"Those who restrain desire, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained; and the restrainer or reason usurps its place & governs the unwilling. And being restrain'd it by degrees becomes passive till it is only the shadow of desire."
The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.
Prudence is a rich ugly old maid courted by Incapacity.
He who desires but acts not, breeds pestilence.
Prisons are built with stones of Law, Brothels with bricks of Religion.
The pride of the peacock is the glory of God. The lust of the goat is the bounty of God. The wrath of the lion is the wisdom of God. The nakedness of woman is the work of God.
The soul of sweet delight can never be defil'd.
The head Sublime, the heart Pathos, the genitals Beauty, the hands & feet Proportion.
and lastly
"What is it men in women do require? The lineaments of Gratified Desire. What is it women do in men require? The lineaments of Gratified Desire. "
Now is this the writing of a prude?
And speaking of love, I dug this up while looking for this last snippet from Blake. By someone named Sterling Brown:
A dago fruit stand at three A.M. the wop asleep, his woman knitting a tiny garment, laughing when we approached her, flashing a smile from white teeth, then weighing out the grapes, Grapes large as plums, and tart and sweet as—well we know the lady And purplish red and firm, quite as this lady's lips are .... We laughed, all three when she awoke her swarthy, snoring Pietro To make us change, which we, rich paupers, left to help the garment. We swaggered off; while they two stared, and laughed in understanding, And thanked us lovers who brought back an old Etrurian springtide. Then, once beyond their light, a step beyond their pearly smiling We tasted grapes and tasted lips, and laughed at sleepy Harlem, And when the huge Mick cop stomped by, a'swingin' of his billy You nodded to him gaily, and I kissed you with him looking, Beneath the swinging light that weakly fought against the mist That settled on Eighth Avenue, and curled around the houses. And he grinned too and understood the wisdom of our madness. That night at least the world was ours to spend, nor were we misers, Ah, Morningside with Maytime awhispering in the foliage! Alone, atop the city,—the tramps were still in shelter And moralizing lights that peered up from the murky distance Seemed soft as our two cigarette ends burning slowly, dimly, And careless as the jade stars that winked upon our gladness .... And when I flicked my cigarette, and we watched it falling, falling, It seemed a shooting meteor, that we, most proud creators, Sent down in gay capriciousness upon a trivial Harlem—
And then I madly quoted lyrics from old kindred masters, Who wrote of you, unknowing you, for far more lucky me And you sang broken bits of song, and we both slept in snatches, And so the night sped on too swift, with grapes, and words and kisses, And numberless cigarette ends glowing in the darkness Old Harlem slept regardless, but a motherly old moon— Shone down benevolently on two happy wastrel lovers ....
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----- Original Message ----- From: "Chuck Grimes" <c123grimes at att.net> To: lbo-talk at lbo-talk.org Sent: Tuesday, October 11, 2011 3:29:51 PM Subject: Re: [lbo-talk] Blake's "London"
Overall, I think it is the most perfect poem in the English language. I mean if there has to be one such.
Joanna
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(having written this before various answers were posted)
That's an odd claim. OTOH, it sure was a great poem picturing seedy, rotten, nasty, death filled London.
I read plenty of Blake and studied his printmaking and so on. I was mostly stoned or drinking or both, but that really helped to contemplate his imaginary worlds. I mean they were child-like, as in fairies and gobblins of the benign sort.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Blake_Dante_Hell_XII.jpg
It's the likeable benign streak in Blake that detracts at least for me. Maybe I just have a darker form of romanicism.
I forget which poem it was that I got lost in for hours, reading flipping pages. So I think what makes Blake great was his ability to create a world. That's something very usual, or maybe I haven't studied enough poetry or didn't recognize it before I read Blake.
In terms of sound and English as a language, I put a lot on Donne. Reading Donne, especially out loud tricks the ear and mental voice into sounding like a liquid something, which is a part of English that has been nearly erased.
Anyway, I had great arguments with my buddy Noel in Iowa City over Blake. I remember, or think I do, of being mildly put off by his ambiguous sexuality that never seemed to quite manifest or materialize. And a related or similar impression about his spiritual worlds which couldn't quite break free of Christianity. I liked him for these qualities, recognizing them as distant, long dead cousins. But surely at the time ... he could have broken out of that English prudery.
CG
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