TRANSTROMER’S “FUNERAL GONDOLA”: POWER OF THE DEEP

Palazzo Vendramin on  Gran Canale; Richard Wagner died here

Letter to Ferdinand Taborszky, 1885 

First of all, dear friend, will you be so kind as to go to my house with Frau von Fabry? I stupidly forgot there—in the bedroom, not in the salon—the beautiful and revised copy of a composition for piano and violin or violoncello, together with the transcription of the same for pianoforte alone. The title is “La lugubre Gondola” (the funeral gondola). As though it were a presentiment, I wrote this élégie in Venice six weeks before Wagner’s death.

Now I should like it to be brought out by Fritzsch (Leipzig), Wagner’s publisher, as soon as I receive it from you in Weimar. Hearty greetings to your family.

Ever faithfully yours,
Liszt

Sorrow Gondola No. 2

I
Two old men, father- and son-in-law, Liszt and Wagner, are staying by the Grand Canal
together with the restless woman who is married to King Midas,
he who changes everything he touches to Wagner.
The ocean’s green cold pushes up through the palazzo floors.
Wagner is marked, his famous Punchinello profile looks more tired than before,
           his face a white flag.
The gondola is heavy-laden with their lives, two round trips and a one-way.

II
A window in the palazzo flies open and everyone grimaces in the sudden draft.
Outside on the water the trash gondola appears, paddled by two one-oared bandits.
Liszt has written down some chords so heavy, they ought to be sent off
to the mineralogical institute in Padua for analysis.
Meteorites!
Too heavy to rest, they can only sink and sink straight through the future all the way      down to the Brownshirt years.
The gondola is heavy-laden with the future’s huddled-up stones.

III
Peep-holes into 1990.

March 25th. Angst for Lithuania.
Dreamt I visited a large hospital.
No personnel. Everyone was a patient.

In the same dream a newborn girl
who spoke in complete sentences.

IV
Beside the son-in-law, who’s a man of the times, Liszt is a moth-eaten grand seigneur.
It’s a disguise.
The deep, that tries on and rejects different masks, has chosen this one just for him—
the deep that wants to enter people without ever showing its face.

V 
Abbé Liszt is used to carrying his suitcase himself through sleet and sunshine
and when his time comes to die, there will be no one to meet him at the station.
A mild breeze of gifted cognac carries him away in the midst of a commission.
He always has commissions.
Two thousand letters a year!
The schoolboy who writes his misspelled word a hundred times

before he’s allowed to go home.
The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black.

VI
Back to 1990.

Dreamt I drove over a hundred miles in vain.
Then everything magnified. Sparrows as big as hens
sang so loud that it briefly struck me deaf.

Dreamt I had drawn piano keys
on my kitchen table. I played on them, mute.
The neighbors came over to listen.

VII
The clavier, which kept silent through all of Parsifal (but listened),

finally has something to say.
Sighs . . . sospiri . . .
When Liszt plays tonight he holds the sea-pedal pressed down
so the ocean’s green force rises up through the floor and flows together with all the stone in the building.
Good evening, beautiful deep!
The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black.

VIII
Dreamt I was supposed to start school but arrived too late.
Everyone in the room was wearing a white mask.
Whoever the teacher was, no one could say.

~ Tomas Transtromer, translation by Patty Crane, published in Blackbird, Fall 2011

**

A few preliminary notes:

Wagner married Cosima Liszt, Franz Liszt’s daughter, 24 years his junior. Thus Liszt officially became Wagner’s father-in-law, even though he and Wagner were very close in age (Liszt was only two years older).

Punchinello is a short, punch-bellied buffoon in Italian puppet shows.

The Wagner family went to Venice for the winter. Wagner died of a heart attack at the age of 69 on February 13, 1883 at Ca' Vendramin Calergi, a 16th century palazzo on the Grand Canal. Franz Liszt's two pieces for piano entitled La lugubre gondola (Die Trauergondel) evoke the passing of a black-shrouded funerary gondola bearing Richard Wagner's remains over the Grand Canal to Venice’s Santa Lucia railroad station. Wagner was buried in Bayreuth.

