William Blake. I won't describe him as artist, poet and mystic, because some seem to think "mystic" has to do with pulling rabbits out of a hat - which just goes to show. So, artist and poet. And a bit of a nutter. He claimed to speak with angels, this among his many visions, and when his brother died he said his saw his soul rising up from the body, ever upwards, "clapping his hands with joy".
Way back when I had little love for poetry (meeting only boring quatrains in school that spoke of the glories of British Empire builders strutting the poop deck, or being buried with all honours, bugles playing sad laments - not really my sort of stuff. Maybe if I had known some Spike Milligan it might have all been different) but did read a bit of this fine wordsmith Malcolm Muggeridge, who often weaved into his writings a few couplets of William Blake. I was quite taken by them and once, seeing a cheap copy of "The Portable Blake" I invested. Such is life. As Keith Richards has said, all he wants on his gravestone is:- "He passed it on". The Blues that is, not the cocaine when busted by the police.
Well, whatever, I found many of the couplets quoted by Malcolm Muggeridge to have originated from Blake's "Auguries of Innocence", as quoted in full in a previous blog. One such I have always remembered as:-
"The widows mite is worth much more
Than all the gold on Afric's shore"
Which is not quite right, but does the job.
William Blake was a man of vision and of the imagination. He saw the world being ushered in by the Newtonian "billiard ball" universe as soul destroying. When Blake painted Newton he is depicted as circumscribing the world with a compass, another way of Blake suggesting the "mind forged manacles" which represented for him pure self-limitation and the denigration of the human imagination. Obviously, we still live in a Newtonian universe and we haven't caught up with Einstein et al.
"May God us keep From Single vision & Newtons sleep."
A poem of Blakes on the same theme is "Mock on, Mock on".....
Mock on, Mock on, Voltaire, Rousseau;
Mock on, Mock on, 'tis all in vain.
You throw the sand against the wind,
And the wind blows it back again.
And every sand becomes a Gem
Reflected in the beams divine;
Blown back, they blind the mocking Eye,
But still in Israel's paths they shine.
The Atoms of Democritus
And Newton's Particles of light
Are sands upon the Red sea shore
Where Israel's tents do shine so bright.
But getting back to mysticism, rabbits and hats.......
Mystic:-definition
a person who seeks by contemplation and self-surrender to obtain unity with or absorption into the Deity or the absolute, or who believes in the spiritual apprehension of truths that are beyond the intellect.
I think William Blake can somehow be shoved into that definition, but he was more of a one off.
His "social conscience" (for want of better words) belied any thought of his own mysticism being in any way other-worldly. He saw the strands of realities that led inevitably to young children being used as chimney sweeps, that led to the hypocrisies of the Poor House, and raged against them.
John Higgs, an admirer, has written well of Blake's "visions". See "William Blake v The World".....
Spoiler Alert:- Blake wins.
Many of William Blake's best lyrical poems can be found in his "Songs of Innocence and Experience", songs that show the "two contrary states of the human soul."
These "Songs" are found as pairs, one of "Innocence" and one of "Experience", as in:-
The Lamb
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Gave thee life & bid thee feed.
By the stream & o'er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing wooly bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice!
Little Lamb who made thee
Dost thou know who made thee
Little Lamb I'll tell thee,
Little Lamb I'll tell thee!
He is called by thy name,
For he calls himself a Lamb:
He is meek & he is mild,
He became a little child:
I a child & thou a lamb,
We are called by his name.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
Little Lamb God bless thee.
The corresponding song of experience is The Tyger (which often stands alone in examples of Blake's poems - "Tyger" is Blake's spelling of Tiger. His spelling was idiosyncratic to say the least!)
The Tyger
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps or skies.
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder, & what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat.
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp.
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger Tyger burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
Obviously the two poems, as a pair, ask profound questions. But I mentioned the "social conscience" of Blake, and this is found in another pair of poems from the "Songs", both called "Holy Thursday".
The poems are about an annual event held in London in the early 19th century when the orphans/unwanted children of the Poor House were paraded through the streets of London by their elders and "betters", and taken to St Paul's Cathedral where they took part in a Service, singing hymns.
The song of Innocence:-
Twas on a Holy Thursday their innocent faces clean
The children walking two & two in red & blue & green
Grey-headed beadles walkd before with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Pauls they like Thames waters flow
O what a multitude they seemd these flowers of London town
Seated in companies they sit with radiance all their own
The hum of multitudes was there but multitudes of lambs
Thousands of little boys & girls raising their innocent hands
Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of Heaven among
Beneath them sit the aged men wise guardians of the poor
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door
The song of Experience:-
Is this a holy thing to see,
In a rich and fruitful land,
Babes reducd to misery,
Fed with cold and usurous hand?
Is that trembling cry a song?
Can it be a song of joy?
And so many children poor?
It is a land of poverty!
And their sun does never shine.
And their fields are bleak & bare.
And their ways are fill'd with thorns.
It is eternal winter there.
For where-e'er the sun does shine,
And where-e'er the rain does fall:
Babe can never hunger there,
Nor poverty the mind appall
Relating "innocence" and "experience" as a simple contrast doesn't really cover it for me. It rather involves our whole perception of the world around us, our grasp of ethics. And more.
Another pair of poems, "The Divine Image".
Of Innocence:-
Of Experience:-
Or, to add a little Homily to be reflected upon......"Be not conformed to this world" (Romans 12:2)
Finally, a last poem.
Can I see anothers woe,
And not be in sorrow too.
Can I see anothers grief,
And not seek for kind relief.
Can I see a falling tear
And not feel my sorrows share,
Can a father see his child,
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill'd.
Can a mother sit and hear,
An infant groan an infant fear—
No no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
And can he who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small birds grief & care
Hear the woes that infants bear—
And not sit beside the nest
Pouring pity in their breast,
And not sit the cradle near
Weeping tear on infants tear.
And not sit both night & day,
Wiping all our tears away.
O! no never can it be.
Never never can it be.
He doth give his joy to all.
He becomes an infant small.
He becomes a man of woe
He doth feel the sorrow too.
Think not, thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy maker is not by.
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy maker is not near.
O! he gives to us his joy,
That our grief he may destroy
Till our grief is fled & gone
He doth sit by us and moan
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