Monday, April 18 — leaves, & flowers waking up
Must be spring. I checked Weather.com’s allergy tracker this morning, a respiratory seasonal ritual for me and for many others. Worth it, though, Today’s dawn might be the seventh glorious morning in a row. Campus trees and flowers begin to show their stuff. Adults and children skip and laugh. Yesterday, two girls (8 years old?) played among older people come to watch Detroit Mercy’s women’s softball team play Green Bay’s. The girls, one African American, one Caucasian, ran and laughed with reckless abandon and filled our urban space with . . . with Spring.
A year ago on a similar morning the season’s sheer beauty led me to Gerard Manley Hopkins, s.j. “The Windhover’s beauty of word and sound match these days. Even if it takes two or three readings to adapt your ear to his word play, it’s worth it. Hopkins is [in]famous for the packed meaning of his vocabulary. His life-long friend Robert Bridges often ground his aesthetic teeth at what seemed to him to be GMH’s unnecessary complexity. On November 6, 1887, Hopkins wrote Bridges, attempting to explain the density of his language. Try reading GMH’s explanation out loud. Did GMH tease his frustrated Poet Laureate friend by creating a single sentence that never seems to run out of breath?
“Plainly if it is possible to express a subtle and recondite thought on a subtle and recondite subject in a subtle and recondite way and with great felicity and perfection in the end, something must be sacrificed, with so trying a task, in the process, and this may be the being at once, nay perhaps even the being without explanation at all, intelligible.”
Have a blest week,
Today’s Post: “The Windhover: To Christ our Lord”
I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,–the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valor and act, oh, air, pride, plume here
Buckle! And the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: shéer plốd makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, a my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.