The Blood of a Poet and the Magic Mead

Lee Miller from 'Blood of a Poet' and an illustration of Odin and Gunnlöd

I remember watching a television documentary on the Kennedys (this was probably in the 1970s, since I was in high school) and an interview with Robert F. Kennedy, Jr., who must have been in his twenties at the time. He was discussing his father’s state of soul following the assassination of the elder Kennedy’s brother, President John F. Kennedy. “He spent as lot of time reading the poets,” the young man said. That made a great impression upon me. My parents, working class Irish Catholics, did not read poetry, but I was ever fascinated by the magic of words—whether in prayer, in song lyrics, or even nursery rhymes. The only poet I can recall RFK, Jr. mentioning was Tennyson. And I can see how a poet given to melancholia and preoccupied with the transitoriness of Things would be welcome reading material to a man who had just lost a brother and close friend to the senseless machinations of evil. In my mind’s eye, I can see Bobby senior poring over The Idylls of the King:

But now farewell. I am going a long way

With those thou seëst—if indeed I go

(For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)—

To the island-valley of Avilion;

Where falls not hail, or rain, or any snow,

Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies

Deep-meadow’d, happy, fair with orchard lawns

And bowery hollows crown’d with summer sea,

Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.

In my own life, I have often turned to the poets for clarity and consolation. Philosophers and theologians don’t offer much at such times. In my early thirties, I turned to Dylan Thomas and William Butler Yeats for companionship and later to John Donne, Jim Harrison, and Czeslaw Milosz. More recently, I have come to rely on Henry Vaughan and Thomas Traherne for spiritual sustenance. And there is always my jovial king and pastor, Robert Herrick.

I write this because recently my wife came to me with a discovery. We homeschool our children and our youngest is now in fourth grade. We follow, for the most part, a Waldorf curriculum (I was a Waldorf teacher for sixteen years) and a central part of the fourth grade year is the Norse Myths. My wife came to me with the story “Odin Wins for Men the Magic Mead” from Padraic Colum’s masterful retelling Nordic Gods and Heroes.

In the tale, the wicked dwarves kill Kvasir the Poet who “had wisdom, and he had such beautiful words with it, that what he said was loved and remembered by all.” The Dwarves are selfish in their wickedness” “‘Now,’ they said, ‘we have Kvasir’s blood and Kvasir’s wisdom. No one else will have this wisdom but us.’” The Dwarves combine the poet’s blood with honey and make mead from it, storing it in three jars. Curiously, they never never drink from the mead; they only want to make sure no one else does.

Eventually, the mead falls into the hands of the Giants, who likewise hide it but never use it. In time, Odin the Wanderer, after a series of adventures, comes to the cave where he meets its guardian, the giantess Gunnlöd. The enchantment she is under has turned her into a monster, hideous and decrepit, and she implores Odin, “save me from all this ugliness.” The Wanderer takes Gunnlöd’s hands; he kisses her on the mouth. And “all the marks of ill favor fell from her.”

My wife was excited about the story, for one thing, because I am a poet and I make mead (though not from my own blood) and she has been wanting for us to start a meadery—in addition to our farm and everything else we do! But more important is that the fact that we—all of us—need to be saved from all this ugliness. It’s everywhere.

I suppose this is the place wherein I should insert Dostoevsky’s famous line “Beauty will save the world,” but the phrase, as Hans Urs von Balthasar might say, may be losing its vitality through overuse. If it finds it’s way onto a meme or a coffee mug, it’s end is no doubt at hand. It’s better, perhaps, to observe that poetry—real poetry—discloses wisdom to us through the beauty of language. Poetry is a sophianic art, which even the medium cannot compromise (as can happen with music) because the essence of poetry is not on the page or screen or other medium. It resides elsewhere.

The poet, artist, and filmmaker Jean Cocteau’s astonishing Orphic Trilogy, made over the course of thirty years (1930-1960) and starting with Blood of a Poet (surely in keeping with the Norse myth) stands as a meditation of sorts on this phenomenon. For Cocteau, the work of art takes on its own life after production by the artist, poet, or filmmaker. The creator simply gives it life (a sentence worth decades of theological-philosophical unpacking!). Cocteau, sadly, may have been one of the last popular figures to meditate upon the vocation of the poet in such a public way.

The poet, the maker, can accompany us on our wanderings and the wisdom and beauty that shine through the utterance can strengthen us on the adventure and save us from all this ugliness. For there is a higher vocation to which all of us are called.

With that, I drink your health with mead from my cellars, a gift from my bees.

A scene from 'Blood of a Poet'

Michael’s latest books are an edition of The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz and Transfiguration: Notes toward a Radical Catholic Reimagination of Everything. He can be reached at director@thecenterforsophiologicalstudies.com See also The Center for Sophiological Studies' available courses. Also check out the latest volume of Jesus the Imagination: The Garden.

The School for Wisdom: The Sophiological Hedge School

A reader named Eirik recently asked me what I would include in “the perfect reading list, the perfect Canon… to momentarily escape from the difficulties of the new dark age” (how well put!). Actually, I’ve been contemplating this for quite some time, and have been encouraged by John Milbank to do precisely that. In fact, just last week my wife and I were looking at a yurt that we might build on our farm which could function as both a kind of retreat house and place for teaching classes in Sophiology, gardening, beekeeping, and related subjects. So, inspired by this constellation of cosmic hints, below is a preliminary (and I mean preliminary) syllabus for such an undertaking. Please don’t take it as exhaustive.

