on 12/22/01 4:35 PM, Mairead Byrne at [log in to unmask] wrote:
> Hey Candice thanks for this thrilling poem -- that man was alive (and
> possibly reincarnated as Hart Crane). Do you know he read one poem of
> Whitman's and refused to read any more because of the dangerous kinship
> he felt?
> Happy Holidays to you and all,
> Mairead
Yes, Mairead, "thrilling" is just how it seemed to me too, and I love your
so-right "alive" for Hopkins himself--a human tuning fork is how I've always
thought of him, and his poetry is the "world-mothering air" I breathe.
Do you know Geraldine Monk's 1993 collection _Inter-REGNUM_? She takes on
Hopkins in a big way there via a poetic meditation on the 1612 Lancashire
witch hangings. It's a real tour-de-force, and what I find especially
thrilling is her re-voicing of Hopkins's "Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air
We Breathe," in the mouth of one of the witches, thus:
Demdike Sings
Wild air,
world-mothering air,
nestling me everywhere,
that's fairly mixed
with riddles
and is rife
in every least things life
and nursing element
(Welcome in womb and breast
Birth-milk draw like breath)
Do but stand
where you can lift your hand
skywards;
round four fingergaps
it laps
such sapphire-shot
charged, steeped sky will not
stain light.
Mark you this:
It does not prejudice
the glass-blue days
when every colour glows.
Each shape and shadow shows.
The seven or seven times seven
hued sunbeam will transmit.
Perfect.
Not alter it.
________________________________________________
For those who may not have the Hopkins poem handy, here are its opening
lines and an excerpt from a later passage on which Monk's poem also draws:
The Blessed Virgin Compared to the Air We Breathe
Wild air, world-mothering air,
Nestling me everywhere,
That each eyelash or hair
Girdles; goes home betwixt
The fleeciest, frailest-flixed
Snowflake; that's fairly mixed
With, riddles, and is rife
In every least thing's life;
This needful, never spent,
And nursing element;
My more than meat and drink,
My meal at every wink;
This air, which, by life's law,
My lung must draw and draw
Now but to breathe its praise,
Minds me in many ways
Of her who not only
Gave God's infinity
Dwindled to infancy
Welcome in womb and breast,
Birth, milk, and all the rest
....
Again, look overhead
How air is azur`ed;
O how! Nay do but stand
Where you can lift your hand
Skywards: rich, rich it laps
Round the four fingergaps.
Yet such a sapphire-shot,
Charged, steep`ed sky will not
Stain light. Yea, mark you this:
It does no prejudice.
The glass-blue days are those
When every colour glows,
Each shape and shadow shows.
Blue be it: this blue heaven
The seven or seven times seven
Hued sunbeam will transmit
Perfect, not alter it.
If you know the poem or have a copy to consult, you can get a better idea of
the effects Monk achieves by what she leaves out (think on those
"fingergaps" of Hopkins', for instance)--but I'll be talking with her about
Hopkins and much else besides in her forthcoming Feature interview, so stay
tuned for that and "Manufractured Moon," her poem sequence.
Candice
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