{"id":20050,"date":"2018-02-23T11:39:35","date_gmt":"2018-02-23T16:39:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20050"},"modified":"2018-02-23T11:39:35","modified_gmt":"2018-02-23T16:39:35","slug":"under-every-grief-and-pine-a-joy-with-silken-twine","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/02\/under-every-grief-and-pine-a-joy-with-silken-twine\/","title":{"rendered":"Under Every Grief and Pine, a Joy with Silken Twine"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Image:<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: ‘L’agonie du soleil,’ by Michel Schmid on Flickr<\/a> (used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!)]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em><\/a>:<\/p>\n

And we the people are so vulnerable. Our bodies are shot with mortality. Our legs are fear and our arms are time. These chill humors seep through our capillaries, weighting each cell with an icy dab of nonbeing, and that dab grows and swells and sucks the cell dry. That is why physical courage is so important — it fills, as it were, the holes — and why it is so invigorating. The least brave act, chance taken and passage won, makes you feel loud as a child.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Annie Dillard [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a> (italicized lines):<\/p>\n

February Elegy<\/strong><\/p>\n

This bald year, frozen now in February.
\nThis cold day winging over the ugly
\nImperfect horizon line,
\nSo often a teeth line of ten buildings.
\nA red flag flapping
\nIn the wind. An orange curtain is noon.
\nIt all hurts her eyes. This curtain is so bright.
\nHere is what is noticeably true: sight.
\nThe face that looks back from the side
\nOf the butter knife.
\nA torn-bread awkwardness.
\nThe mind makes its daily pilgrimage<\/em>
\n Through riff-raff moments. Then,<\/em>
\n Back into the caprice case to dream<\/em>
\n In a circle, a pony goes round.<\/em>
\n The circle’s association: There’s a center<\/em>
\n To almost everything but never<\/em>
\n Any certainty. Nothing is<\/em>
\n More malleable than a moment. We were<\/em>
\n Only yesterday breathing in a sea.<\/em>
\n Some summer sun<\/em>
\n Asked us over and over we went. The sand was hot.<\/em>
\n We were only yesterday tender hearted<\/em>
\n Waiting. To be something.<\/em>
\n A spring. And then someone says, Sit down,<\/em>
\n We have a heart for you to forget. A mind to suffer<\/em>
\n With. So, experience. So, the circus tent.<\/em>
\nYou, over there, you be the girl
\nIn red sequins on the front of a card selling love.
\nYou, over there, you, in black satin.
\nYou be the Maiden’s Mister Death.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Mary Jo Bang [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Silent Journal<\/strong><\/p>\n

Inaudible consonant inaudible vowel
\nThe word continues to fall
\nin splendor around us<\/span>
\nWindow half shadow window half moon
\nback yard like a book of snow<\/span>
\nThat holds nothing and that nothing holds
\nImmaculate text
\nnot too prescient not too true.<\/span><\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Charles Wright [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Auguries of Innocence<\/strong>
\n(excerpt)<\/em><\/p>\n

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
\nAnd a Heaven in a Wild Flower
\nHold Infinity in the palm of your hand
\nAnd Eternity in an hour
\n…<\/p>\n

He who shall hurt the little wren
\nShall never be belov’d by men.
\nHe who the ox to wrath has mov’d
\nShall never be by woman lov’d.<\/p>\n

The wanton boy that kills the fly
\nShall feel the spider’s enmity.
\nHe who torments the chafer’s sprite
\nWeaves a bower in endless night.
\n…<\/p>\n

It is right it should be so;
\nMan was made for joy and woe;
\nAnd when this we rightly know,
\nThro’ the world we safely go.<\/p>\n

Joy and woe are woven fine,
\nA clothing for the soul divine.
\nUnder every grief and pine
\nRuns a joy with silken twine.
\n…<\/p>\n

He who mocks the infant’s faith
\nShall be mock’d in age and death.
\nHe who shall teach the child to doubt
\nThe rotting grave shall ne’er get out.<\/p>\n

He who respects the infant’s faith
\nTriumphs over hell and death.
\nThe child’s toys and the old man’s reasons
\nAre the fruits of the two seasons.
\n…<\/p>\n

Every night and every morn
\nSome to misery are born,
\nEvery morn and every night
\nSome are born to sweet delight.<\/p>\n

Some are born to sweet delight,
\nSome are born to endless night.<\/p>\n

We are led to believe a lie
\nWhen we see not thro’ the eye,
\nWhich was born in a night to perish in a night,
\nWhen the soul slept in beams of light.<\/p>\n

God appears, and God is light,
\nTo those poor souls who dwell in night;
\nBut does a human form display
\nTo those who dwell in realms of day.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(William Blake [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

We are not like the social insects. They have only the one way of doing things and they will do it forever, coded for that way. We are coded differently, not just for binary choices, go<\/em> or no-go<\/em>. We can go four ways at once, depending on how the air feels: go<\/em>, no-go<\/em>, but also maybe<\/em>, plus what the hell let\u2019s give it a try<\/em>. We are in for one surprise after another if we keep at it and keep alive. We can build structures for human society never seen before, thoughts never thought before, music never heard before.<\/p>\n

Provided we do not kill ourselves off, and provided we can connect ourselves by the affection and respect for which I believe our genes are also coded, there is no end to what we might do on or off this planet.<\/p>\n

At this early stage in our evolution, now through our infancy and into our childhood and then, with luck, our growing up, what our species needs most of all, right now, is simply a future.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Lewis Thomas [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: ‘L’agonie du soleil,’ by Michel Schmid on Flickr (used here under a Creative Commons license — thank you!)] From whiskey river: And we the people are so vulnerable. Our bodies are shot with mortality. Our legs are fear and our arms are time. These chill humors seep through our capillaries, weighting each cell with […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":20060,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Annie Dillard, William Blake, et al.: 'Under Every Grief and Pine, a Joy with Silken Twine'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[247,1393,94,50,251,4159],"tags":[295,623,941,2023,4687,4688],"class_list":{"0":"post-20050","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-ruminations","8":"category-whiskey-river-runningaftermyhat","9":"category-02_in-the-news","10":"category-language-writing_cat","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-annie-dillard","14":"tag-william-blake","15":"tag-charles-wright","16":"tag-lewis-thomas","17":"tag-good-news-and-bad-news","18":"tag-balancing-on-the-cusp","19":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2018\/02\/lagoniedusoleil_michelschmid_thumb.jpg?fit=600%2C400&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-5do","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20050","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=20050"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20050\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":20059,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/20050\/revisions\/20059"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/20060"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=20050"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=20050"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=20050"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}