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The possibility of writing

Printer's tray, Cuneiform Press postcard

 

Still struggling to form and finish the next post (following on from the post dated 2 September) I'm once again resorting to interpolating a poem here, complementary to the poem I published last month (23 September). In fact I see both poems, each a poem in progress, as two parts of a single, longer poem, or as two closely interrelated poems. As with the previous poem, I'll continue to work on this one here, in the more or less public space of this blog. In the spirit of the relationship between the two poems, I've altered the title of the previous poem -- or provided a title: the September poem is now, "The possibility of memory", with the current poem titled "The possibility of writing".  I'll see where that goes. Meanwhile, I think that both poems are grappling with the writing process; with crafting, rather than with inspiration, since neither is inspired in the usual sense of that word.

 

The possibility of writing

 

Where does memory live?

A clutch of elk

A forest door

Light tilting against

A thickening sky  

The gloaming

Tentative then

         Flaring

Touching nose flank tail

Elk growling at low thrum

"Indefiniteness is an element

Of the true music"

         says Spicer

The poet

 

Dreaming

        Riding

Bareback through the forest

I taste the trail in my mouth

And I think to write this down      

 

Walking the streets

Shadows stippling the sun

I'm a cotton weevil

Caught in a loose cotton weave

Unbuttoning one ear

I listen for the mustering elk

      

Chiseled from the glowing rod         

         heated shavings  

         swarming

Coalescing into letters

         clustering

         just enough

To form one sentence

      maybe

 

The press goes

Clacketyclacketyclack

Crowding my dream

Planetesimals whirr the dark

Seventeen billion

         incipient spheres

Formed from heated metal

Seventeen billion

         trees

In a red-shifting forest

Our names carved

         into just this
One tree

 

 

 

 

 

[clutch of elk

rim of light

forest lane

printing press

etc.]        

 

 

 

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The possibility of memory

William Blake, I want, I want

 

 

It's been some time since my last post, due mainly to distractions precipitating from the steep learning curve of pollinator gardening. Not having anything else in hand at the moment, I'll resort to publishing a poem I've been working on (and which I'll continue working on here). I realize that this stratagem may disappoint an imagined reader, but as they say, there's nothing for it just now.

 

I don't know where this poem of mine came from, or where it may be going. But the proximate impulse to make this post arose from reading a book of poems by Marilyn Hacker. Her poem is titled Ghazal — no subtitle, though other poems in the book employ that term. Which book, by the way, is A Stranger's Mirror (W.W.Norton & Company, 2015). Here are the first two stanzas of Hacker's poem:
 
She took what wasn't hers to take: desire
For all that's not her, for what might awake desire.
 
With it, the day's a quest, a question, answered where-
Ever eye, mind lights. Desire seeks, but one can't seek desire.

 
These closing thoughts on desire echo the closing thoughts of my poem, which I think is about memory, or about time. I hadn't seen Hacker's poem till now, had been working on my poem, off and on, for months, with those closing lines there from the first roughed-out draft; from the epiphanic moment, as it were.
 
Hacker's use of enjambment in Ghazal is seamless, unlike my own trials with that literary device. I'd suggest however that there's otherwise little connection between the two poems, apart from twinning the ego as both subject and object -- without knowing what that might mean, in my case. Anyway, here's my poem:

 

The possibility of memory

 

Sitting on the red sofa
I'm way out in time
Years ahead of now
Spooling a nostalgia thread

 

     Arrives a shifting awareness

     Sifting a foreshadowing dread

 

Riffling the signatures
of a revenant tome
Gingko weaving sunlight

Through the chain lines

Seed pod and leaf blade
mottle my raveling hands

 

Picking up the phone, your voice

A shaft of audible dust
Traces a Ley-line through 

Lanes of enigmatical stars

 

Did I miss the launch
That carried you and the others away?
Did I drift through yet another apocalypse?

 

Living long with Gingko
You may choose memory
But will memory
Choose you?

