Poem and a Story

This is a poem I recently rediscovered, which I like quite a bit.

For context, there's an apocryphal chapter of Daniel which tells the story of Susanna. According to the story, Susanna was a Hebrew woman who was spied on while bathing by two elders. The priests tried to force her to sleep with them, and when she refused they accused her of adultery and she was sentenced to death. Right before she's killed, Daniel comes to her aid (12 Angry Men?) and has them cross-examined, proving them fraud. The elders are put to death.

For more context, Peter Quince is a character in Midsummer Night's Dream who is trying to direct a play. He's a storyteller, not very good, but passionate. In the poem he's sitting at a Clavier (like a piano). The poem is by Wallace Stevens.

Peter Quince at the Clavier

I

Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,

Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;

Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt

The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.

II

In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.

Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.

She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.

A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned --
A cymbal crashed,
Amid roaring horns.

III

Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.

They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;

And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.

Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.

And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.

IV

Beauty is momentary in the mind --
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.

The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.

Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.

Something about how the words go together ("Death's ironic scraping","a wave interminably flowing"), the changes in rhyme scheme, and the different levels of story (Stevens writing as Peter Quince, telling the story of Suzanna) I really like. Section IV especially.

There's not really a point of posting that other than to share it, but I guess I'll try to make one. "Beauty is momentary in the mind[...] but in the flesh, it is immortal." What does that mean? The way I take it, anyway, is that thought alone can't produce beauty: cold logic can examine the world and try to understand it, and can to a "momentary" degree, but only "in the flesh" is it really understood. It's felt, not thought through; once you experience it, it stays with you, defying reason.

This past weekend when I was in New Jersey, I spent a little while reading my late uncle John's journals / sketchbooks, and looking at his paintings. He was a really talented guy, and went to art school. Some of the things he drew and painted are incredible. Then paranoid schizophrenia came on. I don't know if it can be acquired, but it feels like he did it to himself. Reading through the journals, you can sort of follow his scary sense of logic (especially if you're familiar with math or physics). He wrote about special relativity, math, and philosophy, and from them started "deriving" this proof that God doesn't exist, and everything is nothing. It goes on for at least 50 journals worth, and reading through them, you get a glimpse of his pain. Sometimes the proofs would break off, and he'd draw a tormented looking picture of himself, write hieroglyphics, or write a poem. Like this:

"My subscription is up
I have succeeded no less
in destroying in myself all that I respect.
I have disgraced my self
my family and my God.
I have no right to renew.
Please try to understand"


I took a few of the journals home and have been reading through them, and it's very sad but very interesting, to see what can happen when you get so wrapped up in thinking, you destroy yourself. And he did destroy himself, like his poem said. He drank himself to death a few years after I was born.

The mind is a powerful tool, but it's a very scary one. It leads people to great discoveries, but it can also lead to a dangerous feedback loop, where knowledge propels more knowledge, and soon in a high-pitched shriek, it spins out of control. You prove that you are meaningless, and think yourself out of existence. He knew he was going crazy, and even writes it a lot. But he just couldn't step out of his head. Beauty is momentary in the mind.

But in the flesh, it is immortal. My grandparents basement are filled with his artwork (a few museums have some too). His times of humanity, and drawing and painting for the sake of beauty and not an insane quest for truth, shine through. Even though he's dead, the beauty plays on the clear viol of my memory.


I don't really know if anyone reads this blog. So you should comment if you do. It'll be fun.