Showing posts with label yeats. Show all posts
Showing posts with label yeats. Show all posts

2008/03/15

The Caged Bird

The previous posts have presented poems by Irish Nobelist and esoteric explorer William Butler Yeats, which have influenced me in the choice of my comic's title, Goldenbird. Even though I love his imagery, his philosophy remains alien to me, even though I can appreciate the longing for a perfect Platonic ideal on an intellectual level. Yeats' world-view is a very aristocratic one, however. Even though he supported the Irish revolution, he belonged to those interwar intellectuals in the West who feared the lowly "masses" and envisioned an apocalyptic clash of civilizations - it should not come as a surprise that Yeats appreciated Spengler (he thought that his wife, a medium, channeled Spengler even before Der Untergang des Abendlandes had been published).
It is easier for me to identify with the notions expressed in the "caged bird" tradition of the African-American writers. I have been taught to sympathize with the weak and the oppressed, and to feel joy when they triumph over their obstacles. This teaching is central to my world-view, even though my own childhood and youth was relatively privileged. I can't feel the same sympathy for old intellectuals lamenting the modern world (which Yeats did, but Spengler didn't) or the temptation to lump together individual human beings in sweeping, demeaning categories such as "nations", "races" or "civilizations". Those terms are like gilded cages for singing birds. And yet, how can the individual break free without the help of yet another imagined community? How can we avoid turning our liberation movements into gilded cages?
In the next posts, the "caged bird" poems will be explored. Before that, contemplate this painting by Harry Roseland (1868-1950). It often appears in sales lists of art reproductions, especially of African-American interest, sometimes advertised as genuine depictions of Southern AA life. However, Roseland was a white painter who never left Brooklyn. Are his paintings romanticized cultural appropriations? Does he romanticise African-American history, or are his paintings relatively "harmless" and even encouraging examples from an otherwise viciously racist period in history?
Cultural appropriation is a huge theoretical and practical problem. Some people would say that you cannot claim to say anything about people with other social and cultural background, whether you're an artist or a scholar. Needless to say, I disagree (why should I be confined to writing and drawing stories about myself and the handful of people who share my ethnic mix, when I don't even believe that this mix guarantees that we have anything in common...). On the contrary, I think that we need to increase the amount of people who explore other people's perspectives. But we should never forget the power relations that shape our relationships even now. Roseland's art may be sentimental and even deceitful when it serves to calm white consciences ("oh, the old days weren't so bad after all"), but "feel-good-art" can also serve the identity-building of the minority, and in effect, resistance towards the "superior" culture.
In the end, the artist's original purpose is not necessarily relevant to the interpretation of her or his work, but it is important to study the circumstances that influenced it. Why is it important? Because when we look at a picture or read a poem, we feel different things, depending on where we come from and what we have been taught. Whether we respect our neighbor's opinion or not, we benefit from studying its historical background. This ought to be valued in a society that claims to support freedom of expression, unfortunately it is often seen as a waste of time and "giving in" to the opponent's arguments. Freedom of speech is confused with freedom from listening...

2008/03/12

Byzantium

W. B. Yeats (1930)

The unpurged images of day recede;
The Emperor's drunken soldiery are abed;
Night resonance recedes, night walkers' song
After great cathedral gong;
A starlit or a moonlit dome disdains
All that man is,
All mere complexities,
The fury and the mire of human veins.

Before me floats an image, man or shade,
Shade more than man, more image than a shade;
For Hades' bobbin bound in mummy-cloth
May unwind the winding path;
A mouth that has no moisture and no breath
Breathless mouths may summon;
I hail the superhuman;
I call it death-in-life and life-in-death.

Miracle, bird or golden handiwork,
More miracle than bird or handiwork,
Planted on the star-lit golden bough,
Can like the cocks of Hades crow,
Or, by the moon embittered, scorn aloud
In glory of changeless metal
Common bird or petal
And all complexities of mire or blood.

At midnight on the Emperor's pavement flit
Flames that no faggot feeds, nor steel has lit,
Nor storm disturbs, flames begotten of flame, .
Where blood-begotten spirits come
And all complexities of fury leave,
Dying into a dance,
An agony of trance,
An agony of flame that cannot singe a sleeve.

Astraddle on the dolphin's mire and blood,
Spirit after Spirit! The smithies break the flood.
The golden smithies of the Emperor!
Marbles of the dancing floor
Break bitter furies of complexity,
Those images that yet
Fresh images beget,
That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.

Painting by Nicholas Roerich, Corona Mundi (1921)

2008/03/07

Sailing to Byzantium

William Butler Yeats (1928)


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
- Those dying generations - at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

O sages standing in God's holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.

The Second Coming


William Butler Yeats
The Second Coming
(1919)

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


Images:
Ando Hiroshige (1797–1858), Ten Thousand-Acre Plain at Suzaki Fukagawa, from the series "One Hundred Famous Views of Edo"

Walter Gramatté (1897-1929), Die Schwarze Sonne [3](1919)

See also: Der Untergang des Abendlandes