Altarpieces: Structures of Poetry and Spiritual Thinking

Contents

Origins Of An Opus

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Prelude

Part 1

About The Organization Of These Pieces

Part 2

About This Book

Part 3

About The Author

Part 4

About The Abouts

Part 5

About ‘Apo’kstrophes’

Epilogue

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Postlude

FOR

the

Who, When, and Wherever

Y O U

Known by Existential Embracement & Exaltation Everywhere

as

the other & The Other

. . .

"Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rimers invocate;

And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth

Eternal numbers to outlive long date.

If my slight Muse do please these curious days,

The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

(Shakespeare, Sonnet XXXVIII)

———

& YOU who would agree . . .

"If one wants to cope with man’s most far-flung aspirations,

one must give up the relatively petty aspiration of writing a strait-laced book."

(Walter Kaufman in Critique of Religion & Philosophy)

&

therefore

especially

for

MARILYN of GLISTENINGS

who

more than any Other, other, othering, embracement, or Muse

— like the sun —

smiled an O’K on ‘Apo’kstrophes’ the most

and was the mother of Karen, Kirsten and Sean

for whom this Dedication applies as well

{exult-exalt}

ORIGINS OF AN OPUS

January 2011, as I was compiling my notes for Altarpieces, having contracted for publication, I was also having a bad health winter. A bad, could hardly breathe, bout of emphysema got me into prednisone and multiple-daily inhalations from a breathing machine. Dosages done. Suddenly revived. I thought I could take on the world again. Ate some pizza, went outside on Jan 27, 2011, and shoveled my sixty-foot driveway with six-inch-deep wet snow. Shouldn’t have done that. Heart attack! Pizza, Prednisone and snow shoveling are not a good mix. I called 911 and took my first ambulance ride. Got a stent and a two week stint in the hospital. Had to go back a month later for another hospital stint to get another stent. Whatever unformed thoughts I had for a trilogy or any lingering Opus in my desk drawer, or computer — took a dive into the realm of maybe-not&who-can-tell-anyway about the stentings (or missed stentings) during one’s stint. — So, making the best use of my time, I started organizing my life’s poetries.

While in the hospital — not so sure of the future at that point — I put the final pieces of Altarpieces in place. Just get it done. I did. Doing so, I expanded its autobiographical material more than anticipated. Out of that wrestling, came ‘Apo’kstrophes’. I didn’t expect a new moniker. This characterization just morphed from my life and research to a universal poet-singer-choral-witness-responder. Now, with my poiesis so named — triple apostrophed and triple choired, my research would soon uncover Aoide-Melete-Mneme (singing-practice-memory). This triune muse of ancient Greece confirmed my theory of poetry in Altarpieces; paving the way for Sympathies and The Aoide Protocol: from which there emerged that professor, Elysius Wesensshau, from The En-choiring of the World. Another character.

Well, stents in place, I guided Altarpieces to publication. Then finished two children’s stories — as yet unpublished. When I brought my unfinished writings out into the light of day, I was caught-up in a potential trilogy that, originally was a big two-part poem with the title A Vision. Suddenly, I was hearing more voices than before. Once it started to unravel — it began to en-choir. Three symphonic word-movements began to play.

Altarpieces as Book I is done. O how I could now change some things. But I won’t. Rough-and-tumble as it seems at times, it is the foundation stone of the whole Opus: that single (auto-ontic) individual on a planet hung in the vastnesses of space and wanting to talk about it, as if he had been a lyre so strung to do so. In the seven sectioning pages of Altarpieces, I was wrestling with things belonging in concert and the en-choiring of sympathies, without these phrases yet in mind. Now, I am just finishing Book II. — Sympathies — The Aoide Protocol, wherein these concepts come fully to life. Auguries is the main title of Book III. It wrestles with that human creativity which catapults us from death, destruction and ignorance to be what Nietzche called the will to power, but I witness as the longing of things coming together by belonging together. This will-longing to belong, realized through the en-choiring of sympathies, is the main theme of Book II. Out of this will and longing and belonging — Auguries will sprout like a Shepherd’s Crook to release what’s caught in the fold of our holding: even as it unfolds in the inhalation of tomorrow’s breathing. (Probable subtitle: The First Order of the Shepherdren of Our Symplegades.)

The cover of Altarpieces had to be redone to reflect its part in the trilogy. And, of course, this Origins of an Opus added to present, on page one, how the concepts became (Auguries still on the easel) what now has the title:

OPUS TRIPARTIUM TOTUS TUUS

Utterances From/Of The Uttermost.

Explain this title? Perhaps a bit. Book II gives the full story. I use the Latin, because I’m dealing with triune powers inherent in the structures of life and consciousness — that are truly-wholly catholic and universal; indeed, like Latin, they are a language of trinities prior to the Catholic Church’s use of the concept or Latin. (Given humanity’s natural triune constitution — a primal success move on both counts.) Still, this title is some kind of jump from Aoide to Virgil to Eckhart to Pope John II to ‘Apo’kstrophes’. To me, the two phrasings together are like a couplet whose incantational rollings-off-the-tongue sound a resonance of what it’s all about. Bells in the high tower… singing like the spring rills… . (UUA Hymnal) We poets try for that.