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"Jinrickshaw"

"The Tree" by James Reaney, Poetry Magazine December 1969

 

As with all of my posts, this one has been difficult to pin down, though the underlying subject of this post is pastiche and related matters. Looking over previous entries on this blog I see that much of what I publish is an assemblage of fragments, loosely strung together, with connections strengthened by a gradually emerging narrative arc. And as with all posts on this blog, the underlying factor, the urgrund, is very broadly the search for a subject within a given post, that would link with other posts to ultimately form an interrelated whole.

 

In this case, the originary spark was provided by my reading of a small portfolio of "emblem poems" published several decades ago. According to the Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics, emblem poems were popular in the early modern, or Renaissance period, though my exposure to them was much more recent, courtesy of Poetry Magazine, who published a selection by a Canadian poet called James Reaney. These poems are interesting because they combine writing with drawing, and in a general sense they correlate with a previous post that focused on poetry and collage.

 

One of Reaney's emblem poems is reproduced above, and is one of four such poems published in the December 1969 issue of Poetry Magazine. I especially like this poem for it's incorporation of singular or separate signs into a meaningful whole, and for its cosmic reference point. Interestingly, and perhaps appropriately given the subject matter of "The Tree", Reaney is described as a "mythopoet" in a recent issue of PN Review (#219, 2014) by the Canadian poet Amanda Jernigan, who writes:

 

There are critics for whom mythopoetry is, if anything, a was: a short-lived literary movement that grew up here in Canada under the influence of the mythopoetic criticism of Northrop Frye, and died out when its chief practitioners – Macpherson and James Reaney (1926–2008) are the two most often cited – went on to other things. In the May/June 2013 issue of PN Review, Evan Jones called me, only half-jokingly, the last of the mythopoets: 'the only heir to a tradition that was once central and has now died out'.

 

My feeling is that mythopoetry remains relevant, often appearing when poets seek greater depths of meaning. In fact, we needn't reach all the way back to Robert Duncan, or further back to Yeats, Eliot, or Auden, to locate this persistent relevance. As Susan Howe observed in a recent collection of essays (The Quarry, 2015):

 

Poetry is an incessant amorous search under the sign of love for a remembered time at the pitch-dark fringes of evening when we gathered together to bless and believe.

 

What does Howe suggest poetry is? Myth? Storytelling? I'll leave that question aside for now. But moving on I'd say that in my practice I tend to blur the categories. For example, to my mind the emblem poems may be akin in a very general way to the broadside ballads that emerged within the early print tradition in Europe. They tended to incorporate images or drawings of various kinds onto a broad sheet covered with printed text. For their part the emblem poem may pose difficulties for the anthologist; broadsides are simpler to reproduce and thus may appear more frequently in compilations of the period. The broadsides valorized text over image, whereas the opposite may be the case with the emblem poems (though Reaney does good work in giving equal status to each). Thinking further with the assistance of Reaney's poems, I realize that the extended word definitions culled from etymologies, such as by W.W. Skeat, might function in these blog posts as emblems — blocks of print assembled originally to form a definition, but capable of producing an image when displayed on the page in other contexts. See for example Skeat's definition of the word "emblem":

 

EMBLEM, a device. (F.,-L.,-Gk.) In Shak. All's Well, ii.
i . 44. O. F. embleme,' an embleme ;' Cot. Lat. emblema, a kind of
ornament. Gk. ξμβλημα, a kind of moveable ornament, a thing put
on. Gk. έμβαλλειν, to put in, lay on. - Gk. έμ = εν, in; and βάλλειν,
to cast, throw, put. See Belemnite. Der. emblemat-ic, from Gk.
stem έμβληυατ- ; emblemat-ic-al.

 

It's difficult to think of this entry as constituting just a text; it's a multilingual assemblage of abbreviations, punctuation marks, and signs that collectively compose an image, rather than a text per se. Compare this with Brewer's entry for this word in his Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, which is more precisely textual:

 

Emblem. A symbolical figure; a picture with
a hidden meaning which is "cast into" (Gr. em,
in, ballein, to cast) the visible device. Thus, a
balance is an emblem of justice, white of purity,
a sceptre of sovereignty.
Some of the most common and simple
emblems of the Christian Church are:
A chalice. The eucharist.
The circle inscribed in an equilateral triangle,
or the triangle in a circle. To denote the coequality
and co-eternity of the Trinity.
A cross. The Christian's life and conflict;
the death of Christ for man's redemption.
A crown. The reward of the perseverance of
the saints.
A dove. The Holy Ghost.
A handfrom the clouds. To denote God the
Father.
A lamb, fish, pelican, etc. The Lord Jesus
Christ.
A phoenix. The resurrection.

