As I began to try and pull together all the material I had gathered (at least 20,000 words of it!) I began to feel more than a little intimidated by the task I’d set myself, and came close to giving up. How on earth was I going to write anything that would take it further than any of my previous attempts to tackle this issue?
In the end I decided to risk failure and blast on anyway.
At the start I’ll do a summary of some key personal experiences followed by an exploration of why science, art and spirituality are all important to any investigation of the truth, before using in later posts the poetry of R. S. Thomas as an illustration of my case.
Perhaps it’s worth mentioning at this point that, while I love pictorial art, my experience of any attempt to create a painting is non-existent: poetry plays rather more strongly to my strengths as a subject of investigation in terms of the power of art in general. So, much as I love pictorial art, I’m not competent to explore it deeply: I’ll have to stick to poetry as an example of the power of art. However, much of the first two posts in this sequence deals with art in general, and not just poetry. The focus on poetry comes in toward the end of the sequence.
Caveats
Right from the start I am aware of a couple of caveats that may disqualify my perspective, which is all this sequence could ever hope to be.
First, if poetry does not speak to my heart it is no better than mute for me. My prejudice against much modernist poetry stems in part from this. The absence of music puts off my heart and the obstinately cryptic obscurity repels my head so they both stomp off in a strop.
Also am I overrating poetry? As Stephanie Burt makes clear in her book Don’t Read Poetry[1] we should not ‘assume poetry ever means only one thing, other than maybe a set of tools for making things with words as music means a set of tools… for making things with sounds.’ There may be no such single generic thing as poetry. However, subjectively, I am convinced that poetry of some kind is close to my heart.
The Roots of my Connection with Poetry
My connection with poetry goes back deep into my childhood. My sensibility is rooted in the 19th century thanks to my parents and the bookscase they filled with novels by Rider Haggard, and Walter Scott. I was probably still at primary school when I read my first poems. That’s what the memory feels like anyway. In the front room of our family home in that same tall book case with glass doors on its upper section, amongst many other books there were two books of poems: Lyra Heroica and Palgrave’s Golden Treasury.
I wasn’t particularly interested in boys on burning decks or Horatios at bridges – I think tales about my father and the First World War had well and truly scuppered Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori for me even by that stage so the Golden Treasury tended to win every time. I still remember the sight and feel of the dull red and slightly roughened cover as I strained to slide it off its high shelf.
So, I was primed to favour the lyric, I think. My attachment was strong to poetry but it competed with novels and sometimes lost the contest. After ten years of teaching literature I finally discovered what the real attraction of the novel was for me: it showed me how to understand people better.
I shifted careers and moved into psychology, and didn’t realise at first that poetry was paying a heavy price.
Then I had a wake up call.
Dancing Flames Dream 1980
When I was getting too immersed in studying part-time for my first degree in psychology at the same time as holding down a job in mental health, I had a wake up call. It was towards the end of my first degree in psychology, when I was doing a full time job as Deputy Manager of a Day Centre for people with mental health problems as well as studying for the BSc part-time, that I was struck by my dancing flames dream.
The key moment in the dream was when my car broke down. I clambered out to look under the bonnet to see what was wrong. It seemed like a routine breakdown. When I lifted the bonnet though everything changed. I didn’t recognize what it was at first— then I saw it was a golden horn. I mean the instrument, by the way, not the sharp pointed weapon of the rhinoceros. The engine was underneath the horn. When I removed the horn I could see the engine was burning.
A chain of associations, many of them involving Yeats’ A Prayer for my Daughter, explained that the golden horn represented the arts, and most especially poetry and song. The bottom line for me was that the dream was telling me in no uncertain terms that I was working too hard in the wrong way, and had sold out poetry/song for prose, heart for intellect, and intuition for reason and most of all the dream was emphasising that this choice was ‘breaking down,’ that perhaps even the car, a symbol of a mechanical approach, was the wrong vehicle to be relying on so exclusively.
Maybe this was the first time I got too close to the position Iain McGilchrist reminds us that Darwin found himself in.
He draws from Charles Darwin’s Autobiography which speaks of the great pleasure he derived as a young man from poetry, music and art, something now almost completely lost to him:[2]
My mind seems to have become a kind of machine for grinding general laws out of large collections of facts . . . And if I had to live my life again, I would have made a rule to read some poetry and listen to some music at least once a week; for perhaps the parts of my brain now atrophied would thus have been kept active through the use. The loss of these tastes is a loss of happiness, and may possibly be injurious to the intellect, and more probably to the moral character, by enfeebling the emotional part of our nature.
