A Momentary Taste of Being

from The Prelude: Book VII William Wordsworth Private courts, Gloomy as coffins, and unsightly lanes Thrilled by some female vendor's scream, belike The very shrillest of all London cries, May then entangle our impatient steps; Conducted through those labyrinths, unawares, To privileged regions and inviolate, Where from their airy lodges studious lawyers Look out on waters, walks, and gardens green. The picture Wordsworth paints of life in London streets is priceless.  Go and see it out (c. lines 190).

"The Discharged Soldier" A lovely and moving poem that puts one in mind of how well blank verse can succeed when handled by a master--and makes one wonder why everyone today seems to think it quaint or binding.  Sometimes a little restriction is freeing.

On hearing good news for one friend and family and good news for another friend that will be sad news for me and my family: The World is Too Much With Us William Wordsworth The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. I rejoice in their good fortune and cannot help but rue our loss.

You did not think that I would cast you adrift to wander the wilds of Wordsworth alone did you?  Or more like you are thinking, "I thought we'd gotten away from that obsession."  Ah, but no.  Wordsworth is more than an obsession, more than a moment's preoccupation.  He is one of the few poets I can think of who offers what amounts to a real vacation in the middle of you day or week as you read him. For those tracking closely, we pick up where we left off in book 6. from The Prelude Book VI William Wordsworth Mighty is the charm Of those abstractions to a mind beset With images, and haunted by herself, And specially delightful unto me Was that clear synthesis built up aloft So gracefully; even then when it appeared Not more than a mere plaything, or a toy To sense embodied: not the thing it is In verity, an independent world, Created out of pure intelligence. Part of the continuing Ode to Geometry--as unlikely a subject as one can bring to mind with o...

from The Prelude Book VI William Wordsworth More frequently from the same source I drew A pleasure quiet and profound, a sense Of permanent and universal sway, And paramount belief; there, recognised A type, for finite natures, of the one Supreme Existence, the surpassing life Which—to the boundaries of space and time, Of melancholy space and doleful time, Superior, and incapable of change, Nor touched by welterings of passion—is, And hath the name of, God. Transcendent peace And silence did await upon these thoughts That were a frequent comfort to my youth. Ah, but Wordsworth did love his geometry, no matter how poorly mastered.  He saw in its beauty, simplicity and rounds the variety of existence.  He saw in it the permanence that would one infer from its survival from the time of Euclid to today.  What he did not yet know was its "ineluctable modality" and its gorgeous mutability as exhibited by the soaring expressions of Reimann and Lobachevsky (Nikola...

Wordsworth had an interest, one might almost say (given the frequency with which reference to it occurs in The Prelude), an obsession with Geometry.  In a certain way, this makes a sort of sense.  Mathematics and mysticism are not all that far apart--an interest in one is often accompanied by an interest in the other. (I take as the most famous example Blaise Pascal--but even from the very beginning--think of the legends of the Pythagorian Cult--the two have been in close proximity.) from The Prelude Book VI William Wordsworth Yet may we not entirely overlook The pleasure gathered from the rudiments Of geometric science. Though advanced In these inquiries, with regret I speak, No farther than the threshold, there I found Both elevation and composed delight: With Indian awe and wonder, ignorance pleased With its own struggles, did I meditate On the relation those abstractions bear To Nature's laws, and by what process led, Those immaterial agents bowed their head...

Today our visit with Wordsworth pauses to consider youthful reading and youthful errors in understanding.  (Additionally, we enter triumphantly into book 6 of The Prelude . from The Prelude Book VI William Wordsworth On the vague reading of a truant youth 'Twere idle to descant. My inner judgment Not seldom differed from my taste in books, As if it appertained to another mind, And yet the books which then I valued most Are dearest to me now ; for, having scanned, Not heedlessly, the laws, and watched the forms Of Nature, in that knowledge I possessed A standard, often usefully applied, Even when unconsciously, to things removed From a familiar sympathy.—In fine, I was a better judge of thoughts than words, Misled in estimating words, not only By common inexperience of youth, But by the trade in classic niceties, The dangerous craft of culling term and phrase From languages that want the living voice To carry meaning to the natural heart; To tell us what is pa...

