|A photo of myself touching the plasma globe.by Diliff (Creative Commons)|
Only imagination (and madness) apprehends—fears—things.
Indeed those who comprehend events apprehend most
reasonably that which “passeth understanding”:
Not things of nature—not the birth and perpetuation
of cucumbers, black beans and birch trees, not even floods
and hurricanes—but things of man. In the face of murder—
the use of weapons on innocent lives, faceless
remote killings as well as personal murder—
apprehend and weep to comprehend.
We’ve heard and said these words so often that they mean
nothing. They barely ripple silence, never mind peaceful
detached pools of personhood. But relationship with God
restores these words to life. Tragedy lives again. Entwined
in imagination, buried in Arcadia’s core
of death and disease is knowledge God is not innocent.
In trees. In libraries.
Here live nightmare and Edgar Allen Poe. Here live Shakespeare’s
MacBeth and his Lady, Titus Andronicus and Iago.
Poets report embroidered truth, enlarging it
for all to see, this truth we rightly apprehend.
(If only poets could also apprehend—stop—
phantasm and monsters from their actions
in our seething societies by naming them.)
For Kerry's prompt An Antic Disposition at Imaginary Gardens with Real Toads for Day 23 of NaPoWriMo which includes this Shakespearean quote:
*Lovers and madmen have such seething brains,
Such shaping fantasies, that apprehend
More than cool reason ever comprehends.
The lunatic, the lover and the poet
Are of imagination all compact.*
~Midsummer Night's Dream
Act 5, scene 1, 4 – 8
My blog poems are rough drafts.
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© 2018 Susan L. Chast