 

Having raised the issue of pastiche and imported a Renaissance era literary form into this discussion, I want to reach a little further for additional, possibly provocative parallels. In a recent book titled Inky Fingers, Anthony Grafton argues that early printing (15th-16th centuries) involved a hands-on interplay between scribes, printers, and scholars. In fact, he suggests that the postmodern sensibility and practices of contemporary scholarship may have been foreshadowed by close interactions between scholars and printers during the Renaissance. A reviewer of his book (Erin Maglaque, New Review of Books July 2021) notes that,

 

He had begun it by citing Macrobius: 'In this Book all is mine, & Nothing is mine. Omne meum, nihil meum.' Pastorius meant that by assembling bits of the old, he had created something new. It took considerable intellectual discernment – and long, cramped hours of reading and notetaking – to create a masterpiece that was at once his own and a compilation of others' writings. The Bee Hive exemplifies what is so puzzlingly postmodern about early modern textuality: it was both individual and collective, unique and pastiched.

 

"Pastiched" is the key word here, but I want to move on, for now. Erin Maglaque very conveniently (for my purposes) mentions Pastorius. "Pastorius" is Daniel Francis Pastorius, leader of the Germantown community, which was formed in the late 17th century just outside of Philadelphia. (I've written about this community in previous posts, focusing on Johannes Kelpius (the Latinized form of the person otherwise known as Johann Kelp), founder with other Pietists in 1694 of a small utopian community on the banks of Wissahickon Creek, in close proximity to Germantown). Thinking about the Wissahickon Creek area I'd add that the first paper mill in North America was established close by to the Kelpius site (a little further south on the Wissahickon) by the Rittenhouse family, who also were emigrés from Germany, and who settled near Philadelphia during this period. Kelpius was spiritual leader of his small group; he composed as number of hymns which are among the first written in North America. (Note that the issue of "firsts" is very much of dubious value, and is notoriously difficult to establish and pin down.)

 

I'll wrap this up with a puzzling quote from Bee-Hive (Pastorius hyphenated the title), which I believe remains a little-known classic of early American literature. (Parts of the book are excerpted in The Multilingual Anthology of American Literature, edited by Marc Shell and Werner Sollors). In their selection, Pastorius provides the following description of his work, situating that work, by the way, within the overarching domain of pastiche:

 

Whereas many prefer meer Rick-shaws beyond Solid meats, I had rather choose to set before them the dainties of other men, than the coarse food of mine own.

 

Bee-Hive has been dated to around 1696, so this brief description is fascinating; it's firstly a neat summary of Pastorius's intention in compiling his "Common-place" book, which was done principally for the edification and moral instruction of his sons. But note that Pastorius, writing at the close of the 17th century, uses the word "Rick-shaw"  — whereas the OED provides no examples for this word in English prior to the 19th century! The OED explains that the word is an abbreviated form of an earlier word, "Jinrickishaw", which means much the same thing — a conveyance on two wheels pulled by a person. The OED provides an etymology by way of translation: "Jin man + ricki strength, power + sha vehicle." The OED further notes that the word was "First used in Japan c. 1870 but now common in other parts of the world." It may be worthwhile exploring Pastorius's curious usage at some other time. Note, however, that he wrote in multiple languages -- German, Latin, English, and more. Was the word in use among German speakers much earlier than it was used by English speakers? (The word does not appear in my copy of the Langenscheidt Compact German Dictionary.) Was the rickshaw, as we understand the term, in use in Japan or elsewhere in Asia prior to the 19th century? Note that the OED associates the word Jinrichshaw with Japan, whence it spread elsewhere. What are the origins of the word "rickshaw?" What did this word mean to Pastorius? His usage appears to vary from the meaning we nowadays assign to that word.

 

One more thing — how is it possible that I've brought this post around to yet another discussion of word definitions and word origins?