We know that in the romantic strain there is an element of mysticism.  In Blake, it emerges in almost psychotic fashion with art resembling that of Goya and verse that is by turns lushly beautiful and nearly incoherent--what can one expect when one's teas in the garden are attended by Elijah himself?  In Coleridge, this strain takes on the fever-dream intensity of "Frost at Midnight," "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," "Christabel," and, of course, "Kublai Khan."  For the ardent atheist, the strain takes on another aspect--the "echoes of eternity" that resound through "To a Skylark" and "Ozymandias."  Of all, it is most difficult to discern in Byron, but seems to be present in many of the shorter lyrics, among them, "She walks in Beauty."  But of them, Wordsworth lays greatest claim to the mystical element and the more classically, religious mystical element.  Wordsworth and Blake are the booke...

Poetry, as though one could doubt, was central to Wordsworth's life, for much of it.  And below he relates a pleasure I have never had though I could wish to have: from The Prelude Book V William Wordsworth Relinquishing this lofty eminence For ground, though humbler, not the less a tract Of the same isthmus, which our spirits cross In progress from their native continent To earth and human life, the Song might dwell On that delightful time of growing youth, When craving for the marvellous gives way To strengthening love for things that we have seen; When sober truth and steady sympathies, Offered to notice by less daring pens, Take firmer hold of us, and words themselves Move us with conscious pleasure.                 I am sad At thought of raptures now for ever flown; Almost to tears I sometimes could be sad To think of, to read over, many a page, Poems withal of name, which at that time Did nev...

William Wordsworth has an enhanced sense of childhood and youth, to say the least.  His image of that innocent time propels much of what he writes, including this lengthy autobiographical poem.  But rarely is what he has to say said so beautifully as in today's passage. from The Prelude Book 5 William Wordsworth There was a Boy: ye knew him well, ye cliffs And islands of Winander!—many a time At evening, when the earliest stars began To move along the edges of the hills, Rising or setting, would he stand alone Beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, And there, with fingers interwoven, both hands Pressed closely palm to palm, and to his mouth Uplifted, he, as through an instrument, Blew mimic hootings to the silent owls, That they might answer him; and they would shout Across the watery vale, and shout again, Responsive to his call, with quivering peals, And long halloos and screams, and echoes loud, Redoubled and redoubled, concourse wild Of jocund din...

Today, a major Wordsworthian Smackdown.  There are several such in the work at large, most are sort of gentle remonstrances, but this one is pretty forceful in its thrust. from The Prelude Book 5 William Wordsworth These mighty workmen of our later age, Who, with a broad highway, have overbridged The froward chaos of futurity, Tamed to their bidding; they who have the skill To manage books, and things, and make them act On infant minds as surely as the sun Deals with a flower; the keepers of our time, The guides and wardens of our faculties, Sages who in their prescience would control All accidents, and to the very road Which they have fashioned would confine us down, Like engines; when will their presumption learn, That in the unreasoning progress of the world A wiser spirit is at work for us, A better eye than theirs, most prodigal Of blessings, and most studious of our good, Even in what seem our most unfruitful hours? And I guess I would join my voice to ...

If you stand at the center of the circle, it's hard not to think that everything in the world goes about you. from The Prelude Book V William Wordsworth                 My drift I fear Is scarcely obvious; but, that common sense May try this modern system by its fruits, Leave let me take to place before her sight A specimen pourtrayed with faithful hand. Full early trained to worship seemliness, This model of a child is never known To mix in quarrels; that were far beneath Its dignity; with gifts he bubbles o'er As generous as a fountain; selfishness May not come near him, nor the little throng Of flitting pleasures tempt him from his path; The wandering beggars propagate his name, Dumb creatures find him tender as a nun, And natural or supernatural fear, Unless it leap upon him in a dream, Touches him not. To enhance the wonder, see How arch his notices, how nice his sense Of the ridiculous; not blind is...

from The Prelude Book V William Wordsworth Great and benign, indeed, must be the power Of living nature, which could thus so long Detain me from the best of other guides And dearest helpers, left unthanked, unpraised, Even in the time of lisping infancy; And later down, in prattling childhood even, While I was travelling back among those days, How could I ever play an ingrate's part? Once more should I have made those bowers resound, By intermingling strains of thankfulness With their own thoughtless melodies You really don't need me to talk you through it--it's just a lovely thought nicely expressed.

The profound difficulty of The Prelude is, sometimes, trying to excerpt it.  There is nothing extraneous, nothing extra--every word plays its role, every sentence has its place.  That is true of any well-constructed work of art.  So I suppose I should caution the reader (although at this late date it may come as too little too late), the selection of passages is not to indicate in any way that these are the only ones worth reading, nor even that these are the great highlights of the work.  Rather, they should be read merely as a record of things that struck me as I was reading--struck me enough to note them and want to come back to them.  My real commonplace book would be completely full of nothing but Wordsworth were I to transcribe to them everything I felt worthy of transcription.  And so this is necessarily a skip over the surface--a skip that I hope encourages more readers to take up this work and to challenge themselves with tackling a book-length wo...

