Buy the book HERE Visit Robbi at Red Room |
ABOUT ROBBI NESTER,
HER NEW BOOK, AND HER CHOICE OF POEM
In my first year as an
undergraduate in college, I entered another world. Up to that time, I did not
find school amenable. In fact, I hated it. Given a choice, I would have cut
class any day, and spent all my time strolling through the Franklin Institute
or perusing the stacks at the library.
But college was a whole different
animal. These teachers actually encouraged questions, and spurred on my
enthusiastic response to the texts we studied. My favorite class of those
idyllic early years was a multi-disciplinary course on the English Romantic
period, exploring it from a scientific, philosophical, political, as well as a
literary perspective. My favorite writer from that period, who had something to
say about all those disciplines, was William Blake.
Blake’s most anthologized work is
probably “The Tyger,” from his Songs of
Innocence and Experience. Many critics have tackled this work, but they do
not agree on its meaning or the light it might shed on Blake’s probable answers
to the thorny theological questions it raises.
I chose this poem from among all
those I admire because it seems a fit way to celebrate my own forthcoming
chapbook, Balance, composed of 15
poems following a sequence of yoga poses developed by B.K.S. Iyengar. Mr.
Iyengar introduced this particular sequence in his book, Light on Life, as a way of promoting emotional stability.
On the literary side, my book was
inspired in part by Blake’s Songs of
Innocence and Experience, a poetic work based emphatically on a concept and
one that integrates visual and verbal art. Despite their ability to stand
alone, the lyrics in this work cannot be considered wholly apart from their
context in the work as a whole or, for that matter, their place in Blake’s
overall system.
For my cover, I worked with the
photographer John Genesta, who, from the concept I conceived, produced the
cover photograph you see here. I also cannot forget the craftswomen on Etsy who
sold me the origami flower pictured in this photograph.
Poet and publisher Karen Kelsay
Davies labored long over the book’s layout, introducing me to the business end
of writing as she went, and probably, in the process, learning more herself
about yoga and Sanskrit that she ever wanted to know.
Unlike Blake, who acted as poet, artist, and
printer all in one [The Tyger etching at the Met here], I required a whole stable of collaborators to see this
project to fruition, not neglecting to mention my good friend Marly, who helped
give the project its impetus.
Supta Virasana—Reclining Hero Pose
On the road to the studio, the hills
undulate under the clouds like fish
in the shallows, soft morning light
singing on their silver scales.
I want to lie down in that light
and become a hill, but my mind
won’t let me. Let me try again
to still the muscles’ long
sigh as legs enfold the hips,
tucked under like hospital corners,
the thighs pulled taut as a harp string,
the ribs pried open as I
lie back on the folded blankets
exposing my heart to the world.
Come visit
my writer’s page: http://redroom.com/member/robbi-nester
ABOUT HER CHOSEN POEM
William Blake may have been the first great outsider artist
to crossover into the mainstream of the literary canon. In fact, he arguably
exemplifies the Romantic concept of the poetic genius, though not in the
Byronic sense we are used to.
“Tyger” emerges from a paired collection of lyrics, half
representing the voice of Innocence, and the other experience. Though Blake
gives a voice to each of these opposed qualities, we can never forget that each
makes up but half of the overall work, embodying Blake’s proverb from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell,
“Without contraries is no progression.” Perhaps it is because one may discern
this philosophy in “Tyger” that so many have chosen it to represent Blake’s
poetic oeuvre.
We see in most elements of the poem Blake’s refusal to settle
into any uncomplicated pattern or perspective. This is so of the poem’s poetic
form, something critics often disagree about. The poem is composed of 6 four
line stanzas with four beats per line, as I scan it. However, though Blake sets
a pattern in the first stanza of largely trochaic rhythm, with an accented
first syllable and unaccented second one, in the stanzas to follow, it riffs
freely on the theme, varying the order of the stresses.
The last stanza largely mirrors the first, reflecting the tiger’s
own “fearful symmetry.” In the same way, the work’s accentual rhythm allows
Blake to vary the position of accented syllables over the course of the work to
begin and end it as a sort of incantation, but emulate along the way the hammer
of a blacksmith God, crafting the beast, the beating of the tiger’s
newly-minted heart, or the shocked stutter of the speaker, rendered
inarticulate before the wonder of God’s creation.
Syntactically and also thematically, the poem reminds us of
the biblical Book of Job,
particularly those passages late in the book, where, in a catalogue of
rhetorical questions, God challenges Job to best his creative power.
In its penultimate stanza, Blake’s poem asks the most
significant of the poem’s questions:
When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their
tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he
who made the Lamb make thee?