The piece that’s referred to as The Funeral Gondola Nr. 2 is basically a revised version of the already wonderful (in my opinion) first piece.

“Abbé Liszt” – in 1857, in a period of great sorrow in his life, Liszt joined a Franciscan order, and lived for a while at the Monastery of the Madonna of the Rosary in Rome. He did “receive the tonsure” (i.e. was officially a monk), but he was never a priest (Vivaldi, the “Red Priest,” really was a priest; by the way, Vivaldi was born in Venice and lived there most of his life).

While we associate Liszt with flamboyance and being the greatest pianist of his time, it’s a little known fact that he donated a lot of money to various charities, including the restoration of the Cologne Cathedral. After his mid-forties, he donated all his performance fees to charities. Though some prefer to think of him as a sinner rather than a saint, his later life leans to the latter. In a similar vein, it’s a mistake to dismiss Liszt as a mere virtuoso show-off. His late pieces have depth and musical daring.

I recommend listening to the Sorrow Gondola Nr. 1, with the marvelously evocative photos of Venice, including a historical photograph of the palazzo where Wagner died. Don’t miss this feast:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U0sRuLKgnuM&feature=related

In his stunning Watermark, a book of musings about Venice, Brodsky remarked that Venice is the ideal city for dissolution. (Brodsky is buried in Venice.)

I would prefer “funeral gondola” as the title; I enjoy the specificity. This type of gondola is still in use.

A historical photo of an ornate funeral gondola 

**

Note the interweave of the scene of the funeral gondola’s passage with the present, which is rendered chiefly through the poet’s dreams. Baltics also uses the past-present interweave; likewise, I was reminded of Anne Carson’s stunning interweave in The Glass Essay.

Note that in all these cases, the technique involves close-up, i.e. a relatively “narrow slice” of life rather than a panorama. Thus we have “Emily in the parlor, brushing the carpet” in Glass Essay, and here “A window in the palazzo flies open and everyone grimaces in the sudden draft” and the repeated evocations of the gondola’s being simple and black.

My favorite passage:

When Liszt plays tonight he holds the sea-pedal pressed down
so the ocean’s green force rises up through the floor and flows

together with all the stone in the building.

Good evening, beautiful deep!

The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black. 

 **

Tranströmer conflates the power of great music with the power of the elements in a lyrical manner that can work only in poetry. He trusts the beautiful deep. These are perhaps the most strange and beautiful lines in the whole poem, fusing music, the ocean, and the earth (stone):

When Liszt plays tonight he holds the sea-pedal pressed down
so the ocean’s green force rises up through the floor and flows

together with all the stone in the building.

*

I also greatly admire:

Wagner is marked, his famous Punchinello profile looks more tired than before,
           his face a white flag.
The gondola is heavy-laden with their lives, two round trips and a one-way.

 ~ especially “his face a white flag” – the flag of surrender, a sign that he knows he’s lost the battle for his life and is no longer struggling.

Note also this passage:

Beside the son-in-law, who’s a man of the times, Liszt is a moth-eaten grand seigneur.
It’s a disguise.
The deep, that tries on and rejects different masks, has chosen this one just for him—
the deep that wants to enter people without ever showing its face.

 **

 Stanza V, starting with Liszt’s carrying his own suitcase, has stayed with me as well:

Abbé Liszt is used to carrying his suitcase himself through sleet and sunshine
and when his time comes to die, there will be no one to meet him at the station.
A mild breeze of gifted cognac carries him away in the midst of a commission.
He always has commissions.
Two thousand letters a year!
The schoolboy who writes his misspelled word a hundred times

before he’s allowed to go home.
The gondola is heavy-laden with life, it is simple and black.

**

That “mild breeze of cognac” is a touch of humor that is even more evident in

Liszt has written down some chords so heavy, they ought to be sent off
to the mineralogical institute in Padua for analysis.
Meteorites!

