Allen Ginsberg on Dharma Poetics continues from here
AG: Should I go on with this sort of … it’s kind of pleasurable. I mean the texts themselves. And last time I was criticized for not producing enough texts and staying too theoretical. But again, part of the path, as you know, as we’ve been told, is appreciation, and so this is, say, exhibition of direct appreciation, or manifestation of appreciation.
Ben Jonson saying … well, there’s one line in here which is so purely Buddhist or dharmic that the rest of the poem is pure sound and beautiful music and makes a great deal of sense but the one line – “Our beauties are not ours” – is like a dharmic slogan. We don’t own our own beauties. “Our beauties are not ours.”
“Slow, slow, fresh fount, keep time with my salt tears;/ Yet slower, yet, O faintly, gentle springs!/List to the heavy part the music bears,/Woe weeps out her division, when she sings./Droop herbs and flowers;/Fall grief in showers;/Our beauties are not ours. O, I could still,/Like melting snow upon some craggy hill,/Drop, drop, drop, drop,/Since nature’s pride is now a withered daffodil.”
The sound in that’s fantastic actually, and to a point where it comes to “Drop, drop, drop, drop”- perfect. (It’s the melting snow that’s dropping, if that went by too fast).
On the death of his first son by Ben Jonson also, (this last was Jonson). Very poignant recognition. A direct recognition of mortality there and transitoriness. The whole subject of mortality is the basic subject of traditional poetry in any case. But this is a very poignant example. Both sad and there’s such an element of appreciation of existence as well as total sadness simultaneous that there’s a basic double wisdom here. “On My First Son”:
“Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy;/My sin was too much hope of thee, loved boy:/Seven years thou’wert lent to me, and I thee pay,/Exacted by thy fate, on the just day./O could I lose all father now! for why/Will man lament the state he should envy,/To have so soon ‘scaped world’s and flesh’s rage,/And, if no other misery, yet age?/Rest in soft peace,/ and asked, say, “Here doth lie Ben Jonson his best piece of poetry.”
For whose sake henceforth all his vows be such/ As what he loves may never like too much.” (or “As he loves may never like too much.” – or “never cling to too much”.
And then (Robert) Herrick‘s “Fair Daffodils”- another great celebrated piece of appreciation of mortality.
“Fair daffodils” – (this is Robert Herrick) – “Fair daffodils” – Does anybody know these poems? How many have read a little Herrick here and there? How many know “Fair Daffodils”? (sees show of hands) – Fewer and fewer – five, six – so, virgin territory (it’s all about virgins) – “Fair daffodils” – or “To Daffodils” is the title:
“”To Daffodils” – “Fair daffodils, we weep to see/You haste away so soon:/ As yet the early-rising sun/ Has not attained his noon./ Stay, stay,/ Until the hasting day/ Has run/ But to the evensong;/ And, having prayed together, we/ Will go with you along./ We have short time to stay as you;/ We have as short a spring;/ As quick a growth to meet decay,/ As you or anything./ We die,/ As your hours do, and dry/ Away/ Like to the summer’s rain;/ Or as the pearls of morning’s dew,/ Ne’er to be found again.”
to be continued