Blake Within Blake Within Blake Without End

As I have written before, the great William Blake magnificently employed signs beyond mere words in his poetry.  His powerful illustrations of verse add much additional meaning to his work.  As I have noted before, his symbols such as words are greatly supplemented by other types of signs such as the iconic signs of his drawings.  He applied these same principles in reverse in his great illustrations of the verse of other poets such as Thomas Gray and Edward Young.  Such illustrated verse injects blocks of symbols within Blake's icons, and it can be fascinating to replace these blocks of others' symbols with additional iconic expressions by Blake himself.  Blake's illustrations repeat common themes and can build on each other in such fascinating exercises.  I think Blake would enjoy seeing others doing this with with his icons, and I would enjoy seeing how others might attempt the endless possibilities of such substitutions.  For example, in the illustration above I have replaced Gray's verses about the "Stern Rugged Nurse" with one of Blake's illustrations of Urizen, the severe god of reason who traps the imagination with his compasses and strict categories.  The compass in fact is an awful symbol for Blake.  It's no accident that the "Stern Rugged Nurse" has one in her hand just like Urizen.

Caesar, Antony, & Brutus (Additions to "The Apology Box")

     Julius Caesar Joins His Cousins

Hail cousins in Olympus!*  Like you, I

Have intervened throughout the world.  I warred

Not just in Rome but in far regions, too,
As god in man no doubt is prone to do.

Why not go far in war since I must war

Regardless?  God and man are opposites

And thus could not keep truces long in me.

They often warred and shook me violently.

I wondered how the two in me were mixed:

Were they both loose?  Were they together chained?

Was one a cage that kept the other pent?

Did they conjoin in some third element?

However joined, despite all paradox,

I came. I saw. I conquered.  I now thank
Rome's daggers that the incarnation's past,

That I'm a pure and quakeless god at last.

*He was an epileptic whose family claimed descent from Venus.

            Brutus’s Defense

Did we do murder?  Not on Caesar’s watch.
Crime is defined within some rule of law.
His tyranny suspended rule of law.

Did we do evil?  Not in killing him

When reason would instead condemn the hands

Refusing reason and its pure demands.

We rescued reason when our blades brought down

The despot flaunting it.  And if we should

Now balance pain, we find the common good

We did outweighs the suffering Caesar felt.

We should be stoic, too, and recognize 

That fate spins narratives and thus denies

The choice required for blame.  And yet so what?

The finest reason never dulls the pain
As past replays itself time and again:

The awful cries, the sounds of blades against

The spine, the red spurts, then the vacant stare
As rigor mortis seizes Caesar there.

I am no hypocrite.  I've suffered, too,
In righting Rome vile Caesar had abused.
I need no flogging.  I'm already bruised.

            Marc Antony’s Defense

Will future generations laud my name?

No. History is pillage victors own.

The vanquished are deprived of it--and yet

I stand before the gods with no regret

Or fear.  The judgment of the gods, I know,

Is never swayed by pillaging below.

Before I fell, in Athens they hailed me

As a new Dionysus.  They were right.

I saw beyond convention.  Nature was

My measure--not some antique prejudice

That drew a line between the West and East.

Uncritical acceptance in me ceased:

I freed my mind and heart to analyze

All things in truth, not prejudice.  I spurned

The ancient, awful bigotry of Rome
Permitting one the lowest Roman wife

Yet banning Cleopatra as a bride.

Pure truth advised me, too, when Caesar died.

I would not profit from his murder.  I

Embraced the bloody vessel that once held

Great Caesar and I promised my revenge.

Whatever evil men might say of me,

I was a loyal friend who also dared

To free both mind and heart Rome once impaired.

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here. 

Five Warriors: Hannibal, Charlemagne, Roland, William the Conqueror, & Henry V (Additions to "The Apology Box)

                    Short Ballade of Henry V            
                             (esse quam videri)

Although my youth was rough, I may defend

It.  By its terms, one's immaturity

Is that imperfect era one must spend

Developing, that time when logically

The mind and morals both are raw and we

Are all inferior.  I would not scheme

Like lesser youths and falsely polish me--

Hypocrisy's a sin.  I'd be, not seem.

When I was crowned, my youth was at its end.

Therefore, I ended my frivolity

Lest I live on a lie, lest I pretend

I somehow kept that younger quality

That I had lost.  I acted honestly

Instead when grown.  I battled till supreme

At Agincourt without distorting me--

Hypocrisy's a sin. I'd be, not seem.

Lord, now I'm but a spirit, I should be

In Heaven with the bodiless.  I’d dream

Of nothing else.  I’d feign no firmer me--

Hypocrisy's a sin.  I'd be, not seem.

Three British Ghosts: Geoffrey of Monmouth, Henry II, & Thomas Becket (Additions to "The Apology Box")

          Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Tale

We think with stories--nouns don’t wag themselves

Until some verb has given them a tale.

Once storied, terms turn temporal. They are

Man’s plot across the moral, cognitive,

Creative, and artistic realms.  God said:

“Fool, know thyself!”  Obedient, I read

And wrote much history to understand

Myself and therefore follow God's command.