~ and then the brilliant line about how they sink all the way to the future. The Nazis are invoked because Liszt’s piece with those heavy chords was meant as a tribute to Wagner, and Wagner got appropriated by the Nazis – but this is not the place to get into that controversy.

Tranströmer is fully modern in this poem; he doesn’t wish to distort reality just so that the homage to the two composers can appear more solemn. Thus the appearance of the trash gondola. That’s how life is, the beautiful and the ugly side by side.

Finally, note how the specificity of the Liszt and Venice parts contrasts with the anonymity present in the dreams: in a hospital, everyone is a patient and there is no medical personnel; in a school, both the students and the teachers are masked. Who, or what, is there to guide us, to comfort us?

The dream that I like best, however, is this one:

Dreamt I had drawn piano keys
on my kitchen table. I played on them, mute.
The neighbors came over to listen.

~ There is a desperate beauty in this: if there is no piano, just draw the piano keys on the table, start playing them, and people will come to listen.

**

Hyacinth:

Spent time reading and re-reading Transtromer about Wagner and Liszt. Fantastic writing. Don't you wish you could hear it in his native language. Love the sound of "sospiri" – Italian really does more with a word than English. I wonder what the word is in Swedish.

I especially love “the chord so heavy it sinks straight to the bottom.” I listened and that's how it sounds. Heavy as a meteorite. Also the piano keys drawn on the table. It reminds me of the movie where the pianist is hiding from the Nazis and there is a piano in his hiding place and all he can do is sit with his hands above the keys and pretend to play.

So poignant about Liszt: "he carries his own suitcase "and there will be no one to meet him at the station when the time comes.” It really presents the picture of how lonely dying is.

On another note I loved the description of Wagner as Punchinello. At our preschool we played a game "What can you do Punchinello, funny fellow what can you do, Punchinello in the shoe?" and the "It" child would clap their hands or whatever and all joined in. Not that relevant but it came to my mind. 


All the photos of Venice bring back memories and the funeral gondolas are eerie and beautiful.

**

Oriana:

I agree that it’s a fantastic poem. Actually I wanted it to be longer, to tell us more about Liszt and Wagner, and especially something about Cosima – all three were such interesting characters. And then the background of Venice and the image of the black funeral gondola. The interweave with dreams and “angst about Lithuania” was also excellent. Transtromer was opposed to the Soviet totalitarianism (note the persecuted composer in Baltics) and imperialism, which included the annexation of Latvia and Lithuania.

The movie you are referring to is Polanski’s “The Pianist,” based on the memoirs of Wladyslaw Szpilman. While in hiding, he was strictly forbidden to touch the piano – playing it would obviously draw attention to his presence in the apartment. And the movie audience knows how much he yearns to play. So he moves his fingers above the keys, never making a sound, though he hears the entire concerto in his head. It’s one of the most memorable scenes in the movie.

Liszt’s loneliness was alleviated by his involvement in music up to the very end. Music was his companion. That’s the special luck of musicians – even when not physically able to play, they can “play” their favorite pieces in their mind.

It’s fascinating that your preschool kept the Punchinello tradition alive, so to speak. The name sounds delightful. Which reminds me: yes, sospiri is marvelous, but “sighs” is a good onomatopoeic word – it just needs to be pronounced slowly.

Below: Cosima and Richard, 1872. Yes, poor Cosima had a large nose, after her father. She was also tall and thin; her nickname, during her teens, was “the stork.” But again I want yo to notice that one senses the love between these two. 

Charles:

When I was listening to Liszt's "...Gondola" and saw the pictures I got the feeling of moving in the gondola on the canal. Cosima must have been so interesting. Amazing blog. Love the way you write about history.

Oriana:

Venice flows in that music, dissolving in all the reflections. Here is the Venetian Carnival together with a brilliant performance of Vivaldi’s Winter. The Red Priest has been recorded more times than Beethoven. One fabulous comment on Youtube: “Heavy metal of the 17^th century.”

