My Summer Reading

"My summer reading" is probably going to propel me well into October, at the rate I'm going. But at least I'm doing it.

Paradise Lost was, like Moby Dick, one of those works in the high school literary canon that high schools were rejecting by the time I came along, so I'd never read it before now.

My Viking Portable edition cost me all of 7 dollars (not used, but the copy had some cover fading). It has a very helpful glossary at the end.

It's taken me all month (reading in bits) to get through Book III (of the twelve), and I've got some early observations.

For one, it's not that hard to read, once you get past the introduction ("Sing, heavenly Muse," is the verb and subject of the first sentence, found six lines into the poem. You don't hit the first period until line 16).

Younger (and faster) readers will want an Oxford Concise Dictionary at their elbows and then maybe hold off researching the full context of the more obscure references to classical mythology. Older folks like me also may want Bulfinch (I think I paid a dollar for mine years ago -- a megabookseller's reprint) nearby.

That, a "good posture" reading chair, some imagination and some more patience may well see you through (We'll see: I'm working on it!). My favorite of Book I was Satan waking up, floating around on a stormy lake of fire (with the construction of Pandemonium a close second). Book II's highlight for me were the speeches of the demons -- each intended to fit a cardinal sin. Book III's description of the world between Heaven and Paradise was as clear as an etching.

The trick so far has been reading 80-120 lines at a sitting. Old Miltie conveniently set his poem into paragraphs (or groups of paragraphs) about that long, so -- there you go!

The 'graphing could be more than convenience -- maybe the poem was set that way, in part, to facilitate public readings (!).

I've had fun reading as The Ham Actor In My Head declaims to me his version of the poem, bit by bit.

BTW -- my earlier ref to an "etching" was not coincidental. If you've got the scratch (sorry) for Dore's plates to the poem -- you've got a 17th century graphic novel (kind of).

The Song Remains Never the Same

I ran across an online article today regarding attempts by scholars and scientists to preserve some of the world's dying languages.

It's in the Science section of today's online version of The New York Times.

I hope these folks will remember to record the language's poems. Usually, in nonliterate traditional cultures, the poems are narrative: the Iliad, Beowulf, the verse Edda, etc. And these poems contain the language, IMHO, at its richest and finest. I remember in Greek class (I was no class hotshot, trust me) hearing that Homeric was really a collection of several regional Greek dialects, and I also read elsewhere since that "crafted" narrative epics like the Divine Comedy were also made from several regional dialects in Italian.

Maybe I'm still a Poundean (-ian?) at heart, since "poet as protector of the language" was one of his more prominent critical dicta. I do think it's true to some extent, though a lot of it would depend on the poet.

Still, I hope these language scientists don't forget the poems. They may tell the most about that culture of anything they might find.

BTW -- You may have noticed I haven't been posting weekly in a long while. I'll try to be more regular. I'm still averse to linking, as you can tell.

Done.

My Mandolin Sings

Like a thrush on the heather,

My mandolin sings.

Dancing as a tiny feather,

The joy that it brings!

If times be weighed by weather,

I'm lonely or sad --

Whatever my heart's tether,

My mandolin sings.

Her strings fly 'neath my fingers,

How happy our days.

Her high note chirping lingers

In air as she plays!

Deeply as a kitten purrs,

Her low notes uncurl.

Whichever part she prefers,

How happy our days.

Brooks babbling and firs swirling,

My mandolin cries --

Tails twitching, wings unfurling,

Their spirits arise!

As woodland winds are twirling

By day or by night

When there are dancers whirling

My mandolin cries.

by William Mark Gabriel

Once I figure out how, this post will indicate that it is covered by a Creative Commons license that permits commercial use, but no modifications, under United States copyright law.

For practical purposes, I am OK with people setting this to music, but my words must remain unchanged and be used with my name.

I would be happiest to see the words set to a tune already in the public domain, but adapted (if needed) as appropriate to the rules for a musician used by the organization publishing his or her work.

I am not doing this for profit, but as a shared learning exercise. Have fun.

_____

Afternote (10/26/10): It occurred to me recently that, for practical purposes, the Creative Commons copyright applies to all previous versions of this poem published on this blog. You can use any of them for the purposes stated above, provided you note that it's my variant (var.) version.

Afternote (2/10/11): It has also occurred to me I ought to make a technical note that the Creative Commons license I mentioned in this post is the Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License. I think the HTML thing creativecommons.org sent me after I registered would have linked readers to that information. Since I don't permit links, it would have done no good to risk an HTML gaffe to put that in here.