You thought you had been spared.  You thought that the weary blogkeeper had forgotten his lengthy sojourn with the poet and you would hear no more from him (blogkeeper or poet).  Indeed, you thought, it is safe once again to venture by, for it has been many a day since last I saw or sensed a vestige of a poem.  Alas, for you, poor self-deceived reader who so willingly succumbs to that sense of security that creeps in when hazards have been in abeyance for some time.  For once again it is time and more than time for me to trot out the words of Mr. Wordsworth for your delight and edification; this time we sample from Book V, called "Books." from The Prelude Book V William Wordsworth When Contemplation, like the night-calm felt Through earth and sky, spreads widely, and sends deep Into the soul its tranquillising power, Even then I sometimes grieve for thee, O Man, Earth's paramount Creature! not so much for woes That thou endurest; heavy though that weight be...

I paused, hesitated as I considered this next excerpt, but could think of no way to break it up and make it smaller without also fragmenting the understanding and so I post what has to be one of the most beautiful poetic paragraphs encountered thus far, both from imagery and the intensity of feeling and experience that it conveys.  Bear with it.  Read it slowly.  Read it twice.  Read it out loud if you are in a place you can do so.  Hear and revel in the words and in the images that Wordsworth brings forth. from The Prelude Book IV William Wordsworth As one who hangs down-bending from the side Of a slow-moving boat, upon the breast Of a still water, solacing himself With such discoveries as his eye can make Beneath him in the bottom of the deep, Sees many beauteous sights—weeds, fishes, flowers. Grots, pebbles, roots of trees, and fancies more, Yet often is perplexed and cannot part The shadow from the substance, rocks and sky, Mountains and clouds...

A short paper on the genesis of The Prelude

A domestic moment: from The Prelude Book IV William Wordsworth With new delight, This chiefly, did I note my grey-haired Dame; Saw her go forth to church or other work Of state, equipped in monumental trim; Short velvet cloak, (her bonnet of the like), A mantle such as Spanish Cavaliers Wore in old time. Her smooth domestic life, Affectionate without disquietude, Her talk, her business, pleased me; and no less Her clear though shallow stream of piety That ran on Sabbath days a fresher course; With thoughts unfelt till now I saw her read Her Bible on hot Sunday afternoons, And loved the book, when she had dropped asleep And made of it a pillow for her head.   I don't think this passage requires any gloss other than why I liked enough to pluck it out and share it with you.  I love the image of the woman who served for so many years as his mother in her finery--a velvet cloak and bonnet, old fashioned and elaborate, but in good repair--the finery for the work ...

I return us now to the briefly abandoned (so it might seem to you) Wordsworth.  I gave you a respite, but my own progress through the book depends in part on my continued sharing of what I find there.  I find that telling you about its wonders keeps me plowing through them and relishing them.  I will admit that it is not easy to read through a book-length poem--no matter how fine the poetry--I remember my struggle with Paradise Lost, and with other, similar works.  And the less epic, the less mythic, the poem, the more difficult.  The Prelude is an intimate epic--not the expansive expression of a golden age of heroes, but the canny and careful observation of a poet coming into being. But this next piece I share for the sheer delight of the scene.  It says much about Wordsworth, about poetic composition, and about poetry.  But it also says much about a dog. from The Prelude Book IV William Wordsworth Among the favourites whom it pleased me well ...

The next two passages of Wordsworth are remarkable both for their beauty and for a certain sense of homeliness that he conjures for the reader.  After long separation he is able to return to his childhood home and room: from The Prelude Book IV William Wordsworth In this endeavour simply to relate A Poet's history, may I leave untold The thankfulness with which I laid me down In my accustomed bed, more welcome now Perhaps than if it had been more desired Or been more often thought of with regret; That lowly bed whence I had heard the wind Roar and the rain beat hard, where I so oft Had lain awake on summer nights to watch The moon in splendour couched among the leaves Of a tall ash, that near our cottage stood; Had watched her with fixed eyes while to and fro In the dark summit of the waving tree She rocked with every impulse of the breeze. What is delicious here is the perfect paradox of the opening phrase:  Wordsworth asks if he may "leave untold//The than...