I expect my main word-concepts like sympathies, en-choiring, Choir, utterances, players, etc. will be easy to comprehend (easy as stent and stint); even with the research content I’ve added. This Latin is easy to understand, too. It’s something of an homage to Ms. Bright, who taught Latin, English, and Drama at Dunbar High School. (Great teacher and my last for Latin.) The title is based on the essential fact (not as premise or hypothesis) that Earth (as Mother Nature-Gaia-Lonely Planet) is totally ours and we totally hers. Married forever. Ontologically Coupled. Totus Tuus. This Opus is a three-part song-essay-prognostication about that relationship and our performance — from which directives for life on this planet continue to emerge.

Earth-Sun-Moon are obvious primal trialities in our three-dimensional world, where we are ever so conscious of past-present-future: as we thrive midst the three domains of Life: eukaryotes (that includes us), bacteria and archaea. Ever conscious, too, of being suspended between life and death with a voice driven to talk about it all as if able to make sense of it: some sort of tertium comparationis stuck in the in betweens of a mystery that defies comprehension. But we keep trying. Progressively refusing the role of pre-strung puppets, we keep learning more and more by our own moves, which form a definite presence between past and future.

As the species on this planet, we have uncovered some really real facts of life, and, also, that some facts will/must change. History makes that clear. Our advance steadies on the stones that hold us up in the flow. These are the en-choirings of our deepest sympathies. We may not be able to out-swim the tide-throes of death, but we refuse to be drowned-out by life’s thundering storms. We are trekkers not treaders of vicissitude. Life itself is enough of a fantasy to path our journey. We know today more than ever, that we need to watch (to augur) where/how we step: ever-keeping the big picture in view from our lonely planetary perspective; teetered so beautifully on the dark precipices of the unknown.

Auguries will compose something of a libretto for our Earthling opera of unconquerability: how we manage to live beyond and in spite of inevitable death; what this says about us and our future. One centerpiece will be Virgil’s version of the Orpheus-Eurydice tale that he re-worked to show-case our vulnerability: a telling capturing the artistic-operatic world ever since. (That so-called flaw of weakness in Orpheus comes from the flaw in Virgil’s version.) We — vulnerables — are engaged in a work — a poiesis, an opus — an oeuvre: a manifestation of life-building-meaningful-existence that pushes itself right-smack in the double-face of death and insignificance. We are bold, lovely, and full of memories caught in a mysterious, seemingly infinite blackness that, for all we can tell, couldn’t care less that we ever occurred at all. But we are a history ever unfolding. Here we are on this tiny marble given to us howsoever from some kind of explosive shoot-out from eternity that space-timed a weird assortment of finitudes from the en-choiring of who knows how many infinities and their assortment of multiverses. Whatever the Big Bang of our origin, we are certainly full of noises seeking to harmonize ever since and evermore: with great arias bellowing out of neverbefore and loudly over the nevermore.

Alas, Earth-Life came with veiled instructions: except, as I see it, the en-choiring of sympathies and our ability to sort and sing them out as they belong to one another for the good of one another — whether in the functions of a cell, an atom, our intuitions, or the languages of our voices: learning in the process to not promote and align with gatherings of dissonance, but the necessity of managing them. Our successes in these endeavors become our guide to being all that we can be; if for no other reason found so far, than to just do it because we feel we belong (are called?!) to the doing of it. From such suchness, is the thrust, the thusness, and The Way of this Opus Tripartium Totus Tuus.

I will finish it. My stint just needs to survive aging a bit longer. My resume is good in this contest. I survived birth as a touch-and-go blue-baby; survived falls from trees and being nearly run-over; saved myself from near drowning; avoided some major auto accidents that could make one believe in guardian angels; survived ruptured appendix and colorectal cancer by the combined grace of my will to endure and physicians who knew their stuff; by some kind of backbone made it past various critical conceits of power and burdened personalities; and, through her Glistenings, survived the death of my wife, Marilyn: lately, as mentioned, made it past the receipt of two groinal stenting procedures.

Seems I’ve also passed the average ending age of 78.6 and the age, 78, of Social Security. So, having thus passed-on, I’m prepared, as in well-seasoned, to take on Auguries. Once that is done and this Opus done, I will be able to just write poetry—or any other artistic-craft endeavor — without feeling the need to lay any new foundations or explain a thing. All of my pollen, seedlings, and buzzing bees are revealed in this Trilogy. Unless, of course, some epiphanic-heirophanic eventum grabs my attention as the next big sacred-profane revolution in the human venture; and, fearful the poetics might be missed or mangled during my watch, I’ll rush again to the ramparts. Poetic realities in the hard-techy-world to come must not be missed! — Like The Choir. Like Sympathies. Like The Aoide Protocol. Like The Players. Like ‘Apo’kstrophes’. And, like, the Elysius Wesensshau’s who are on the verge of an energia to change how we harmonize ourselves and our world — into another intensity. (Along the way, I hope to add to this Opus, my own CD of poetry readings. All slip-cased for easy transport into the future.)