 

More later…

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Loggerhead

Coin from Aigina with image of tortoise, c. 400 B.C., from Ancient Greek Coins by G.K. Jenkins

 

Continuing a thread from the previous blog post, I want to continue to explore the concept of travel, if only briefly though I hope suggestively, along with related concepts and words. A partial listing… traveler, wanderer, pilgrim, stranger…

 

The Oxford English Dictionary conflates or interrelates two or more of these terms, indicating that the word "pilgrim" denotes "one that comes from foreign parts; a stranger", and later, "One who travels from place to place. A person on a journey; a wayfarer, a traveler; a wanderer, a sojourner" but then steers the definition more specifically towards, "One who journeys (usually a long distance) to some sacred place, as an act of religious devotion." Within this cluster of words, it appears that "stranger" may be the encompassing term. Interestingly, there is no separate entry for the word "stranger" in the American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Roots, compiled by Calvin Watkins. But in his book on English etymology C.T. Onions forms "stranger" from the word "strange", and suggests a possible association with the word "extraneous". For some reason I like that connection; it says quite a bit about the social position of the pilgrim, the traveler, the wanderer, etc. — whether en route, or having arrived in whatever faraway or strange land. Interestingly, nor is the word "stranger" given a separate entry in An Etymological Dictionary of the English Language by Walter W. Skeat (a classic source on the subject)  — though he does provide an entry for "host":

 

HOST (i), one who entertains guests. (F..-L.) M.E. host, haste, Chaucer, C. T. 749, 753, &c.- O.F. haste, 'an hoste, inn-keeper;' Cot. Cf. Port, hospede, a host, a guest. Lat. hospitem, ace. of hospes, (i) a host, entertainer of guests, (2) a guest. p. The base hospit- is commonly taken to be short for hosti-pit- ; where hosti- is the crude form of tostis, a guest, an enemy; see Host (2). Again, the suffix -pit- is supposed to be from Lat. potis, powerful, the old sense of the word being 'a lord ;' cf. Skt. pali, a master, governor, lord ; see Possible. y- Thus hospes = hosti-pets = guest-master, guestlord, a master of a house who receives guests. Cf. Russ. gospode, the Lord, gospodare, governor, prince ; from goste, a guest, and -pode = Skt. pali, a lord. Der. host-ess, from O.F. hostesse, 'an hostesse, Cot. ; also host-el, q. v., host-ler, q. v., hotel, q. v. ; and from the same
source, hospital, q. v., hospice, q. v., hospitable, q.v.

 

Note, however, how this word morphs etymologically into a set of quite different connotations, where the sense of "guest" and "enemy" share meanings, and where the word "stranger" is at last introduced:

 

HOST (2), an army. (F., L.) The orig. sense is 'enemy' or foreigner.' M.E. host, Chaucer, C. T. 1028; frequently spelt ost, Will, of Palerne, 1127, 1197, 3767. O. F. host,' an host, or army, a troop ;' Cot. Lat. hostem, ace. of hoslis, a stranger, an enemy ;
hence, a hostile army, host. + Russ. goste, a guest, visitor, stranger, alien. + A. S. gecst ; see Guest. Der. host-He, Cor. iii. 3. 97, from F. hostile, which from Lat. hostilis ; host-ile-ly ; host-il-i-ly, K. John, iv. 2. 247, from F. hostilite, which from Lat. ace. hostilitatem. Doublet, guest. ^f Further remarks are made in Wedgwood.

 

This meaning is more explicit in the entry for "guest":

 

GUEST, a stranger who is entertained. (E.) The u is inserted to preserve the g as hard. M. E. gest, Hampole, Pricke of Conscience, 1 374 ; alsto ght, Ancren Riwle, p. 68. A. S. gast, gest, gast ; also gist, fiest; Grein, i. 373. + Icel. gestr. + Dan. giest. + Swed. gdst. + Du. gast. + Goth, gasts. + G. gast. + Lat. hostis, a stranger, guest, enemy. p. The orig. sense appears to be that of 'enemy, whence the senses of 'stranger' and 'guest' arose. The lit. sense is 'striker.'- VGHAS, GHANS, to strike ; an extension of^GHAN, to strike. Cf. Skt. Aims, to strike, injure, desiderative of Han, to strike, wound. Der. guest-chamber, Mark, xiv. 14. From the same root, gore, verb, garlic, goad, hostile.

