Poem and Mountain

One of my best friends started seminary this term. He recently emailed me (his atheist friend) the following:

Want to help me with some homework? I'm taking a class on Poetry and the Religious Imagination. This week, we're to strike up a conversation with a friend outside class about the creative moment over a poem by Wallace Stevens.

"The Poem That Took the Place of a Mountain"

There it was, word for word.
The poem that took the place of a mountain.

He breathed its oxygen.
Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table.

It reminded him how he had needed
A place to go to in his own direction,

How he had recomposed the pines,
Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds,

For the outlook that would be right,
Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion:

The exact rock where his inexactnesses
Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged,

Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea,
Recognize his unique and solitary home.

So, maybe the question to ask regarding creativity or the creation of a poem is why? What does the poem, the creative act of "recomposing" and "shifting" give us? Hmm. I think of Stevens as modernist in the sense that he's looking for wholeness, but recognizes the world as fractured. He doesn't have God out there somewhere to whom he can go for reassurance. He goes to the poem, "turned in the dust of his table," to find his home. Hmmmm. What do you think?

Be well!

Here’s my response:

This is a great assignment, especially that you must get outside input. The last of the demons preventing Buddha from enlightenment was his own ego. This is among the most revealing statements ever written about spirituality. Some things just can’t be seen from ourselves.

I’ve climbed a lot of mountains. When I needed to get into a difficult issue, to solve a troubling problem, to sort out which things were important, I went climbing. Walks, while peaceful, don’t accomplish this in the same sense. Nor is it the view--driving to the top is not equivalent. Six/eight hours of tiring climbing, however, clears the mind, leaving choices and situations apparent, courses of action clear. Some of this is activity, perhaps, but long hikes aren’t the same either. Some of it is activity mandated by survival--a very effective way to focus priorities. But most of this is getting outside one’s own mind. The experiences and memories it yields are deeply meaningful, so clear I can revisit the summit at will (and do when I need this focus), something very personal that cannot be taken away but something not mine nor me, now or then. It is more than such things. As Lao Tzu observes, “Those who know do not tell; those who tell do not know.” It is beyond telling. It is a knowing that is more whole than the knowing we speak of day to day. And I immediately recognized this in Stevens’ poem.

When a Zen or Taoist painter shares his work with a friend (a work born of a moment of meditation, the painter anticipates that the friend will add a poem born of meditation on the image (this is why Chinese/Japanese painted scrolls typically have so much writing on them). Similar to what you’re doing now, the viewer gains perspectives outside his own mind (and even his own mindlessness). I see poetry this way too. A poet shares a fresh perspective, a different way of viewing our world, our experience, our nature, or even just the possibility of those other perspectives, that there indeed CAN be “thirteen ways of looking at a blackbird,” for example. This too takes us outside of our own minds, beyond our experience into views we cannot see alone. I think of an amoeba-shaped lake, its shores heavily wooded, with observers standing at various points and coves, unseen by each other, all looking at the same lake, but seeing in each case a very different lake. For a more complete view at any given moment, they will need each other’s descriptions. They simply cannot view all these perspectives at once themselves. A poet can shift through these in time.

You turn to literary theory, a tool which, though I understand it (as a musician, for example, I recognize technically everything happening in a performance), I’ve always found limiting. Yes, it can inform the context. It can also posit the arbitrary. While I notice the technical aspects, it’s not what I hear--it’s not the music, in the way that I see the world as a musician, in the way that I write like a musician, that I see “mountain” in the same sense as I see music, as who I am, yet not me nor mine. When on stage, reaching down for that difficult passage, 3000 people listening quietly, expecting perfection, counter-intuitively calming my breathing to met the challenge, pressure on, knowing it will flow of its own accord, fruits of all my years of practice and yet from a place that’s not me nor mine--this is what I hear when I listen to such a poem. It’s the “It” described in “Zen and the Art of Archery” by the Zen masters, fruits of their skill, but nothing to their credit, beyond them. Questioning the nature of language and exploring it by writing is from the inside, and yes, worthy of a theoretical examination. Seeing how the movements of our age might measure such a piece is an exercise.