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nGdFHJXciAQ&feature=related

Hyacinth’s description of the funeral gondolas applies to the whole city: “eerie and beautiful.” In this poem, however, Rilke reminds us that Venice was once a formidable naval power. “Old forest skeletons” refers to the alder pilings on which Venice was built.

LATE AUTUMN IN VENICE

Already the city no longer drifts

like a bait, catching the days as they surface.

The glassy palaces ring more brittle

against your gaze. And from the gardens

the summer hangs like a heap of marionettes,

headfirst, exhausted, done in.

But from the ground, out of old forest skeletons,

the will to power rises: as if overnight

the commander of the sea had to double

the galleys in the sleepy arsenal,

in order to tar the next morning breeze

with a fleet, which pushes out rowing

and then suddenly, all its flags dawning,

seizes the high wind, radiant and deadly.

~ R.M. Rilke, translated by Edward Snow

(with minor changes by Oriana)

 

(Oriana: I'm not sure about "deadly" -- ideally I'd like to say "fatal" but with its German pronunciation and meaning, accent on the second syllable for ideal closure, and "fatal" in the sense of charged with fate, like a fatal disease.) 

ROMANESQUE ARCHES: IN PRAISE OF THE HUMAN

interior, Norwich Cathedral

Romanesque Arches

Inside the huge Romanesque church the tourists jostled in the half darkness.

Vault gaped behind vault, no complete view.

A few candle flames flickered.

An angel with no face embraced me

and whispered through my whole body:

“Don’t be ashamed of being human, be proud!

Inside you vault opens behind vault endlessly.

You will never be complete, that’s how it’s meant to be.”

Blind with tears

I was pushed out on the sun-seething piazza

together with Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. Tanaka, and Signora Sabatini,

and inside each of them vault opened behind vault endlessly.

~ Tomas Tranströmer

**

I particularly love this passage:

An angel with no face embraced me

and whispered through my whole body:

“Don’t be ashamed of being human, be proud!

Inside you vault opens behind vault endlessly.

You will never be complete, that’s how it’s meant to be.”

We will never be complete because we are a part of a larger whole and of the on-going process of constant evolution of human culture. It takes a village; it takes a city; it takes humanity. Ancient cathedrals have those stunning ceilings, “vault after vault.” And yet that architectural marvel is simple compared to the complexity of a single human being. That complexity is heightened by our being a part of a larger organism, our minds part of the collective psyche. Poets remind us of that.

But let’s not ignore the fact that the insight presented in “Romanesque Arches” is related not just to church architecture, but, I dare say, to Christianity. One positive thing about Christianity is that it recognizes and values the individual. It says to a person: “Your life is sacred and of infinite value to God.” That Christian practice has often contradicted this message is another matter. For the moment, I want to concentrate on the ideal.

This ideal meant a lot to Milosz. In a poem about one of his lovers, he lamented that she gave herself to men too easily, forgetting she was the daughter of the King. Most notably in “Late Ripeness,” he tried to remind us that we are all royalty – the children of the King.

That’s wonderful, we may say, but now that Christianity is in decline, can we still say to someone in suicidal depression, for instance, “Your life is sacred and of infinite value” – and just leave out “God” out of it? Can we insert “humanity” in its place? Given all the atrocities of the past and present, and those yet to come (is there any doubt?), can we be proud to be human? 

In spite of the atrocities, I think the answer is yes. For me, the greatness of the accomplishments prevails. But there is so much to be done to better this world, once we start from the framework of respect for human beings. The sooner we transfer reverence from deity or deities to humanity, the better.

Someone may ask, “But what about the afterlife? If we revere this life, on earth, what about all those who live hoping for another existence, in heaven?” It’s been pointed out that there are virtually no atheists in sub-Saharan Africa; atheism seems to be the luxury of people who live in relative security and comfort. Thus the prevalence of secularism in Western Europe, in countries with a social security net. The yearning for heaven seems to be related to the hardship of earthly life. In fact, already Karl Marx, endlessly quoted as having called religion “the opium of the people,” also remarked that it is the “sigh of the oppressed creature.”