This is not the poem’s final stanza, since that comes
full circle to repeat the incantatory first four lines, yet it poses the major
question we are left with at the end of the work. The martial image of the stars
“[throwing] down their spears” evokes both the fallen angels of Milton’s epic Paradise Lost and the Book of Job, where God tells how “the
morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy” (38.7).
For the speaker of this poem, the joy of such celestial
beings does not seem so apparent. They respond to God’s immanent act of
creation with hostility and sadness, suggesting that in their view, there may
be something suspect about the whole endeavor.
Here, as elsewhere in Blake’s work, we discern more than a
hint of Gnosticism, a doctrine that brands all of material creation as
inherently flawed, the product of a demiurge akin to Blake’s own Nobodaddy. Yet
at the same time, these celestial beings “Water heaven with their tears,” an
act that promotes the growth of this same creation.
The tiger is at once a beautiful creature and, like Job’s
Leviathan, the fearsome object of our awe. Though it is both at once, we cannot
so emphatically answer yes to the poem’s ultimate question, “Did he who made
the Lamb make thee?” Blake leaves the question unresolved.
In contrast, the resolution of the Book of Job strikes us as singularly unsatisfactory. Even if God
replaces all of Job’s progeny with new offspring and returns him to full health
and the respect of his community, does this make up for what he has lost? Not
hardly.
The question of evil cannot be glossed over in any blithe
way. It must remain a question, as Blake leaves it here in his poem, which I
see as a response to that biblical book and to Milton’s epic, Paradise Lost.
Like the other works
in the collection, this poem appears on an illuminated plate Blake has etched.
Many commentators have noted the oddly toothless demeanor of the tiger in this
plate. Unlike the fierce and fiery beast described in the poem, emblem of
divine creation or warfare, this tiger, with its slight, stuffed animal smile
and rounded edges, seems oddly toothless. [The Tyger illumination can be seen here.]
While most regard this as an artistic failing, I see it as
yet another example of Blake’s dialectical style, confronting things with their
own opposites, and leaving us to puzzle out the meaning. Does this mean that
the speaker of the poem is an unreliable narrator of sorts, who mistakes the
nature of the beast he describes? Or is it an effort to remind us that the tiger,
while it might gladly rend and consume human flesh, does so not out of malice
but as a means of survival, as many of us eat other creatures’ flesh?
Blake’s questioning did not arise ex nihilo. He is known to have studied mystical as well as canonical biblical traditions. Questioning
the nature of divine creation is common among the mystics of Judaism, whom the
self-tutored Blake may well have studied. Faced with evil circumstances as daunting as Job’s, the 15th century scholar Isaac Luria was part of
the community Queen Isabella persecuted in the Inquisition and ultimately
expelled from Spain. Faced with the conundrum of a monotheistic deity who allowed
such evil to occur, Luria crafted a
creation myth to explain the existence of evil in the world we inhabit known as
“breaking the vessels.”
In this myth, it is the act of creation itself that
inadvertently leads to evil coming into the material world, since the “shells”
of material creation, akin to clay cracking in the kiln, are too imperfect to
contain God’s divine creative light.
The task of human beings, in this mythos, is to collect the
shards of fractured divinity immured in unlikely and apparently evil places of
the world and send them back to their source. This process is called “tikkun
olam.”
Blake’s system similarly envisions a purpose for human beings
of countering evil with imagination and artistic creation. In his view, it is
our task to challenge orthodoxies of all sorts, and thus emulate God’s creative
energy. Blake’s work exercises this capacity in his readers.
Christian orthodoxy explains away the obvious rifts between
the often capricious nature of the deity portrayed in the Tanakh, the Hebrew
Bible, and the God of mercy embraced by the Christian tradition. But
characteristically, Blake challenges us to note these lacunae, and explains
them by suggesting that these are indeed two different Gods, not faces of the
same one.
Thus, when he asks “Did he who made the Lamb make thee?” he
is speaking not just of the material world but of the two traditions, two
bodies of religious texts, with the Lamb taking on its symbolic meaning as
Jesus, not just the companion poem to “The Tyger” in Blake’s work.
Yet at the same time, the merciful and gentle face of deity
cannot account for the reality of the world we live in. The existence of this
other tradition, other deity, other text is necessary to describe our world
adequately. Ultimately, the creative tension between these two views is
essential to spur us onward, toward our own divinely inspired acts of creation.
THE POEM
THE
TYGER
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
In what distant deeps
or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare sieze the fire?
And what shoulder,
& what art.
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? & what dread feet?
What the hammer? what
the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw
down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the Lamb make thee?
Tyger! Tyger! burning
bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
1794