The creative moment? That moment is long past. The poem itself is all past tense. When, amid all the work and angst and struggle did those difficult parts of music become “easy” for me? I missed the moment. When did complicated literature become apparent? I didn’t notice the day. These things happened far before my awareness of this--outside my mind and perception. When I did notice, they were already long established history. Why write? Why create? Reminds me of “Why climb mountains?” Modernism “in the sense of a search for wholeness” would really be wishful thinking, a preconceived “connect the fractured dots” exercise possible somehow whatever the dots, if pointless beyond fiction once connected. But that captured moment of mountain, that point in music that freezes time even as it moves through it, that meditative glimpse recorded on a Taoist painter’s scroll, that snapshot of poem--these are moments past our daily post of ego driven mind.

Ever hear of the Johari window? It’s a communications construct exploring the importance of others’ perceptions in understanding ourselves. I can see some things about myself, but not other things. You too, can see some things about me, but not other things, yielding four quadrants: things we both see, things I see that you don’t, things you see that I don’t, and things we both miss. Point is--I cannot truly understand myself by myself. I need the perspectives of others as well. No one truly understands how the world looks to you--not your family, not me, not your wife. The moments you can capture are enlightening insights, parts of creation otherwise unavailable to us. Why indeed? Those most personal moments also tend to be most universal. Capturing them for others shows them to ourselves--along with their significance. It’s a process, a journey up the mountain, not the view, the recomposed pines and shifted rocks pointing their direction during their transition, not once composed, that yields this completeness “in an unexplained completeness.” Inexact and exact merge. Even though the book lays turned it yields its oxygen. The poem is mountain.

I’m always saddened when people-of-faith lament that atheists don’t have God to turn to for reassurance. How much they are missing! How many can truly live their truth? How many know with certainty anytime, anywhere, they can reach down for that difficult music passage? How many are on that mountain every moment of every day? And why would such people need reassurance, or to label it anything, God or otherwise? As Joseph Campbell told Bill Moyers when asked whether he had faith: “I don’t need faith; I have experience.” Those who know do not tell; those who tell do not know. Mountain, music, zen painting, poem.

I see a poem as a crystal. Multiple observations and experiences are condensed, pressed tighter and tighter, until they crystallize in “the view toward which they had edged, / Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea, / Recognize his unique and solitary home.” Physics tells us we are not slaves to time and space. Such creations let us glimpse the timeless. That’s why it cannot be told--the mountain isn’t really the point, even as it’s entirely the point. It’s why I’ve never shared this with you before, and why I don’t talk to people about my understanding of music in that sense. It is beyond telling, so we create art.

The museum has a great show, “Turner to Cézanne,” a collection on loan until Jan. 3. I haven’t seen it yet, but I will make it a point to do so, and more than once. Why? Not simply because they are very well done paintings. Paintings like these go beyond craft. Painters like these aren’t simply about superior technique, but about capturing that element of the timeless. I’ll be going to see music, mountain, poem, the fractured pieces that already are the whole--and “a place to go in my own direction.”

Writer

Igg, Ogg, and the Creation of Taxes

“Igg? I’m tired of all this huntin’ and gatherin’.”

Igg looked at Ogg. “Me too,” he sighed.

“So what say,” Ogg continued, “We raise all these plants and animals ourselves? No more rushin’ around!”

“Now that’s a plan!” agreed Igg. And so agriculture began.

Wisely, Igg and Ogg weren’t quick to quit hunting and gathering, since at first they were largely unsuccessful. They realized eventually that timing played a crucial role.

“Igg? How are we gonna know when exactly to plant?” asked Ogg.

“Hmmm...I know a guy who can read the stars to calculate the seasons...” suggested Igg.

The ancient astronomer got the job, under the title of Priest.

Igg and Ogg prospered, encouraging others to follow their example. All the Priest’s friends got jobs, creating organized religion.