 

Returning to the OED, there is an interesting tension in the various definitions offered there, even though in the end they indicate that a "pilgrim" is one who undertakes a "pilgrimage," in the sense that we understand that term nowadays. After retailing this cluster of meanings, whether related or disparate, the OED allows that the journey undertaken by the pilgrim to a sacred place is "the prevailing sense." My feeling, however, is that there is an embedded meaning in this word and among these definitions: the wanderer who sets forth on a long journey would be seeking something, irrespective of any religious or sacred duty. Or perhaps they are seeking poetry. If so, it follows that the two broader meanings as set forth by Cid Corman ('It was to be more a pilgrimage — and in the garb of pilgrims they went — than a case of wandering scholarship…') may come together to form a single reference — the wandering scholar is as much a seeker as the pilgrim.

 

The OED indicates that "wander" describes the activity of one who moves about with no fixed purpose; in one definition the word is applied to the movement of a river or a stream. This is interesting as well, since rivers, while subject to change or alteration, do regularly follow relatively fixed courses toward a given destination: the ocean, a sea, a lake, or a larger river — which then subsumes and perpetuates the journey begun by the tributary stream.

 

I'll note that "planet", which is to say the Greek word from which the English word "planet" derives, is defined by the OED as "wanderer": "A heavenly body distinguished from the fixed stars by having an apparent motion of its own among them." — the OED glosses this as deriving from "old astron." — in reference to the pre-Copernican, or Ptolemaic, system of the universe. This is food for thought. Within that older system as channeled or filtered through Christian ideology, humans occupy the center of an ordered universe — they look up at a set of celestial spheres which have been set in motion by God, onto which the planets, the moon, the sun and the stars are affixed. Humans are assigned their own, central position on Earth (under the direct gaze of God), while the planets "wander" in the sense that they're moving around earth, as seen from below, within a geocentric system, fastened to their own respective orbs or spheres. All of this in accord with the divine plan, set in motion by the Christian God. The world-shaking revolution, and subsequent theological upheaval initiated by Copernicus and later demonstrated by Galileo and his telescope, turned this orderly and divinely regulated world system upside down. That story is well known.

 

My interest just now however is to persist a little longer in exploring, if only briefly and superficially (and perhaps tendentiously), this word cluster— pilgrim, traveler, wanderer, stranger — and their interrelated meanings. John Clare has a poem called 'The Tramp' which captures the randomness of movement by the social outlier:

 

The Tramp

 

He talks to none but wends his silent way,
And finds a hovel at the close of day,
Or under any hedge his house is made.
He has no calling and he owns no trade.
An old smoaked blanket arches oer his head,
A whisp of straw or stubble makes his bed.
He knows a lawless law that claims no kin
But meet and plunder on and feel no sin—
No matter where they go or where they dwell
They dally with the winds and laugh at hell."
(Excerpt From: John Clare. "Poems Chiefly from Manuscript." Apple Books)

 

And another poem by Clare, portraying the respectable local who stays put:

 

The Cottager

 

True as the church clock hand the hour pursues
He plods about his toils and reads the news,
And at the blacksmith's shop his hour will stand
To talk of "Lunun" as a foreign land.
For from his cottage door in peace or strife
He neer went fifty miles in all his life.
His knowledge with old notions still combined
Is twenty years behind the march of mind.
He views new knowledge with suspicious eyes
And thinks it blasphemy to be so wise.
(Excerpt From: John Clare. "Poems Chiefly from Manuscript." Apple Books)

 

"Dally with the winds and laugh at hell," or "plods about his toils and reads the news." Pick your poison. There is a poem in VEII And Other Poems (Carcanet, 2021) the most recent book by the English poet Robert Wells, which I think captures the complementary tension between making toward a goal, or being at swim in the universal flux. The poem is called 'Loggerhead':

 

Type of a courage to which the heart, intent
On its own journey, answers:
                                          the sea-turtle,
Unwieldy, solitary, tilted aslant,
Ferrying itself along through the green swell.

