Evening Isles Fantastical
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
  Heck, why not
I was intrigued anew by the possibilities presented by the Proverbs idea, and decided to follow through on my plan to expand the piece a bit. Here we go:

1. In which the Piece is introduced

The wisdom of man had scarcely began
When the malice of Satan encroached:
He crafted sweet lies that would ably disguise
Any truth that the speaker approached.

This dull and bromidic maxim crew
Cloaks salt in a veil of honey,
And maketh too sweet such a sensible brew,
That the grave becometh funny.

What follows then, my noble friend,
Is a catalogue - no ways complete -
Of various falsehoods that grossly pretend
To be useful and wise and concrete.

2. Optimism -or- The linings of diuers Clouds

"It's always darkest before the dawn,"
Now, where is the truth in that?
The doughty blush of the atmosphere
Is rolled by the sun thereat.

"There're plenty of fish in the sea, my friend,"
Will hardly give satisfaction
To the man who's been stung by his paramour,
Or the whimsy of love's light attraction.

"Time," it is said, "shall heal all wounds,"
But the doctor such notions rejects:
Without great attention and fluid retention
The wound, ill at ease, oft infects.

3. Prosperity and Success

"Slowly but steady shall win the race,"
Has sent many men to their death.
The slow are o'errun by the fleetest of foot
As, crawling, they struggle for breath.

"A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush,"
Is a very strange thing, as you know.
For having a bird in one's hand is quite odd,
And two in a bush doubly so.

"A penny saved is a penny earned"
Quite fails to deliver relief
To the poor gormless fool whose pennies are saved
In the purse of some delicate thief.

4. Behaving Well; Ethicks

"Do unto others as they to you:"
In abstract, it's as worthy as gold,
But fails abjectly with masochists,
Or with meek men 'mongst those that are bold.

"The devil makes work for idle hands"
Has put many young sloths in a tizzy;
The trouble, of course, is that Old Knock prefers
To bamboozle the hands of the busy.

"If thou can't saith fair, then say nowt,"
As a rule it is sorely at fault.
For when preached by those men with political clout,
All reform gently grinds to a halt.

5. In which the Piece is concluded

The wiser a man believeth himself,
The less he shall dare to confess
That the bulk of his wisdom's in foul euphemism,
Without which he could not express.

And so the age grows duller;
No man says what he means,
Nor means what he says or indeed what he thinks
As o'er the words he careens.

But of all the tripe we've laid to waste,
There's one that dwarfs them all.
Now hear the greatest lie on Earth!
Now see that evil fall:

"Sticks and stones will break my bones,
But words shall harm me barely."
Nonsense, of course; words are Hell-forged knives
That skewer poor devils unfairly.

==

I do not feel up to commenting on the piece. There it is. More later, perhaps.
 
Comments:
These proverbs are just so funny. Well-done!
Michaelk
 
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What is this place?

This blog was started in an attempt to write a poem once a day, every day, for an entire year, but this expedition has met with failure! I gave up on transcribing the damn things in late January, and gave up writing them entirely around the end of February. It's not easy to do this at all. In fact, it is hard. I still feel as though I've learned something, anyway, so I'll keep what I did manage to do up here for now. I'll probably start posting stuff again irregularly when my workload decreases somewhat, which was really the reason for my problems in the first place. Who would have thought being in the third year of an honours BA would give you a lot of work to do?

Johnson on Poetry

"To a poet nothing can be useless. Whatever is beautiful and whatever is dreadful must be familiar to his imagination: he must be conversant with all that is awfully vast or elegantly little. The plants of the garden, the animals of the wood, the minerals of the earth, and meteors of the sky, must all concur to store his mind with inexhaustible variety: for every idea is useful for the enforcement or decoration of moral or religious truth; and he who knows most will have most power of diversifying his scenes, and of gratifying his reader with remote allusions and unexpected instruction."
- Imlac, in Rasselas

"The essence of verse is regularity, and its ornament is variety. To write verse is to dispose syllables and sounds harmonically by some known and settled rule -- a rule however lax enough to substitute similitude for identity, to admit change without breach of order, and to relieve the ear without disappointing it."
- From the biography of John Dryden in Lives of the Poets

Chesterton on Poetry

"Imagination does not breed insanity. Exactly what does breed insanity is reason. Poets do not go mad; but chess-players do. Mathematicians go mad, and cashiers; but creative artists very seldom. I am not, as will be seen, in any sense attacking logic: I only say that this danger does lie in logic, not in imagination. Artistic paternity is as wholesome as physical paternity. Moreover, it is worthy of remark that when a poet really was morbid it was commonly because he had some weak spot of rationality on his brain. Poe, for instance, really was morbid; not because he was poetical, but because he was specially analytical. Even chess was too poetical for him; he disliked chess because it was full of knights and castles, like a poem. He avowedly preferred the black discs of draughts, because they were more like the mere black dots on a diagram.

Perhaps the strongest case of all is this: that only one great English poet went mad, Cowper. And he was definitely driven mad by logic, by the ugly and alien logic of predestination. Poetry was not the disease, but the medicine; poetry partly kept him in health. He could sometimes forget the red and thirsty hell to which his hideous necessitarianism dragged him among the wide waters and the white flat lilies of the Ouse. He was damned by John Calvin; he was almost saved by John Gilpin. Everywhere we see that men do not go mad by dreaming. Critics are much madder than poets. Homer is complete and calm enough; it is his critics who tear him into extravagant tatters. Shakespeare is quite himself; it is only some of his critics who have discovered that he was somebody else. And though St. John the Evangelist saw many strange monsters in his vision, he saw no creature so wild as one of his own commentators. The general fact is simple. Poetry is sane because it floats easily in an infinite sea; reason seeks to cross the infinite sea, and so make it finite. The result is mental exhaustion, like the physical exhaustion of Mr. Holbein. To accept everything is an exercise, to understand everything a strain. The poet only desires exaltation and expansion, a world to stretch himself in. The poet only asks to get his head into the heavens. It is the logician who seeks to get the heavens into his head. And it is his head that splits."
-From Orthodoxy

Links and Resources

The American Chesterton Society
The Works of Chesterton Online
Samuel Johnson
Hilaire Belloc
Laurence Sterne
T.S. Eliot
William Blake
Alexander Pope
William Butler Yeats
George Gordon, Lord Byron
John Milton
John Dryden
George Herbert
Geoffrey Chaucer
John Gower
Raymond Lully
Thomas Aquinas
Augustine
George MacDonald
Sir Thomas More
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
King James I
Samuel Pepys
Aphra Behn
Thomas Gray
James Boswell
Charles Lamb
Robert Browning
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Sir Philip Sidney
William Shakespeare
John Foxe
Sir Isaac Newton
Edmund Spenser
Andrew Marvell
John Bunyan
The Christian Classics Ethereal Library
Gustave Doré
The Doré Bible
Sir Gawain and the Green Knight
Dappled Things
National Association of Scholars
The Gutenberg Project
The University of Western Ontario
Comics 101
The Comic Art Community Gallery
The Perry Bible Fellowship
Penny Arcade
Mere Complexities

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