Happy Birthday, William Blake

“I mean, don’t you think it’s a little bit excessive?”
“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. William Blake.”
Pause.
“William Blake?”
“William Blake!”
“William Blake???”
“William Blake!!!”
– BULL DURHAM

blake3.jpg

“It is an honesty against which the whole world conspires, because it is unpleasant.” – T.S. Eliot on William Blake

William Blake was a poet virtually unknown in his own lifetime. He was also an engraver. He did illustrations for children’s books, religious books, volumes of poetry, and his artwork is now considered priceless.

William Blake was born in 1757 in London, the third of five children. He went to school until he was 14 and then had to go to work. He got a job as an apprentice to an engraver, which is how he ended up making his paltry living. He lived in pretty much poverty for his entire life. He married at 25 the illiterate Catherine Boucher. Blake taught her how to read, and they ended up becoming collaborators in bringing out volumes of his poetry. He did engravings to illustrate his poems. Catherine was the one who bound the books, and got them ready for publication. The entire thing was a joint production. They did all the work themselves.

The two of them never had any children. They were extremely unconventional in many of their private practices (walking around in their garden nude, etc.)

When Blake was a young boy, he said he looked up into a tree and saw that it was full of winged angels. He spoke about these visions openly and much of his poetry has a phantasmagorical religious feeling to it (although much of it is also biting social critique, along the lines of Dickens). He wrote about the poor, about social conditions, about the vicious treatment of children. As T.S. Eliot said of him, “He is very eighteenth century.”

Along these lines, Camille Paglia wrote in Break, Blow, Burn:

Romantic writers glorified childhood as a state of innocence. Blake’s ‘The Chimey Sweeper’, written in the same year as the French Revolution, combines the Romantic cult of the child with the new radical politics, whichcan both be traced to social thinker Jean-Jacques Rousseau. It is the boy sweep, rather than Blake, who speaks: he acts as the poet’s dramatic persona or mask. There is no anger in his tale. On the contrary, the sweep’s gentle acceptance of his miserable life makes his exploitation seem all the more atrocious. Blake shifts responsibility for protest onto us.

He is one of the most quotable of poets. I would imagine that many people quote him, without realizing that he is the source. Similar to Shakespeare, his thoughts/images have entered the common lexicon.

Think of a white cloud as being holy, you cannot love it, but think of a holy man within the cloud, love springs up in your thoughts, for to think of holiness distinct from man is impossible to the affections. Thought alone can make monsters, but the affections cannot.

His long poem Marriage of Heaven and Hell is overwhelmingly brilliant and I can only take it in small doses. Every line is so inspiring, so transcendent. There is poetry here, yes, but there is also real thought, real philosophy. If you listen to Blake, he is showing you a way to live. Not many poets can do that. They try, but they fall into cliche. He never does. He was absolutely unique.

For those of you who are interested, here is “Marriage of Heaven and Hell” in its entirety (accompanied by more of Blake’s engravings). Just go with it. Just succumb.

His poetry is the literary version of Van Gogh’s Starry Night. Van Gogh was not interpreting the sky. Van Gogh was actually painting what he saw. William Blake is the same way. What may seem symbolic to his readers, is actually how he experienced being alive. His stuff is still relevant and radical.

Holy Thursday
by William Blake

‘Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
The children walking two and two in red and blue and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul’s they like Thames waters flow.

O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.

Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor.
Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.

Allen Ginsberg helped promote William Blake again in the mid-20th century, feeling that he, Ginsberg, was his heir. People read “Tyger Tyger” in school, and perhaps the poems about the chimney sweeps, but how about everything else? The book I have lying beside me of Blake’s complete works is fat. It is huge. This man was prolific. He wrote novel-length poems, long poems on The French Revolution, on America (all of these illustrated with his own engravings), and much of this is now obscured to the general reader. Ginsberg was on a mission to bring Blake back to the forefront of his culture’s consciousness. Michael Schmidt writes in Lives of the Poets:

In America in the late 1940s Allen Ginsberg, interested in Supreme Reality, alone and suffering a ‘dark night of the soul sort of,’ his lover Neal Cassady having sloped off, and having himself just masturbated, with a volume of Blake before him – ‘I wasn’t even reading, my eye was idling over the page of “Ah, Sun-flower,” and it suddenly appeared – the poem I’d read a lot of times before.’ He began to understand the poem, and ‘suddenly, simultaneously with understanding it,’ he ‘heard a very deep earthen grave voice in the room, which I immediately assumed, I didn’t think twice, was Blake’s voice.’ This ‘apparitional voice’ became his guiding spirit: ‘It was like God had a human voice, with all the infinite tenderness and anciency and mortal gravity of a living Creator speaking to his son.’ On Ginsberg this ‘anciency fathered Howl, though the Blake simulacrum was aided by the hallucinogens popular at the time, the recipe for Part II of the poem including peyote, just as for Kaddish he was assisted by amphetamine injections. ‘The amphetamine gives a peculiar metaphysical tinge to things, also. Space-outs.’ Blake managed his visions without substance abuse. Ginsberg’s appropriation of the poet of innocence and experience did much to promote Blake to the alternative culture of the 1950s and 1960s.

Blake leant himself to that wild Beatnik time as a kind of Grant Mentor, although he was from another era entirely, an indication of how far his work can travel.

Blake wrote:

Improvement makes strait roads, but the crooked roads without Improvement, are roads of Genius.

He should know.

The poem I will excerpt today is indeed one of his best-known (and not as dauntingly long as some of his others), and I love it. It is one of the poems he wrote about chimney sweeps (there are more). The poem is an indictment of the society in which he lives, a society that treats its most innocent members with brutality and uncaring indifference. He is a visionary poet, yes, but he did not turn his eyes away from earthly matters. Far from it.

There is heartbreak here, too, in the fact that the little child is so small that he can’t even pronounce “sweep” properly yet. It comes out as “weep, weep, weep”, a double-meaning, of course, but every time I read it, all I can hear is a small high child’s voice, calling out, old before his time.

This isn’t fancy stuff. His poems are the opposite of opaque. They are blunt, powerful, and emotional.

The Chimney Sweep

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep! ‘weep!
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head,
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved: so I said,
“Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.”

And so he was quiet; and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight, -
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black.

And by came an angel who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins and set them all free;
Then down a green plain leaping, laughing, they run,
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his father, and never want joy.

And so Tom awoke; and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work.
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm;
So if all do their duty they need not fear harm.

Some of William Blake’s extraordinary engravings below:

Christ in the sepulcher guarded by angels – 1805

blake.jpg

Whirlwind of Lovers (Illustration to Dante’s Inferno)

blake2.jpg

The Ancient of Days – 1794
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Isaac Newton – 1795
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4 Responses to Happy Birthday, William Blake

  1. Desirae says:

    I love his art. It’s so forward looking in terms of style – I see his influence on the Surrealists, for example. It’s modern art before the term existed.

  2. mutecypher says:

    “I must create a system or be enslaved by another mans.”

    “How do you know but every bird that cuts the airy way, is an immense world of delight, closed by your senses five?”

    He was a gift, as surely as the sunrise.

  3. Pingback: The Sheila Variations | nolafusion

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