 

Wells explains in a note that,

 

I was thinking of seventeenth-century emblem poems. But the turtle is a real one, seen off the island of Melos some forty years ago. A turtle also figures on the coins of Aegina, the earliest to be minted in Europe.

 

The heart 'intent on its own journey' may be purposeful, or may be obeying a primitive, migratory instinct. Or both. But the turtle is a wonderful emblem of travel, on account of its slowness and deliberateness, and in the poem, the turtle is the embodiment of contraries -- experiencing a purposeful enthrallment. William Blake: "without contraries, there is no progression." And so the loggerhead ferries itself along. I love the connection Wells makes to coins — which portend travel undertaken by merchants, and subsequent trading activity among strangers. So too with fieldwork — I understood that my position as outsider, someone who would soon move on, never returning, facilitated a more robust exchange of information, and disclosures.

 

With this I feel I'm moving toward concluding this one post, but not completion of the larger subject, however. During the years I was actively doing fieldwork, my intention in every case was to fulfill the contractual obligations I'd been party to. But I also sought ways to dissociate myself from any overt purpose with that travel; to give myself over to travel per se. Around that time I read an essay by Gary Snyder in a book I'd found, browsing the shelves of the Carnegie Library in the Oakland section of Pittsburgh. Snyder wrote about a Japanese poet who practiced a traditional form of poetry that involved walking, rather than writing. I right away understood that. In his introduction to For All My Walking, a book of translations of haiku and diary excerpts of Taneda Santōka, Burton Watson suggests that for Santōka,

 

The two activities of walking and composing haiku seemed to complement each other, and his many journeys, lonely and wearisome as they were, gave him a sense of fulfillment that he could gain in no other way.

 

The seamlessness between the two activities was well expressed by Santōka in a haiku:

 

I go on walking
higan lilies
Go on blooming

 

As a longtime walker, traveler, and sometime wanderer, this struck home. Rhythm, open sky, epiphany — pathways to poetry; words on the page superfluous? Loggerhead; with a shake of Blake.

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Double Positive

Illustration by James Rumford, from his book Traveling Man, The Journey of Ibn Battuta, 1325-1354. *See note below

 

 

My intention has been to publish on this blog every week or ten days. I haven't posted since 20 July, so I'm well past that self-imposed schedule. But this new post has been difficult to put together — I can't make the pieces fit. My hunch is that there's a connection between the material at the beginning — the references to Cezanne and to Michaux — and the material that follows, which takes up the theme of travel as tentatively explored in a previous post.

 

Thinking this through as I've struggled with this post, I know that my purpose is to engage in a process of discovery. This has two components — first, to establish connections among my various interests, and then hone them down to a single focus. I imagine that focus might consist of a rumination on the practice of fieldwork -- but that's undecided. Second, I want to do this in public, publishing on an open website just now. No doubt there are relatively few readers or visitors to this site; readers are important, but the public nature of the blog supplies a valuable psychological dimension; it's a communicative, not merely ruminative process  

 

As I say, this post is rather disjointed. But I want to move on with it, picking up threads from my previous post to begin probing the meanings of travel. The word travel hardly expresses all that I hope to convey just now, but I'll begin unpacking it here. Firstly, I want to note that the immediate inspiration for this post came from recent reading, with various stray pieces expressing a similar idea, but arising in divergent contexts. The first is from a review by Jed Perl of the recent Cezanne show at MOMA that appeared in the New York Review of Books. Perl is searching for a way to convey the jointure of faultless craft and visionary inspiration in Cezanne's work. He writes that,

 

 …the English critic Herbert Read quoted the German Romantic philosopher Friedrich Schelling, who said that 'the secret of true poetry' is 'to be drunk and sober not in different moments but at one and the same moment.'

 

And then:

 

Gustave Geffroy, the critic who was the subject of one of his most complex portraits, may have been echoing Schelling when he wrote that Cézanne "experiences an intoxication in the spectacle unfurled before him" and then transfers "this intoxication to the restricted space of his art." Cézanne is drunk on sensation but always sober enough to pin it down.

