Prospice

I'm in a poetry groove lately. The other night again I finished work in the wee hours and sat down in the big chair with every intention of falling asleep quickly. But I picked up a book of poetry and before long I was furiously memorizing Prospice, by Robert Browning. An hour later I finally drifted to sleep, my lips unintelligibly repeating the stanzas. The next day I kept repeating it, until it was mine--a companion for life.


Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
the mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form
Yet the strong man must go.
For the journey is done, and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight 'ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter; so,--one fight more,
The best and the last.
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes and forbore,
And bade me slip past.
No! Let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers,
The heroes of old.
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave;
The black minute's at end,
And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend, shall change,
Shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
'O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!

Poetry is so personal and so subjective. "Prospice" is to look forward. Browning wrote this poem a few months after the death of his dearly beloved Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And yes, he is looking forward to seeing her again. In many ways, that is his reward. But it's important to him that he die well--with courage and honor. Maybe to deserve to be in her presence. But I think, perhaps, more because it is part of his being a real man.

Does he fear Death? Well, yes. Like a man would fear a harsh storm in the night, like he would fear an enemy sentinel, like a warrior fears battle, or a condemned man the firing squad. But like a good sailor, we will head out into the storm, wtih the fog in his throat and the mist in his face; he will walk past the sentinel; he will fight the last battle and face his executioners without a blindfold.

He does this because he has overcome his fear of death. That is duty and honor--to discipline yourself to do what is right no matter the challenge. He has put it in perspective. If this world is a test, then surely this is the final passage, and to live life well is to die well too. Is it painful? Well, yes, but instead of running from the pain, embrace it heroically. Death is the price we pay for life, and until we meet our death, we are in arrears, and in fact we will never clear the balance without an honorable death, that is, the measure of our lives will be found wanting.

And then, as the light expires, everything changes. Our existence is transformed from temporal travails to a celestial existence, the apex of which is to be reunited with the love of his earthly life. How beautifully, emotionally, hopefully and lovingly he describes this passage, where Elizabeth waits on the other side. Read it deliberately:

And the elements rage, the fiend-voices that rave
Shal dwindle ... shall blend ... shall change ...
Shall become first a peace out of pain ...

Then a light ...

Then thy breast ...

'O thy soul of my soul ... I shall see thee again!
And with God be the rest.


The last line is interesting.

I think--that now we will spend the rest of eternity together with God.
But maybe--I have passed my earthly test well, and judgment is in God's hands?
I have been given my reward (to be with my love), and let God turn his attention to everyone else?

Enough rambling--really steam-of-consciousness and excruciatingly long for a blog. Learning a poem is a beautiful thing.

Leaving Las Vegas

Having spent most of the week in Las Vegas at the Consumer Electronics Show, I am most happy to be leaving. Las Vegas is a metaphor for the very worst of our society, the lowest of our inclinations, and the basest misuse of our achievements.

For one thing, I am always taken aback by the unabashed marketing of sex, which is invasively pervasive. It is as if the rules of common decency have been proudly suspended. Near-naked women adorn the sides of building and busses, each sex show flaunting itself as grander than the rest, each "gentlemen's club" promising a more fulfilling night of fantasy. And alas, the entire service industry seems to have been caught up in the spirit of promiscuity, the restaurants and casinos filled with silicone-enhanced women eager to be tipped by half-drunk revellers with the fantasy of fulfillment in one hand and a five-dollar bill in the other.

And of course there is the gambling, which is where the real money is lost and made (by the gamblers and the casinos, respectively). If P.T. Barnum was right and there is a sucker born every minute, then that explains the steady stream of hopefuls sitting thoughtfully at the blackjack tables and mindlessly at the slots. Pushed to explain, they would grudgingly acknowledge that the odds are stacked against them. Even those with skill and smarts would admit that for all their wiles at best they improve their chances to something less than 50-50. But in the name of entertainment, there are always those ready to spend their hard-earned money for the outrageous possibility that in the final tally they will beat the house.

But perhaps the most repulsive aspect to Sin City is the thin veneer of false glamour that has been laquered on in thick, gaudy brushstrokes to every element of the experience. It is the artistic equivalent of painting by numbers; the aesthetic sensibility of velvet likenesses of Elvis and wild horses. Walking through the hallways of even the most prestigious hotels I am embarassed by the clumsy monuments to cheap decadence made by crafty artisans at union wages.

So my favorite time in Las Vegas is the moment I say good-bye, turning in my hotel room keycard with the scantily-clad dancer and putting behind me the images of tawdry hucksters counting their money under the neon lights of Gomorrah.

On Coleridge

I've been working very long hours lately, and have found relaxation in reading poetry. A few days ago at 3 a.m. I started reading Coleridge, thinking it would probably put me to sleep. Instead, for the first time in my life I read his most famous work: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, and found it extraordinary in its compelling story line, lyrical verse and haunting imagery. I highly recommend it.

In the process, I learned that the poem has been the source for a number of commonplace expressions, including "an albatross around the neck," the line: "Water, water all around, nor but a drop to drink" (often misquoted), and the phrase: "a sadder but wiser man." Most surprising, I learned that the same poetic structure and cadence was, quite appropriately, used in the theme song of Gilligan's Island.

One stanza stood out, and I memorized it:

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk with fear and dread,
And having once turned round, walks on
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

This was the dawn of romantic poetry, and he has certainly added a lilting flourish to an experience I suspect we all have known. He was also an opium addict, and perhaps that illuminates the stanza more insightfully.

I was also amused by this little epigram from Coleridge:

Sir I admit your general rule
That every poet is a fool.
But you yourself may serve to show it
That every fool is not a poet.

He would have scored big in a poetry slam.

Absolutions and Resolutions

We have come not to praise last year's resolutions, but to bury them. Their spirits have left their bodies and we will see them later on, perhaps on Judgment Day. It is now time to turn our attention to matters of relevance: today, and tomorrow.

I like goals, and I like resolutions. But they are mates of different sorts. Resolutions are completely within my control. Resolutions, whether great or small, are individual battles: My Will vs. The Seven Deadly Sins, or sometimes opponents with a less distinguished pedigree. It was not difficult to quit playing Free Cell a few years ago, and I dispatched that minor villain in short order, but Gluttony is less like a weekend scrimmage and more of an ongoing rivalry. We are scheduled to meet again this afternoon, his bowl of Chocolate Fudge Swirl met by my determined resolve not to replace all of my pairs of pants in 2007.

Goals are less tangible things, involving a combination of effort, ability, and generally at least a small helping of good fortune. I have a goal to publish a work of fiction. Whether this is possible I do not know, for I have not mustered the effort necessary to succeed. When I do, then I will look to tag-team with Lady Luck. (Seneca said "Luck is what happens when preparation meets opportunity.")

I will set my goals this week, as I have for the past 20 years. And I will resolve to do a few things as well. And every so often I will sneak a peek at both lists, to see who is ahead, me or my opponent.