As I was British, Britain and my race

Of course were my prime focuses.  To my

Dismay, I found few tomes about the two

And those I found were partial works at best.

I was compelled to remedy the void

And thus began inquiring back to Troy

Past Virgil who omitted British limbs

Of that vast, ancient Trojan tree.  Despite

The paucity of written volumes, I

Discovered much of what I needed in

Myself--I was a sumptuous gallery

Of Trojan portraits.  In my face I saw

Our brave Aeneas as he first set sail

As well as all the awful anguish he

Displayed at sea regarding Dido’s pyre.

I saw our diverse portraits of him as

He sought and then subdued all Italy.

I saw then subsequent great Romans all

Reflected in their English cousin.  I

Turned Northerly, saw Brutus, great-grandson

Of our Aeneas, drive the giants from

That Northern Isle and seed the Trojan race

In latitudes more rarefied.  I saw

Troy’s engineers grid out New Troy whose name

Would later be Trinovantum till changed

To London.  I saw portraits of the roads

And baths and amphitheaters they built,

Perused the faces of lawgivers such

As Queen Marcia and Molmutius,

Examined portraits of Belinus and

Brennius as they took both Gaul and Rome

Long years before their Roman cousins came

To Albion.  I saw Cordelia then

I glimpsed that brilliant jewel within the crown,

Our Arthur, then saw Merlin, too.  I looked

At Mordred’s features, feared that evil glance

Of treachery.  I saw the future, too,

When Trojans sailed abroad again to new

Uncharted regions, saw how, too, the sea

Itself acknowledged our hegemony.

I saw the continents and isles elect

To speak the British Trojan dialect

Beginning on a Carolina shore

That both Virginia Dare and mystery bore.

I saw the Trojans smiling in their graves

As Britain ruled both continents and waves.

And though I did not put it down in ink

I saw with certainty enough to think

Our cousins far across that western sea

Would some day walk upon the moon and we

Would tongue the heavens, too, with our own speech.

Now, Lord, I shelve myself here safe with you.
Just like the tomes we write, each man is, too,

A tale of both himself and of his race

Unique in aspect nothing can replace.

Like rarest books, same principles as well

Ban burning us in heaven or in hell.

            Henry II’s Short Ballade^[1]

Now judgment day has come at last for me,

I hope the Heavens will recall the way

I used the jury, dropped the blasphemy

Of the ordeal.  It seemed too proud to say

Man speaks God’s language equally and may

Decipher him in contests fortune ran.

A human jury seemed the humbler way

Since no man knows the mind of God or can.

I also hope when Heaven’s judging me,

It will recall proud Becket and the way

I handled him.  It was vain blasphemy

For priests (no less than other men) to say

They are the only ones who know God.  May

We all be humbler!  Until others ran

Him down, I tried to coach a milder way

Since no man knows the Mind of God or can.

Lord, though I hope in judging me you may

Find the vast Christian polities I ran

Well ruled, I won’t presume.  I’ll just obey

Since no man knows the Mind of God or can.

               Becket’s Sonnet Acrostic

                   (A strict role player)

For me, my duty was the polar star

I navigated by.  As Chancellors are

Devoted to their kings, I was therefore

Unwavering as Joseph was before--

Country and Pharaoh first.  Then “serve the Lord

Instead,” Pharaoh commanded.  In accord,

Archbishop I became.  As God’s trustee,

Roles changed and Pharaoh lost command of me.

Your servant now, he called me enemy

From that first moment when he knew I swore

In following you I'd follow him no more.

Refusing any compromise of roles,

Struck down in church for focusing on souls,

This priest reciprocated Calvary.

---

[1] According to various sources, the poet’s 25^th great-grandfather through Thomas Yale and 27^th great-grandfather through Anne Lloyd Yale.

Confucius and Lao Tzu (Additions to "The Apology Box")

            Confucius’s Sonnet

Mere force brings no true order since forced change

Warps from without and thus can never fit

An inner nature that’s rejecting it.

Without such fit, there’s but apparent change.

As mere force is deficient, sages thus

Discount it.  Righting wrong, they find a way

To change a man by his own choices. Thus,

They speak and do precisely. Sages sway

With virtue and right language of the kind

They’ve learned in studies of the old archives

Of ritual and common mythic mind.

Their teaching teaches them. Example drives

Without a whip. On earth, in heaven, too,

Truth bans all thrashings hells purport to do.

            Lao Tzu’s Sonnet

Would breath that loathed to make a sound in life

Somehow reverse itself in airless death?

Would it somehow convert itself at last

Into fools’ terms?  No--death is muter still.

I’ve neither arrogance nor wish to harm.

I’d not presume an ant cares how my mouth

Might label it.  I all the more of course

Would not presume that heaven gives a damn.

Man’s categories cause him needless ill—

A man can’t covet or despise a thing

Some category’s not disjoined from him.

Man's words spread categories' ills about.

Without air heaven must be wordless.  Hence,

I'm mute where no decrees expel me hence.

© Harold Anthony Lloyd 2016

The current contents of "The Apology Box" can be found here.