 

This is a common way to represent the complexity of authentic art, and the work of the inspired artist, and it turns up in a variety of writings, sometimes inserted more or less casually into seemingly unrelated discussions. For example, in a recent review in the Times Literary Supplement of a new translation of Johan Huizinga's masterwork, Autumntide of the Middle Ages (previously translated as The Waning of the Middle Ages), Alexander Murray notes of Huizinga that 'His prose unites precision with passion in areas that commonly pull them apart.' More pointedly, in the Introduction to Thousand Times Broken, a triptych of interrelated pieces by Henri Michaux, the translator Gillian Conoley offers the following regarding Michaux's experiments with mescaline:

 

Throughout each exploration, one becomes aware of a split in consciousness. While there is a mind at play, courting chaos, there is also a mind acutely observant and vigilant, taking note of every synapse, each glimmer of the unknown. As much as Michaux is desirous of vision, he is desirous to chart the course. While the work is strange, dark, and fantastic, his stance is often scientific, rational, that of one who is taking account, detached. Thus, Michaux, who once attended medical school, is both "poetic" and "scientific" at the same time, taking Rimbaud's statement: "contemporary poetry can no longer content itself with vague lyricism, but only with total self-knowledge," quite seriously.

 

The similarity between these passages appearing in entirely unrelated contexts is notable. But there's more.  As is widely known, Henri Michaux famously experimented with mescaline as a means of exploring (or accessing) the wellsprings of art. Having read the passage in Thousand Times Broken, I wanted to learn more about mescaline, especially any ritual or artistic implications associated with the substance. In Pharmako Gnosis, the third book of his Pharmako trilogy, Dale Pendell also identifies the jointure, but then suggests that the resulting equilibrium can paradoxically impose significant constraints on artistic practice and outcomes. Pendell writes of Michaux that,

 

For one, he can't stop the show — the dynamics of the mind. Michaux tries to find the inner laws of how one thought leads to the next, and uses his time in "altered states" totally to that end, a task for which his poetic training, the ability to maintain aesthetic judgment even in the midst of a maelstrom of images, serves him well. Still, one keeps wishing for the rationalist to let go, to fly through the medicine space to a more magical kind of art.  

 

But where's the connection to travel? I'll try to address that question by introducing yet another dichotomy, also prominent in contemporary writing and in accounts of writerly practice.  In a long and thoughtful review of a recent biography of Edward Said, writing in the New York Review of Books Adam Schatz notes that:

 

…as Said often pointed out, affiliation could degenerate into filiation, into a familial structure of obedience and conformity. Only in his final decade did he express himself freely on the movement's failures and the region's dictatorships. But, as Brennan shows, the Palestinian struggle enriched Said far more than it constrained him. The themes that echo through his writing – the preference for exilic over rooted writing, the idea of 'contrapuntal' criticism, the insistence on secular humanism, worldliness and universality – can all, indirectly, be traced to Palestine. Not to the land itself, or to the people, but to the metaphor, the region of the mind, that he fashioned out of them.

 

The interplay between affiliation and filiation, and between the exilic and the rooted, are of special interest. I am of course making free with Shatz's discussion of Said (in anticipation of further discussion later), but much as the artist manages altered states by leveraging poetic training (in Pendell's rendering ), so too must the traveler reconcile apparently conflicting tendencies — to remain rooted, or to venture forth — in other words, to accommodate risk in anticipation of reward. There are echoes here of the religious pilgrim, who for centuries has taken to the road in search of  enlightenment, or to fulfill a religious obligation, or to pay homage to sites or shrines invested with spiritual or historical significance.

 

As Cid Corman writes in his introduction to Basho's Back Roads to Far Towns, Basho and his friend Sora embarked on just such a journey, which they'd been looking forward to for some time:

 

The journey was one both had looked forward to and realized would be difficult and even dangerous. And, indeed, one might not return. It was to be more a pilgrimage — and in the garb of pilgrims they went — than a case of wandering scholarship: a sight not uncommon even in modern Japan, visiting from temple to temple, seeing old acquaintances, places famed in history or poetry or legend, touchstones for the life lived, the dying to come and what life continues.

