NPPF - Canto Four

[Glenn Scheper]

Mary Krimmel advised me well:
> Keats's Grecian urn is -
> silently, pictorially and centuries earlier -
> more succinct.
> "Beauty is truth, truth beauty".

I sought Keats & Urn, found this poem, and others,
and will now posit that when these words are mapped
onto everyday referents outside our small domain of
reflexive bodily speech acts, they cease to mean.

Years after, but thinking back to a psychosis that
soon or immediately followed after discovering AF,
I recalled one strong mental image of a vase that
was actively transitioning from whole to crazed,
while my soul or self was being blown to powder,
as I recall Emily Dickinson phrased it.

Now I recognize that the destruction both initiates
and completes the vessel, and is part of the vessel,
alive, changing, reflexive verb acting on nounself.

This is an immediate, non-intuitive gnostic recovery
of shared mystery, hidden truth, that Kant requires
to posit morals exist under transcendental idealism.

This is also the implementation of the Klein bottle,
not with just one intersection as a typical artist's
model, but continuous junction of inside and outside
boundaries distributed over the whole vessel surface.

> ON A GRECIAN URN
> Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
> Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
> Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
> A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
> What leaf-fring'd legend haunts about thy shape
> Of deities or mortals, or of both,
> In temple, or the dales of Arcady?
> What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
> What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
> What pipes or timbrels? What wild ecstasy?
> Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
> Are sweeter; therefore ye soft pipes, play on;
> Not to the sensual ear, but more endear'd,
> Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
> Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
> Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
> Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
> Though winning near the goal -yet, do not grieve;
> She cannot fade, though thou has not thy bliss,
> For ever will thou love, and she be fair.
> Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
> Your leaves, not ever bid the spring adieu;
> And, happy melodist, unwearied,
> For ever piping songs for ever new;
> More happy love, more happy, happy love!
> For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
> For ever panting, and for ever young;
> All breathing human passion far above,
> That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
> A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.
> Who are there coming to the sacrifice?
> To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
> Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
> And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
> What little town by river or sea shore,
> Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
> Is emptied of this folk, this pious morn?
> And, little town, thy streets forever more
> Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
> Why thou art desolate, can e'er return.
> O Attic shape! Fair attitude with brede
> Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
> With forest branches and the trodden weed;
> Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
> As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
> When old age shall this generation waste,
> Thou shalt remain, in midst of other woe
> Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
> Beauty is truth, truth beauty, -that is all
> Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
http://www.saltana.com.ar/1/docar/0242.html

Keat's interest in cows and sea place him in
Revelation's second category of seven, Smyrna:
male not defiled by father (as sons at Pergamos)
(unravished bride) and based on other intuitions,
also not defiled by mother (as sons at Ephesus).
        ---
I found Keat's next text more titilating than images
of contorted women at yahoos' group autocun...ingus,
although the surrounding everyday redaction claims
"Isabellas's actions at her lover's burial place".

> She gaz'd into the fresh-thrown mould, as though
> One glance did fully all its secrets tell;
> Clearly she saw, as other eyes would know
> Pale limbs at bottom of a crystal well;
> Upon the murderous spot she seem'd to grow,
> Like to a native lily of the dell:
> Then with her knife, all sudden, she began
> To dig more fervently than misers can.
http://www.john-keats.com/biografie/chapter_vii.htm
 
Yours truly,
Glenn Scheper
http://home.earthlink.net/~glenn_scheper/
glenn_scheper + at + earthlink.net
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