Further reflection led me to feel that the spirit (petrol in terms of the dream) fuels (gives life to) my body (the engine of the dream). When I channel the flames of life appropriately there is no danger. However, if we, as I clearly felt I had, allow the patterns of work and relationships to become inauthentic and detached from our life force, we have bartered the ‘Horn of Plenty’ and
. . . every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old bellow full of angry wind.(Yeats in A Prayer for my Daughter – stanza 8).
I shifted the focus then to art in general stating that art is an external representation of an inner state which is sufficiently expressive to communicate to other human beings an intimation of someone’s else’s experience of the world. Art not only conveys the artist’s experience but also lifts the understanding of both poet and reader to a higher level.
In a way poetry at that time was my substitute for religion. In 1980, I wrote in my diary:
Poetry is my transcendent value or position. It gives me a perspective from which I can view the ‘complexities’ of my ‘mire and blood’ with less distress.
When I found a religion, which gave me a sense that seemed to offer some hope of walking the spiritual path with practical feet, thereby balancing intuition and reason, efficiency and love, I ceased to monitor carefully the way I was treading the path. To extend the metaphor by imagining that my heart was my left foot and my head the right, each governed by the opposite side of the brain, I lost sight of whether I was using both feet. I didn’t notice that I had begun to limp. My left foot was growing weaker.
Was I again discounting art this time in favour of spirtuality?
Reminder of my STAR insight
Iain McGilchrist, in his recent book The Matter with Things, states that art can serve as bridge between our consciousness and the ineffable aspects of reality. When I came across that thought a couple of years ago, I came to see all too clearly a truth that I had been blind to all those years: art is not just a meaningful but subordinate domain to science and religion – it is of equal importance. We need all three if we are to mobilise all parts of our brain to enable our minds to grasp almost any important and complex truth more completely in all its aspects. One of these domains is in itself not enough for most of us, at least.
The realisation of art’s equivalent importance almost immediately created the acronym S.T.A.R. in my mind (Science, Truth, Art and Religion) — a peak experience, in its way, because of the uplift in spirits that it generated – certainly a light-bulb moment at the very least. If I am to provide true C.A.R.E., in the sense of combining consultation, action, reflection and experience, I must resolutely follow my S.T.A.R. It’s only taken me eight decades to realise this. In fact, only by taking CARE and following my STAR will I really be able to achieve anything remotely close to my life’s true purpose.
When I came to read Klebel’s book The Human Heart my sense of this essential unity was reinforced in at least one important respect (see Chapters 3 & 4).
Poetry and Revelation are closely related in Klebel’s view:
The affinity revelatory writings have with poetry, and the fact that some of them even take the form of poetry, can be explained by the fact that poetry speaks primarily to the heart, and only secondarily can be understood by the brain. This is true also for Revelation, as this is understood primarily by the heart and only afterward scrutinized and evaluated by the logical mind. It could be said that the language of the heart is not only the language of dreams but also the language of poetry; this is how spiritual values and understandings are expressed. Ultimately, it must be stated that the language of the heart is the language of divine Revelation.
He goes on to argue that just as ‘Poetry, for example, originates in the heart . . . [t]he same process underlies the poetic aspect of the Revelation; hence, the special language of any Revelation has this poetic style and needs to be understood by the heart. It speaks directly to the heart but also needs to be understood by the brain; or rather, it needs to be internally translated to the logical and intuitional ability of the human brain to be fully understood.’
When I was at the Bahá’í National Convention recently, I managed to snatch a few moments to wander around the room full of books for sale. I’d been alerted beforehand to the imminent appearance of a book by Margaret Appa on the importance of art. I had not expected it to map so closely onto my recent insights. As I quickly scanned the book there was no doubt I had to buy it. I dashed to the till cash in hand, rammed it into my shoulder bag and fled back to the meeting hall.
I didn’t have chance to do read it properly until I got home. I finished it remarkably fast and began the process of digesting some of its implications for incorporation into this sequence.
More on her book next time.
References:
[1]. Don’t Read Poetry – page 7.
[2]. The Matter with Things – page 619.