 

Corman captures the tension between the anticipated rewards and the unexpected dangers associated with travel. Basho was a great traveler and a great world poet, who in fact fell ill and died on a subsequent journey, aged 51. His 'death poem', composed just four days before his death, suggests the deep intertwining of life and travel for Basho:

 

On journey, ill:

my dream goes wandering

over withered fields.

 

The 14th century traveler Ibn Battuta likewise left an important account of his journeys, making the pilgrimage to Mecca and other holy sites at age 22, later reporting on those as he did on the habits, customs, and experiences of peoples and places he encountered along the way — Cairo, Mecca and Medina, Andalusia, the Maghreb, Mogadishu and the Gulf of Aden, and so on. He begins his narrative thus:

 

I left Tangier, my birthplace, on Thursday, 2nd Rajab 725 [June 14, 1325], being at that time twenty-two years of age [22 lunar years; 21 and 4 months by solar reckoning], with the intention of making the Pilgrimage to the Holy House [at Mecca] and the Tomb of the Prophet [at Medina].

 

Unlike Basho, Ibn Battuta set forth alone, relying on family connections and on serendipitous encounters along the way. He too was well aware of the difficulties and potential dangers associated with traveling far from home, and which can be met and overcome, as he suggests in his account of a prophetic dream:

 

A dream of travels to come

 

That night, while I was sleeping on the roof of the cell, I dreamed that I was on the wing of a great bird which was flying with me towards Mecca, then to Yemen, then eastwards and thereafter going towards the south, then flying far eastwards and finally landing in a dark and green country, where it left me. I was astonished at this dream and said to myself "If the shaykh can interpret my dream for me, he is all that they say he is." Next morning, after all the other visitors had gone, he called me and when I had related my dream interpreted it to me saying: "You will make the pilgrimage [to Mecca] and visit [the Tomb of] the Prophet, and you will travel through Yemen, Iraq, the country of the Turks, and India. You will stay there for a long time and meet there my brother Dilshad the Indian, who will rescue you from a danger into which you will fall." Then he gave me a travelling-provision of small cakes and money, and I bade him farewell and departed. Never since parting from him have I met on my journeys aught but good fortune, and his blessings have stood me in good stead.

 

There are others who sought a middle ground of sorts — valorizing the idea of travel while not actually making the trip. I'm thinking here of the Moroccan poet Ibn Darradj al-Qastalli, who was active during the 10th century C.E. Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour print two of his poems in their Book of North African Literature (Volume 4 in the Poems for the Millennium series). Addressing his wife, the poet-traveler conveys the double nature of traveling thus:

 

Don't you know that to settle down means to die     

and that the homes of those who have no will become graves?

Didn't you try to read the early birds' omen?

Didn't they fly to the right to tell you the journey would be safe?

This long journey does scare me

though the hope of kissing al-Mansur's hand sustains me

 

Here again is the double or fraught nature of travel — the intertwining elements of risk and reward, to be experienced at home, and on the road. That said, although traveling formed the subject of Ibn Darradj's poetry, it was not part of his lived experience. In a note to their selection of these poems, Joris and Tengour quote translator Abdelfetah Chenni, who writes that,

 

Ibn Darradj is known as the poet of 'exile, separation, geographical nomadicity,' yet he's never been farther than Morocco, & each time he traveled, his family was with him: the man lived more in a nostalgic nomadic world of his own, though he did write excellent poems thanks to this virtual nomadic state of mind.

 

There's much more to be said here. But meanwhile, this post has wandered long and far, without arriving at any particular destination, or completion. I'll return to this subject in my next post.

 

*NOTE: Joris and Tengour provide a reference for an online version of Ibn Battuta's Travels, where I subsequently read the book and found the quotes which I've used in this post. Searching afterwards for a compelling image, I pulled a book from my shelf which I'd forgotten I owned -- an illustrated retelling of the Ibn Battuta narrative by James Rumford. I've used one of Rumford's images at the top of this post; his book was published in 2001 by Houghton Mifflin Company. The web version of Ibn Battuta's Travels can be accessed here, in the "Internet Medieval Sourcebook" on the Fordham University website.

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