One day, Igg and Ogg toured their plantation along the riverbank and noticed a disturbing trend--less and less water reached their crops. Taking a walk upstream, they soon saw why: many new converts to agriculture were diverting the river’s water to irrigate their crops. When questioned, these new farmers invariably replied, “We have to make a living too!”

On the way back downstream, Igg and Ogg talked to several other farmers who also complained about the dwindling water supply. Consequently, Igg and Ogg organized a meeting of all the riverside crop growers. After considerable debate, the farming community realized that water rights must be controlled by a central authority, thus creating law, government, and bureaucracy. Civilization was born.

The new village thrived at first, but some of the farmers failed to honor the water rights agreements. Igg and Ogg called another meeting, and soon enforcement of the law fell to the newly created police force. Further, to ensure the fairness of police enforcement, a new judicial system and penal code arose. The village rejoiced.

Unfortunately, so did the nomads in the mountains above the village. “Look!” they advised each other, “These people work all year and create all this food in one place, ready for the taking! Mount your horses!” And so they did, in a devastating raid. War had entered the world.

The village did not rejoice. “All our hard work! Our families will starve! We must protect ourselves!” Another village meeting instituted an army.

But Igg and Ogg had an additional concern. “The village has priests and governors and legislators and police and justices and lawyers and soldiers and commanders,” explained Igg, “But the village needs these people to commit so much time to their professions that they can no longer realistically take the time to raise their own food.” After a long silence, Ogg suggested,” Suppose each farmer raises a little more than needed for mere self-sufficiency? Then, the surplus could go to the professionals necessary for the security of the village.” Long debate followed, but necessity instituted the plan. Taxes had entered the world. And to help keep tax records, mathematics and writing soon followed.

Life was wonderful thereafter. People invented leisure time and explored human existence by creating and practicing various arts and sciences. People also continued to learn to work together, specializing in various trades, providing new products and professional services. Education strove to ensure and expand village life, thought, and culture. But, unfortunately, greed was not limited to the mountain nomads.

“It’s YOUR money!” proclaimed Ugg in his bid for village government. “Every year since this village started, more and more of your hard earned money goes toward supporting Big Government!”

Igg listened, confused. “But those taxes pay for the services necessary to run this village,” he countered.

“Wasteful spending! Tax and spend! Tax and spend!” continued Ugg.

“Shouldn’t we then trim the waste, if that’s so, rather than cut revenue?” asked Igg.

“You see,” explained the Priest, “Cutting taxes will actually increase government revenue.”

“So, if instead of tithing,” retorted Igg, “People only gave five percent, church revenue would increase?” The Priest kept quiet.

“Cutting taxes stimulates the economy!” shouted Ugg. “It creates jobs!”

“Given certain circumstances, I suppose that’s theoretically possible,” mused Igg, “But such a blanket proposition makes several unsupported assumptions. For example, won’t trimming spending also cost jobs? And doesn’t government spending ALSO enter the economy?”

Ogg had doubts too. “Cutting taxes means cutting services,” he explained, “Services we instituted with good reason. Important, necessary services.”

Ugg didn’t seem to hear. “This slow economy means we MUST cut taxes NOW! The more cuts, the more the stimulus! And private industry in this great village of ours can best provide services to our wonderful people!”

Igg turned to Ogg. “Does he mean that cutting all taxes would best benefit the village?”

Ogg considered. “Well...if not by taxes, the village would need to exploit natural resources, or consistently plunder other villages, or institute slaves to produce excess revenue.”

“And privatizing government services,” added Igg, “Would mean that police, justice, armed forces and so forth would only be for hire. Further, the large landowners would benefit most from lower taxes, at least in the short run, because only those families could afford education. Our village’s professional talents would atrophy.”

Ugg’s enthusiasm had now attracted quite an audience, drawn by promises of invading the mountains to conquer the nomads, cutting the forests to increase village resources, and asking all citizens to sacrifice for the good of the village in order to make tax cuts possible and to eliminate government interference in their affairs. Nationalism was born.

Igg and Ogg looked at each other once more, then turned and walked toward the forest, while it would still be possible to hunt and gather.

Writer