The sociological explanation may explain averages – yes, the poor and uneducated are more likely to be religious – but not individual cases. Some people seem to have a natural tendency to mysticism, regardless of education (I see that among poets all the time). The yearning that something of us continue after bodily death is understandable.

No one can speak of the afterlife with absolute certainty. I've been trying to “live the question” for many years now, with little benefit. What changed my life was rather accepting this answer: The only paradise we will experience is here now.

Only moments of paradise, of course, just glimpses. But to miss those moments is to lose everything. That insight (not original to me – it’s the message of countless poems) was not the one that closed the door on depression, but it reinforced it.

Can there be a non-theistic sense of the sacred? Even when we see the universe as self-evolving and self-organizing without any need for a supreme being, the “king of kings,” we can still be in awe of its beauty and mystery. Neither the “starry sky above me” nor the “moral law within me” requires a theistic foundation. And we can also be awed by the amazing feats accomplished by the human brain, especially when people co-operate. Nor do we need to invoke antibiotics, the cell-phone, or the Moon landing; the accomplishment evident in medieval cathedrals is already a stunning testimony to what humans can achieve (when not engaged in killing one another, a contrarian voice adds – and that voice has to be acknowledged; moral progress is happening, but it has been slow).

Reims Cathedral 

THE HUMANITARIAN ORIENTATION

At a poetry reading I recently attended, soon after the announcement that Tomas Tranströmer won the 2011 Nobel Prize for Literature, someone remarked, “American poets have no chance of winning the Nobel Prize because they are always gazing at their navels.”

But I don’t think the reason that an American poet has practically no chance for the Nobel Prize is self-centeredness. It’s rather that European judges/literary critics see poetry as a genre of wisdom literature, a kind of philosophy with imagery and metaphors thrown in. They do not recognize that "the personal is philosophical," to use a twist on an old saying. The tradition of poetry as wisdom makes it harder for European critics to recognize wisdom when it’s implicit in a personal narrative. But Robert Cording, for instance, is actually pretty explicit (“grief is endless, delight is inevitable”). He’s still probably too personal for European standards, misguided as those are in my opinion. Just telling a true story is incredibly demanding, no matter how narrow the slice (and it’s precisely the “narrow slice” approach that can yield huge truths).

Now, the skeptic in me asks, “Are you sure that the personal is philosophical? Does Sharon Olds have an underlying philosophy that you find nourishing?” I think it’s safe to say that she does cherish the body and love at all levels, and now and then we can get some psychological insight from her poems, but no one would call her a philosophical poet. Her excellence lies in providing vivid details. And I am forced to admit that the personal, when not illuminated by insight, can remain on the level of gossip, of a colorful story that we don’t know what to do with other than maybe say, “That’s life. Those things happen.” As Olds said, “I am not a thinker.” Maybe a little more thinking would be a good thing.

But ultimately it’s pointless to speak about European poetry versus American poetry. There are great poems, and those rise above any categories. Great poems are both personal and philosophical, both lyrical and narrative (though it may be only a tiny wisp of a narrative). Po-Chu-i’s gems delight us not solely because they are illuminated by the wisdom of Zen, but because PCI’s personality is so evident in them, and always, always, he brings in the mysterious beauty of nature.

That mysterious beauty of nature includes the beauty of a human being. When we look at others with the eyes of tenderness, how beautiful a human face is, a human body! In his poem "At Baths at Esalen," Stephen MacDonald writes:

This evening, in the baths at Esalen, I open
my eyes to find light creeping like resurrection

under the pall covering my face. I lift
my oiled and massaged flesh from the table
to find myself in a world of naked human bodies,

silent in the mist, slick with the waters
of the baths, the beauty of each limb, each wrist

and ankle, almost more than I can bear.

