Not much time to post these days, what with one thing and another, but music is always a good standby. In fact I’ve had this at the back of my mind for some time; hearing it on the radio last week gave me the nudge I needed to post it. I always feel a but uncomfortable about posting just a movement from a classical piece, but I think it is justifiable in this case. This is the 3rd Movement of String Quartet No. 15 (in A minor) by Ludwig van Beethoven (Opus 132).
The third movement is headed with the words
Heiliger Dankgesang eines Genesenen an die Gottheit, in der lydischen Tonart
I take the liberty of translating the first two words, using my schoolboy German, as “A Holy Song of Thanksgiving”; Beethoven wrote the piece after recovering from a very serious illness which he had feared might prove fatal. The movement begins in a mood of quiet humility but slowly develops into a sense of hope and deeply felt joy. The most remarkable thing about this movement to me, though, is that the music possesses the same restorative powers that it was written to celebrate. This music has a therapeutic value all of its own.
I don’t know if William Wordsworth (of whose poetry I am also extremely fond) ever had the chance to hear Beethoven’s Quartet No. 15 , and in Tintern Abbey he was writing about the therapeutic power of nature rather than music, but surely the “tranquil restoration” described in that poem is exactly the feeling Beethoven achieves in his music:
These beauteous forms, Through a long absence, have not been to me As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye: But oft, in lonely rooms, and ‘mid the din Of towns and cities, I have owed to them In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: — feelings too
Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man’s life, His little, nameless, unremembered, acts Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust, To them I may have owed another gift, Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood, In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world,
Is lightened: — that serene and blessed mood, In which the affections gently lead us on, — Until, the breath of this corporeal frame And even the motion of our human blood Almost suspended, we are laid asleep In body, and become a living soul: While with an eye made quiet by the power Of harmony, and the deep power of joy, We see into the life of things.
As I often do when I’m at a bit of a loose end, I just picked up a book of poems and dived in at random, which took me straight to the following sonnet by John Milton. I therefore stumbled upon a phrase “(“they also serve who only stand and wait”) which is is such common usage that I had never really thought about where it might have come from. Anyway, this is as nearly perfect an example of a Petrarchean (or Italian) sonnet as you could wish for, although the meaning is often been misinterpreted simply as an encouragement to be passive. Seen in its proper context, it seems to me that what Milton is saying is more like “Don’t be frustrated by what you can’t do, because God also knows your limitations, just do whatever you can – even if it’s not much”. As far as I know the poem is undated, but was presumably written after 1644 when Milton began to lose his eyesight. It could even be as late as 1655 by which time he was completely blind.
When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest he returning chide, “Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?” I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: “God doth not need Either man’s work or his own gifts: who best Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state Is kingly; thousands at his bidding speed And post o’er land and ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and wait.”
If I had my way with violent men I’d simmer them in oil, I’d fill a pot with bitumen And bring them to the boil. I execrate the terrorist And those who harbour him, And if I weren’t a moralist I’d tear them limb from limb.
Fanatics are an evil breed Whom decent men should shun; I’d like to flog them till they bleed, Yes, every mother’s son, I’d like to tie them to a board And let them taste the cat, While giving praise, oh thank the Lord, That I am not like that.
For we should love the human kind, As Jesus taught us to, And those who don’t should be struck blind And beaten black and blue; I’d like to roast them in a grill And listen to them shriek, Then break them on the wheel until They turned the other cheek.
I’ve been planning for some time to post the lyrics of the song The Bravery of being out of Range by Roger Waters (ex Pink Floyd) as a response to the ongoing covert war being waged by the United States, which has claimed thousands of innocent lives in Pakistan and elsewhere. The terrible events at the Boston Marathon yesterday reminded me of this intention. Violence always begets violence, but the circle becomes all the more vicious when the agressor doesn’t have to display a jot of personal courage. And that goes just as much to those who planted the bombs in Boston as those who aim the drones in Pakistan. Regardless of whether the Boston bombs had anything to do with American policy, when violence is made easy there’s bound to be more of it.
You have a natural tendency To squeeze off a shot You’re good fun at parties You wear the right masks You’re old but you still Like a laugh in the locker room You can’t abide change And you’re home on the range You opened the suitcase Behind the old workings To show off the magnum You deafened the canyon A comfort a friend Only upstaged in the end By the Uzi machine gun Does the recoil remind you Remind you of sex Old man what the hell you gonna kill next Old timer, who you gonna kill next
I looked over Jordan and what did I see Saw a U.S. Marine in a pile of debris I swam in your pools And lay under your palm trees I looked in the eyes of the Indian Who lay on the Federal Building steps And through the range finder over the hill I saw the front line boys popping their pills Sick of the mess they find on their desert stage And the bravery of being out of range Yeah the question is vexed Old man what the hell you gonna kill next Old timer who you gonna kill next
Hey bartender, over here Two more shots And two more beers Sir, turn up the TV sound The war has started on the ground Just love those laser guided bombs They’re really great for righting wrongs You hit the target, win the game From bars 3,000 miles away 3,000 miles away We play the game With the bravery of being out of range We zap and maim With the bravery of being out of range We strafe the train With the bravery of being out of range We gain terrain With the bravery of being out of range We play the game With the bravery of being out of range
And sometimes it happens that you are friends and then You are not friends, And friendship has passed. And whole days are lost and among them A fountain empties itself.
And sometimes it happens that you are loved and then You are not loved, And love is past. And whole days are lost and among them A fountain empties itself into the grass.
And sometimes you want to speak to her and then You do not want to speak, Then the opportunity has passed. Your dreams flare up, they suddenly vanish.
And also it happens that there is nowhere to go and then There is somewhere to go, Then you have bypassed. And the years flare up and are gone, Quicker than a minute.
So you have nothing. You wonder if these things matter and then As soon you begin to wonder if these things matter They cease to matter, And caring is past. And a fountain empties itself into the grass.
It’s Good Friday, and it’s also a hundred years to the day since the birth of the great Welsh poet, R.S. Thomas. I thought I’d mark the centenary in a small way by posting one of his most famous poems, A Blackbird Singing
It seems wrong that out of this bird,
Black, bold, a suggestion of dark
Places about it, there yet should come
Such rich music, as though the notes’
Ore were changed to a rare metal
At one touch of that bright bill.
You have heard it often, alone at your desk
In a green April, your mind drawn
Away from its work by sweet disturbance
Of the mild evening outside your room.
A slow singer, but loading each phrase
With history’s overtones, love, joy
And grief learned by his dark tribe
In other orchards and passed on
Instinctively as they are now,
But fresh always with new tears.
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In the Dark 