poem turned out, so I'll probably just move on to something new.
In its defense, I'll say that if you know nothing of the story of Novalis and his fiance, this poem will likely mean much less to you than if you did. He is a fascinating figure. At least, he was fascinating enough for greats such as Herman Hesse to find a great deal of inspiration from. This poem was meant as a tribute to Novalis, in light of the fact that his lover's death was the event that congealed his magnum opus. After reading it through and meditating upon it, I would stake the claim that the latter contains no discernible trace of unresolved bitterness or resignation, but only the rapture of one whose suffering served to elevate his spirit. If anyone is interested in broadening their horizons, they can find a link to an English translation by one of Novalis' most loving students, George MacDonald, here:
http://www.logopoeia.com/novalis/hymns.html
Novalis was also decried by many contemporaries, including the idealist philosophers Schelling and Hegel, for being what modern parlance might call "too emotional." I try to highlight the logocentric bias of those who would so quickly criticize a man of his disposition. If you're confused about the ending reference, Google "the blue flower," which was Novalis' pet symbol for an impossible/ideal object of desire.