Perhaps a factor other than the presence of overt philosophy is even more important. Poets who win the Nobel Prize tend to have a humanitarian attitude. They show reverence for the human. They say each life is sacred and of infinite value, and we are all a family. Milosz had that attitude. He loved people and could never really get over what he witnessed and experienced during WWII. And for all his religious struggles, there was one thing he could admit: that he knew a statue in a church would never nod at him, never give him what he constantly prayed for: a sign confirming the existence of God. In the end he became reconciled to the thought that the only trace of something we might call sacred or divine could be found in the human community: in a kind gesture or smile.

But wait: shouldn’t it be “something we might call sacred and human”? Human, that is, in the best sense of the word, as in “the human spirit.” That spirit, the human spirit, has manifested itself in deeds of magnificent courage, heroism and endurance. We can feel proud that we as humanity are capable of what first seemed impossible.

Philip Levine is a humanitarian with a special focus: he insists that we respect the working man and woman. I remember, in one of the articles about him (I think in the New York Times), the author exclaiming that there are people in Levine’s poems! There are people in Tony Hoagland’s poems too. With some effort, we could come up with other names of poets whose poems are “populated.” But is that a typical contemporary American poem? Now, there is nothing wrong with introspection; without introspection, there would hardly be the kind of poetry we call lyrical. I think the charge of self-centeredness comes from the sense that there isn’t enough sense of connection with others. Obviously, there needs to be a balance: solidaire/solitaire. It’s not easy because the digital age makes us interact with computer monitors rather than have face-to-face encounters.

It is a challenge. Before that post-Tranströmer/Nobel Prize news poetry reading, I was thinking of a dog I met on my little walk the day before, and how delightfully affectionate the dog was toward me, a total stranger. If only people could be so affectionate! But we aren’t at that level of enlightenment. Great poets help us enlarge our empathy.

Tomas Tranströmer and his wife Monica. Note the odd way he holds his right hand – this is characteristic of stroke victims. But I don’t want this to be the last statement in this post. Note, above all, the love that one can sense looking at the photo of this couple.

Steve:

I'm pleased that you commented on the importance of the beauty of the human. The image of the human as a portal to an endless opening of vaults – always growing, never complete – is stunning, and completely congruent with my own perception of who/what we really are.

And here is the truth of truths: "The statement 'Your life is sacred and of infinite value' is sufficient unto itself simply in the context of humanity – because being human is such a grand thing." What a powerful realization that is – and what significance it holds for a way of living life that brings peace, acceptance, and joy – even amidst the inevitable sorrow and suffering that are also a part of being human. Very powerful!

Oriana:

Ginette Paris commented that it’s still very soon after the death of god; it will take several generations to formulate a life philosophy that fully affirms the human, without denial or wishful thinking – including mortality, suffering, and our capacity for evil as well as for affection, altruism, and immense achievement. I think we are slowly moving toward the position that human life is sacred and war is unacceptable, famine and torture are unacceptable. Obviously we are not there yet, but I see the “writing on the wall.”

Instead of an invisible being somewhere out there (or everywhere, which is just as nebulous), we can gain a sense of pride when we remember that we are part of humanity. Instead of the “holy spirit,” we will speak about the “human spirit.” That’s the spirit we saw in action when the astronauts landed on the moon – an act of incredible courage – and also whenever we hear yet another report of someone risking his life to save a stranger. 

While I favor the translation of “sacred” as “human in the highest sense,” I also favor taking what is best from each religious tradition. Parables teaching compassion – no, we don’t want these stories to be lost. Buddhist wisdom of detachment and serenity – of course we can use it. But that will happen automatically, I think: the chaff will fall away, and what is nourishing will remain.

Hyacinth:

The photo is sort of like the vault goes on and on. The blog is delicious. I'm beginning to like Tranströmer more and more, and I like the idea of the human in poetry being is as important or more important than the sacred.

The picture of him is charming and I saw several others all like in that he has a twinkle in his eye.

