Thank you, again.
It is impossible that we are orphans in an infinite universe so perfectly attuned to our needs.
great stuff, thanks for posting it.
i have long found it funny that my friends - who think i'm irrational because i BELIEVE in G-d - themselves BELIEVE in the B-g B-ng, which they cannot themselves explain; they accept it as an article of faith.
Ditto their BELIEF in Str-ng Th--ry and so on.
i think G-d is a much more elegant and simple explanation for the true colors of the sun, the incredible beauty of nebulae, the miracle of simple kindness.
G-d passes Occam's Razor while so much of postmodern science does not.
another one of my favorite lines of attack is asking my atheist friends about the sun, the moon and the earth - how perfect they are together: a full solar eclipse is only possible because their sizes and their distances are JUST SO.
what are the odds of that? and that this should occur where feeling, thinking life can observe it!
then i point out to them that the entire solar system is perfect: the giant planets absorbing eons of comet hits and giant asteroids, each planet spinning in its designated slot so that Earth might remain in the one single solitary SWEET SPOT: not too warm, not too hot - just right..
a recent study revealed that children intuit the existence of G-d, and are not taught it.
it's the creature in us - we know there's a Creator.
that this Creator has a plan and awareness of us - of each of us - is where the possibility of FAITH breaks down for so many people. They see what WE have done to each other over the centuries - OVER THE LAST FEW WEEKS! - and they argue that no OMNIPOTENT CREATOR would allow this.
they are wrong.
The Creator made "space" for us within which we have choice: we can choose good or evil. G-d had to withdraw Himself from this space to allow this, and like a good parent He allows us to err in order that we might learn.
The fact that not all of us do learn, or that we learn - but at high cost - is not His fault.
The immortality of the soul and the transient nature of our lives on this side, in this domain, in this dominion, is what makes all of the troubles we experience - that WE create - worthwhile, and not pointless.
that's why as believers we are not nihilists.
and this is why so many postmodernists ARE nihilists.
and this is another thing (in addition to hatred for America and so on) that they have in common with jihadists - whose twisted faith-system hates life, hates Life and opposes the G-d who loves life.
-"it's like a song I can hear playin right in my ear,
and I can't sing it-
but I can't help listening" -Jackson Browne
Since poets are our unacknowledged legislators, we need to support our nonlocal wordsmiths and advocate for cosmic law-and-order.
Man is intelligence, and intelligence is the transcending of forms and the realization of the invisible Essence; to say human intelligence is to say absoluteness and transcendence. --Schuon
DOWN with the scantily clad nymphs and UP with more poetry, I say, Chap. Beautiful indeed, G.
An undevout astronomer is mad.
Not so fast. Beauty is one of the coequal branches of cosmic government.
mr youse needn't be so spry
concernin questions arty
each has his tastes but as for i
i likes a certain party
gimme the he-man's solid bliss
for youse ideas i'll match youse
a pretty girl who naked is
is worth a million statues
e e cummings
For a moment when I first saw this, I thought it was a human eye - pupil & iris...... I guess God never wastes a good design.
Man, I'm impressed...We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep...
However, the kind of existential wonder you deftly describe does not depend upon an anthropomorphic creator. In fact, to me it's all the more wondrous if it doesn't (doesn't depend on it, that is, which isn't the same as excluding it). The distinction between agnosticism and atheism (and theism) is the difference between humility and overweening confidence.
Nothing like a little god or no god to build you some comments, no? You are better than this.
Where are you when you write?
Yes. What are your surroundings?
What is your frame of mind?
Can you will it?
Or - must you wait?
Yes, I believe in the Arrival, and I believe it arrives of its own volition, apart from the vessel's desire. Of course, it it much more precise when the vessel is prepared, shaped to its task, ready for service when the Arrival happens. The happy, haunting result is the joy of channeling the Guest.
I call it being struck by Grace. It comes when you least expect it and, even though you cling to it desperately, it goes. But through those moments, hours, or even days; we are allowed a glimpse of that which we cannot name. But know surely that it is Love.
"It is impossible that we are orphans in an infinite universe so perfectly attuned to our needs."
Posted by Bob Sykes at December 7, 2008 4:08 AM
Mr. Sykes, do you it is possible that you have it backwards? Is it possible that it is we who are attuned to its needs?
Almost sublime. Thank you
Cathy & Gerard
I once mused myself about what you call 'The Arrival' and this selfish ditty popped up:
Unfinished poems and incomplete prose;
An irrational urge to construct and compose
This jumble of words on the move in my head ...
Better perhaps just to leave them unsaid?
Whatever the need to relate and commune,
It is foolish, or least ways naive, to assume
That anyone else in the world will accept
The product as other than grossly inept.
