William Blake

William Blake spoke to angels. He said that when his brother died he saw his soul leave his body, soaring upwards "clapping his hands with joy".

Yes, a bit of a nutter.

Here is an excerpt from one of his letters:-

And I know that This World Is a World of Imagination & Vision. I see Every thing I paint In This World, but Every body does not see alike. To the Eyes of a Miser a Guinea is more beautiful than the Sun & a bag worn with the use of Money has more beautiful proportions than a Vine filled with Grapes. The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the Eyes of others only a Green thing that stands in the way. Some See Nature all Ridicule & Deformity & by these I shall not regulate my proportions, & Some Scarce see Nature at all. But to the Eyes of the Man of Imagination Nature is Imagination itself. As a man is So he Sees.

(Blake's capitals and spelling and punctuation)

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Tariki

Keeping with William Blake, I tend to relate "holistically" to all posts here, the unfolding of the threads. OK, that sounds fancy but I really have no other way of saying it.

Just three examples of Blake's poetry that came to mind this morning as various threads were absorbed...

On Another's Sorrow (it is a Song of Innocence)

Can I see another's woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another's grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,
And not feel my sorrow's share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

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 bird's grief and 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 infant's tear?

And not sit both night and 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 and gone
He doth sit by us and moan.

Related, at least in my mind, a few lines from "Auguries of Innocence":-

God Appears and God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day

Maybe this leads to these lines from "The Divine Image:-

And all must love the human form,
In heathen, Turk, or Jew;
Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell
There God is dwelling too.

I'm not really that strong on "pity" myself, it suggests a looking down from another state of being. I prefer "compassion", a reaching across.....as from Pema Chodron..

Compassion is not a relationship between the healer and the wounded. It's a relationship between equals. Only when we know our own darkness well can we be present with the darkness of others. Compassion becomes real when we recognise our shared humanity

But hey, no one is perfect, Blake can have his "pity". Perfection is overrated anyway, "there is a crack in everything, that's how the light gets in" (now where have I heard that before?)

Elevatorpitches · F

@Tariki a dog starved at his masters gate
betells the downfall of the state
888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

the guy was sensitive to modern day stuff for sure
no wonder it leads to a conversation about empathy itself, its all good, Blake was a giver...

Tariki

@Elevatorpitches Thanks for your interest.

"London" is worth a look if you don't already know it.

Elevatorpitches · F

@Tariki HIs work shakes me to the bone, cant wallow in it😱

Tariki

@Elevatorpitches This is worth trying to "wallow" in, from one of his longer poems, "The Four Zoas". I can't make head nor tail of most of it, but this passage.....

What is the price of Experience
do men buy it for a song
Or wisdom for a dance in the street?
No it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath
his house his wife his children
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market
where none come to buy
And in the witherd field
where the farmer plows for bread in vain

It is an easy thing to triumph in the summers sun
And in the vintage & to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
To speak the laws of prudence to the houseless wanderer
To listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry season
When the red blood is fill'd with wine & with the marrow of lambs
It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door,
the ox in the slaughter house moan
To see a god on every wind & a blessing on every blast
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies house
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field, & the sickness that cuts off his children
While our olive & vine sing & laugh round our door & our children bring fruits & flowers
Then the groan & the dolor are quite forgotten & the slave grinding at the mill
And the captive in chains & the poor in the prison, & the soldier in the field
When the shatterd bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity
Thus could I sing & thus rejoice, but it is not so with me!

Elevatorpitches · F

@Tariki not so within the soul of sanity