So, here’s the cast: Altarpieces is my Aoidoi — Sympathies is my Agonisti — Auguries is my Actori. (Part II explores these performance dimensions of Singer-Contender-Actor — which I introduce as The Players.) This has become my three-dimensional world; my own, for real, OPUS TRIPARTIUM TOTUS TUUS. But, I really think it’s more than just mine. None of us on our own is a choir: belonging, harmonizing, requires others: performance an audience. Anyone taking the journey of this Opus will, I know for a fact(howsoever poetic), gather some pieces belonging on the altar of longing, will better en-choir living sympathies, and discover new inspiration for the gift of prophesy.

Here are some thoughts behind these Origins. I summon three key mentors — their meanings, style, and mortality; as symbols for all members of the choir and our timing. For Altarpieces, there is T.S. Eliot. For Sympathies there is R.W. Emerson. For Auguries there is Mircea Eliade. These three E’s are not pre-conceived with the EEEs of Book II. Such sortings of one’s belongings just happen in the flourish of ideas. (Like a lost sock found in the laundry. Ah! Look what I found! Like the notes below from The Waste Land.)

Eliot, while being my foil for Altarpieces, has nonetheless always been a master poetic influence. Eliot, a heavy smoker, died at age 77 from emphysema. Emerson, my constant muse professionally and in Sympathies, died a month before his 79th year of pneumonia and the heartbreak of severe memory loss during his last years. Seems he only smoked an occasional cigar. Eliade, at 79 and one month, died of complications following a stroke, which followed a fire in his office. Eliade is much the underlying mentor of Auguries: think — in illo tempore, ab origine — the terror of history, Heirophanies and the existential historicity underlying our freedom to create anew. His smoking, maybe, contributed to his office catching on fire and subsequent stroke. (We used to smoke our pipes together in that office on the top floor of Meadville-Lombard at the University of Chicago back in the early 60’s. Sometimes we shared from his pack of Gauloises cigarettes: those were the last cigarettes I smoked.) I can truly say that Eliade is the only person (though I had two dialogic encounters with Tillich, who died a year after at 79) in the genius classification with whom there occurred significant, in depth, one-on-one conversations on religion, history, and existentialism. When he died, I became aware of political differences, which never surfaced in our dialogue. — I quit pipes and cigars years ago. Perhaps, over the long haul, this will help me to finish this trilogy. More than anyone, I want to see how it ends. Definitely an I-me project. My take&say! Will others really read it!? Surprise me! Let’s just say time is of the essence.

Gathering above Books I & II, their storms done and rainbows won, are some more great-billowed, storm-clouds full of thunder and lightning. I’m ready. But no hardhat or yellow slicker for Auguries currently under construction. Innocence is undone: found the transcendentals home-spun. Now, immanence, with its own mysterium tremendum fascinans, takes the lead, rounds the turn on a runner’s high.

The fire of these EEEs sends sparks through-out this Opus. Both Emerson and Eliot represent a mighty host of poets, from Homer to Heaney; all known just from their works. (I’ve never known a live, famous poet, or studied with any poetry professors. Still time! Choices: Edward Hirsh and Harold Bloom. Age-wise, I’m between them.) From Eliade, I received, in person, his existential feel for history, scholarship, and brilliance of thought. In years, I’ve outlived each, yet still so close, as I punch my time-clock every day to mark the passages as I head towards 80. These three symbolize all the others I’ve referenced and quoted in this Opus; all as steady guides for sure footing: Virgil-Dante-Shakespeare-Blake-Voltaire-Yeats, et. al.) I feel that my own small (somewhat late) effort is a continuation of their callings. Oh, to collect them all as a choir today! Ah! What resonance for the harmonies yet to en-choir on an Earth that now sees itself from Saturn. All would cheer and cry and still wonder why. Oh! Such a mixed chorus on such a tiny marble; rolling and playing like a shooting TAW. Game-changers! Here we go again, with new rules to command, in that same old search for the Name of the Game. So, I add to the playbook — Opus Tripartium Totus Tuus. TAW! TAW! TAW! — (The taw as the signature shooter in marbles is the same word for Yahweh’s signature on the forehead of the saved in Ezekiel; taw is the last letter of the ancient Hebrew alphabet which was an x that became a T, which became a t as in the cross. Interesting connect that Auguries will explore.)

Somehow, I forgot to reference Eliot regarding the a sound and water in Altarpieces. I rectify that now and show its bridge to the trialities of Sympathies and also the prophetic voice of Auguries. So the following from Eliot manifests a connect between all three books, though in each he is just a member of the choir.

Part V of Eliot’s The Waste Land is titled What The Thunder Said. What the thunder said as the voice out of the Uttermost (God!?) was DA in the land where there is no water. The three DA’s from the thunder, and their meaning, come after Eliot’s Who is the third who walks beside you? Looking ahead up the white road/There is always another one walking beside you… . Eliot doesn’t answer the question of who this third one is (some tertium comparationis perhaps in a brown mantle, hooded) — except to soon follow the question with the thunder’s DA DA DA. He takes three sounds