And yet, when an unfettered thought take to flight
And transmutes into words in the dead of the night,
Defining a moment complete and sublime
It creates a short pause in the passage of time.
So while others may not comprehend or agree;
Refusing to listen or failing to see;
Or finding the metaphors too hard to handle,
Well ... the pleasure of writing is still worth the candle.
In your case Gerard, you are hereby granted indefinite immunity from the sentiments of that second verse. And thank you so much for sharing your latest memorable journey into the sublime.
by Gerard Van der Leun
--for Tom Disch
Once I worked in projective verse,
But alas my work was for the worse.
Today I add scintilla of technique
Which, sprinkled in, reveals the scenes I seek.
Thoughts are easily clad in rime, it's true,
But some thoughts live when hidden from our view.
To offer rules that eviscerate tradition
Is freedom for a day, but for a life--perdition.
In workshops coast to coast, our poets sweat,
Renouncing honest doggerel and making bets
On who will win the laurels and be fully funded.
(At least ten grand a year, perhaps a hundred.)
To achieve this purloined prize, they teach the kids
To scrawl barbaric yawps on everything they did
And didn't do to Barbie or to Ken
The Night Before in rooms of manly men.
Such grades delivered are rightly pass or fail
Since all agree that any poem is off the scale
Of justice or of judgment ( "Fuck Tom Disch!"),
And is always just as good as is the poet's wish.
The other lessons taught in workshop hell
Are: "Rime is always bad and feelings swell!
Express yourself, young and toothsome student!
(But know that bending over is still prudent.)
"You see, in this strange game, we've got a rule
That states the poet comes before the school.
So please ignore Eliot and Stevens, even Dante,
To let feelings, a la Streisand, up the ante.
"By composing, from such sources, endless plaints,
You are allowed to shitcan meter's steel restraints,
And craft within our workshops shapeless blobs
That will sustain your feelings and our jobs."
What remedy remains for profs so sodden
With modest grants and laurels cheaply gotten?
There's no pretending that such men are poets pure,
For "once a bear is hooked on garbage there's no cure."
Our only hope is to accurately describe them
As mired in their muck. So woe betide them,
Should they hope to gain a lasting recognition,
Their very work will work for their derision.
The poem's not a path to some fat pension,
Nor like some hired hand releasing inner tension.
It requires nothing less than all the soul and mind,
And is, like love and Homer, always blind.
It is not made in workshops, whole or part,
But in the "rag and boneshop of the heart."
And those that cannot blindly see and sense
Must chained forever be in Castle Indolence.
All poetry is dreaming written clear
To the inner eye that wakes the sleeping ear.
You must listen to iced silence, seeing only night,
If you would give your readers second sight.
Castle Indolence. Thank you for that - and for this:
To stand Once within a meadow,
And feel the hands of wind,
Is ample compensation
For the Gift the years rescind.
I'm glad you didn't leave Mortalis Interruptus 'unsaid'.
Neat, but doesn't it remind you of "The Eye of Sauron?"
Dr. Kill had a pedantrum. I tried to be an atheist, once. It required far more faith than believing in God. It's just too taxing to maintain that kind of gullible disbelief. The mere fact that we claim to be rational undermines the whole concept of randomness. I only give myself a migraine trying to think to hard about it. As for Mr. V being better than this, or ginning up his comment numbers, well, so what?
happy christmas and merry new year! (belated)
how did that very first speck/molecule/cell that was alive know what to eat?
i mean.... all life needs energy.
so how did the first single cell animal know what to eat?
how did its cell membrane know what to let in and what to excrete?
V, you remind one of Masefield.
thank you for the links to 'The Arrival' and 'The Missing'.
Gerard, Did that young poet to whom you addressed "The Arrival" continue corresponding with you?
Yes, I do hear from him infrequently.
The moon, the sun, the planets, the stars, the galaxies. You are showing them all to us like a carousel full of slides from the latest vacation. So, Gerard, are these maybe the places you visited while the waiting for the doctors to jump-start your ticker and reel you back in? Just curious...
There is a man, upon who's pen,
The hand of God does weigh,
But only some can comprehend,
The message sent their way,
But some divine the writing,
And understood what's writ,
It's not so much a story,
but God's movie , by the script.
So thanks, Gerard, for writing,
The screenplay of your day,
You make me look at everything,
A wholly different way.
You are very welcome, Roger.
The creatures who dwell between the tiles of Heaven's floor gaze upward into the Impossible Heights.
The heavens are telling the glory of God;
And the firmament proclaims his handiwork. Psalm 19: 1
Sure, all that is evidence of a Designer. But none of it is evidence that She will break Her own rules if you chant the correct magic spells (whether led by someone with excellent dentistry and a $10,000 suit or a celibate crossdresser) and none of it is evidence that you are anything more than an emergent phenomenon in the Universe's most complicated known computing device.