Dream of Gerontius

Selections from "The Dream of Gerontius" by Cardinal John Henry Newman

"Gerontius -

And drop from out the universal frame

Into that shapeless, scopeless, blank abyss,

That utter nothingness, of which I came:

           This is it that has come to pass in me;

     

And while the storm of that bewilderment Is for a season spent,

           And, ere afresh the ruin on thee fall, Use well the interval.

Down, down for ever I was falling through

The solid framework of created things,

And needs must sink and sink

           Into the vast abyss.

           
           Soul of Gerontius

          

I  WENT to sleep; and now  I am refreshed.

A strange refreshment: for I feel in me

An inexpressive lightness, and a sense

Of freedom, as I were at length myself

And ne’er had been before. How still it is!

I hear no more the busy beat of time,

No, nor my fluttering breath, nor struggling pulse;

           Nor does one moment differ from the next. I had a dream; yes: — someone softly said 

           “He’s gone;” and then a sigh went round the room.

            Am I alive or dead? I am not dead,
            But in the body still; for I possess
            A sort of confidence which clings to me,
            That each particular organ holds its place
            As heretofore, combining with the rest
            Into one symmetry that wraps me round,
            And makes me man; and surely I could move,
            Did I but will it, every part of me.

           Assure myself I have a body still.
           Nor do I know my very attitude,
           Nor if I stand, or lie, or sit, or kneel.

So much I know, not knowing how I know,

That the vast universe, where I have dwelt,

Is quitting me, or I am quitting it.

Or am I traversing infinity

By endless subdivision, hurrying back

From finite towards infinitesimal,

          Thus dying out of the expansed world?

Another marvel; someone has me fast

Within his ample palm; ‘tis not a grasp

Such as they use on earth, but all around

          Over the surface of my subtle being,

And gentle pressure tells me I am not

          Self-moving, but borne forward on my way.

Angel

Divide a moment, as men measure time,

Into its million-million-millionth part,

Yet even less than that the interval

           Since thou didst leave the body;

And thou art wrapped and swathed around in dreams,

           Dreams that are true, yet enigmatical;

Be brave and patient on thy bed of sorrow;

Swiftly shall pass thy night of trial here,

           And I will come and wake thee on the morrow."

[these are the ending lines]

*the entire poem can be found here

My Hanging Drum Falls to its own Beat

Contrasting Sounds by Wassily Kandinsky

A doumbek drum hangs from a thin pine twig, and as I notice, it falls crashing to a strange forest pit beside a pond directly beneath a scraggly ancient tree, an immense figure, an arboreal delight yet demanding a kind of fear in its profound attention of the earth through its girth of roots, and beside the water’s edge, I pick up my drum from the ground, and yet a piece has been cracked off, a square piece, perfectly removed, and yet I still put it to my hip, and suddenly it feels as if a skin has replaced its plastic head and my hands find a delicate touch with rapid rhythmic technique in producing vibration’s adamant trill, a complete sound wave in the full emptiness of a masterful humbling against the unbroken skin of human touch met with the cover of Earth’s delicate heartbeat bringing that fullness to yet another creation of space in the continuous sound, ever unbroken by finger’s brush as a purr unites breath with rest

September 3, 2011