Oriana:

I think the word "sacred" need not and should not be confined to religion. It can and should be used in reference to nature and human beings (we are of course part of nature). We can indeed say to someone, "Your life is sacred." It's sacred because it's a human being, with all the fantastic human abilities. My mother used to say, "The most wonderful thing in the universe is the human brain."

I'm particularly against the idea that we receive "divine love." The love we receive is human love and canine love -- there is no doubt about those two kinds, and I'm including dogs because sometimes, sadly, that's the only love that a person living alone receives.

Now, perhaps there is some sort of caring from the universe -- so many people want to believe that. But let's face it, there is no proof of it, while tsunamis and other natural disasters that used to be called "an act of God" certainly do happen. So let's give credit where credit is due: human love, canine companions. Maybe dolphins, but how many of us get to establish a relationship with a dolphin (or an elephant etc -- social animals with large brains can be said to be capable of the kind of attachment we'd call love). Any other love is conjectural.

Charles:

Love the symmetry and light of the photograph.

Re: divine love, I always feel better when I consider that god is a verb.

Oriana:

I could call myself a church junkie. I’ve always loved the cavernous twilight of old churches, and have spent hours sitting in a pew (what happened to wonderful old pews?), just soaking in the quiet and that special architecture, arches upon arches. In Warsaw especially, it felt so soothing to step out from a noisy street into that other realm. We need all the paradise we can get.

I don’t mind it if people claim to sense the presence of something divine. As long as we drop the archaic image of the Bully in the Sky who tosses people into hell, and get closer to the Sufi idea of an accepting Friend, even Lover, mental health may well benefit from some feel-good prayer and/or meditation. Recovering addicts in particular need a “sinners welcome,” unconditionally loving Someone. This Friend is also constantly developing, maturing (in Rilke’s words, “we are building God” – this certainly applies to any concept of God). Furthermore, as for the god-is-a-verb, the actions of feeding the hungry and being kind to the stranger mean so much more than ritual and keeping a special diet. If it’s helpful to a person to see Christ in the homeless man they help, then I say, “Whatever works.”

Scott:

Once again you have introduced me to an interesting poet, have now 
read several of his poems. And his life is fascinating as well; 
doctor, poet and recovering stroke victim....thankfully it did not 
silence his pen. The biographies of poets are as intriguing as the 
poems themselves; your blog is a great education in the art of verse 
and I never fail to take away a great deal. Currently at the bedside 
of my 90 year old father-in-law, hope he can go home soon from the 
hospital, he's had a blood infection. He's been Dad, Father in law and 
Grandfather all in one.

Oriana:

My best wishes of speedy recovery to your father-in-law.

One interesting thing about Tranströmer is that he used to work as a therapist with juvenile delinquents. He said that he got always asked if his work as a therapist influenced his poetry, and never if his poetry influenced his therapy practice.  This made me aware that it’s a two-way street: it’s not only that our experiences influences our writing; our writing can also influence our experiences.

Lilith:

Your blog on the Romanesque Arches was wonderful....I will ponder it a long time.

About the recent death of Steve Jobs, there was a quotation from him about how knowing he was going to die freed him to realize he had nothing to lose. Heaven on earth, so to speak. I've been absorbing everything I can find about this amazing human, including everything I hadn't known about him before.

Thanks again for all your blogs.

Oriana:

Steve Jobs was one of the people who make us proud to be human. But many outstanding individuals never get famous. If we look around, we see greatness and quiet heroism all around.

Full acceptance of death, without kidding ourselves that paradise is somewhere else, and can be experienced only after dying, means a fuller embrace of life. Hey, we better stop wasting time! All kinds of nonsense falls away, just as Steve Jobs said. True priorities remain.

As Keats said, this is not the Vale of Tears, but of Soul-Making – what Jung would call “individuation.” We are always creating ourselves: that’s why it matters how we live, even what we read and watch. Life is sacred and not to be wasted. It is to be maximized and enjoyed. I think more and more people are accepting this (though it’s harder for the young; experiencing the progress of aging “wonderfully concentrates the mind”).