Literature

Poetry is certainly the most sophiological of literary forms, so I think that’s the place to start. In my anthology The Heavenly Country I include about one-hundred pages of poetry—including selections from St. Francis of Assisi, St. Hildegard of Bingen, Dante, William Everson, David Jones, and Franz Wright among many others. That’s a good place to start, but for an in-depth study of sophiological poetry focused on single authors, perhaps the Metaphysical poets Henry Vaughan (1621-95) and Thomas Traherne (1637?-1674) and the too often neglected Eleanor Farjeon (1881-1965) are great authors to investigate. The German Romantic poet Novalis, especially his sublime Hymns to the Night, is also eminently rewarding as spiritual nourishment. And one can never go wrong with Wordsworth, whose sophiological intuitions are often clouded by anxieties of the encroaching darkness.

Mysticism

Modern Sophiology begins with the appearance the astounding Jacob Boehme (1575-1624) whose contribution to religious thinking has yet to be fully appreciated. Boehme can be a tremendously difficult read—he had to basically invent a language to convey his mystical insights—but his most accessible work is The Way to Christ. The writings of The Philadelphian Society, particularly those of Jane Lead, John Pordage, and Thomas Bromley, are also worthy, though, with the exception of Bromley’s The Way to the Sabbath of Rest, are notoriously hard to come by in printed form (though I think they can be found in electronic form for free, often in downloadable PDF format). St. Hildegard and St. Francis likewise offer much (notice how Sophiology is preeminently interdisciplinary: I’m afraid it can’t be helped).

illustration from Bromley's 'Way to the Sabbath of Rest'

Theology/Philosophy

Sophiology occupies a space between (metaxu) theology and philosophy (as well as between art and science) so it should come as no surprise that a rich source of Sophiology comes from philosophizing theologians and theologizing philosophers (like your humble servant). The great Russian sophiologists are a great place to start. Just off the top of my head, Vladimir Solovyov’s Russia and the Universal Church, Sergei Bulgakov’s The Bride of the Lamb, Pavel Florensky’s The Pillar and Ground of the Truth, and just about anything by Nikolai Berdyaev are full of inspiring sophiological insights. Likewise, the writings of contemporary thinkers John Milbank and William Desmond (and, to some degree, David Bentley Hart) also offer much in way of nourishment.

History

Without a doubt, the most sophiological historian currently working (though I doubt very much she would describe herself as such) is the biblical scholar Margaret Barker, who has single-handedly disclosed the sophiological content of the Bible. All of her work is worthy of consideration, but perhaps her most concentrated exposition of the Sophiology of the Old Testament is her study The Mother of the Lord, Volume I: The Lady in the Temple, published in 2012, although she has been a bit slow to come out with Volume II! Berdyaev’s The Meaning of History is also an important contribution to the way we think about history.

Science

Probably the fountainhead of a sophiological approach to science is J.W. von Goethe and his phenomenologically-informed “delicate empiricism”; and there is probably no better place to start than his Theory of Colours. But it’s important, I think, not only to read about what he has to say, but to actually undertake his demonstrations, at least some of them. Pierre Hadot’s The Veil of Isis and Mary Midgley’s Science as Salvation: A Modern Myth and Its Meaning are extremely provocative in their critiques of scientism, the religion of our age. Celia Deane Drumond’s work is also of great theoretical value, as are the contributions of Rupert Sheldrake, Brian Josephson, and David Bohm among many others. In addition, Rudolf Steiner’s profound and often prophetic lectures on agriculture, medicine, and beekeeping are essential reading in a program of sophiological science.

Sacred Mathematics and Geometry

A sophiological curriculum would be impoverished without a study of sacred mathematics and geometry including explorations of the Golden Ratio, the Fibonacci series, and the Platonic solids. Math and geometry disclose the beauty of Creation. A quote attributed to Werner Heisenberg concerning natural science is equally true of math and geometry: “The first gulp from the glass of natural sciences will turn you into an atheist, but at the bottom of the glass God is waiting for you.”

Music

In a sophiological approach to music, I could do no better than to point readers to the work of my dear friend, Therese Schroeder-Sheker in both of her careers as composer and recording artist and as the founder of music thanatology, a therapeutic care of the dying. Likewise, among many other possibilities in the vast history and vocabulary of music, I would point to the Anglican hymn tradition, many examples of which attend to the glory of God shining through Creation: “Morning Is Broken” and “Love Lives Again” with lyrics by the aforementioned Eleanor Farjeon and William Henry Draper’s “All Creatures of Our God and King,” the lyrics of which were adapted from St. Francis’s “Canticle of the Sun” provide only a few examples. There are many more!

Fine Arts

Any program of sophiological education would need to include experience in the fine arts—drawing, painting, movement, sculpture, instrumental and vocal music. The idea isn’t to become a professional; the idea is to become human.

Practical Arts

As with the fine arts, experience in the practical arts is a sine qua non in a sophiological education. Beekeeping, gardening, woodworking, handcrafts such as knitting and crochet, animal husbandry, and so forth—all examples of working with nature or the products of the natural world—allow one to participate in the world of Creation as almost nothing else does. Even more, this work allows one an experiential immersion in the worlds of life and death in ways we might not be aware of without a phenomenological presence to their realities.

I’ve written about much of this in my book, Transfiguration. But there is so much more to be said, so much more to be disclosed and experienced. This is the essence of Sophiology.

Steve Winwood’s version of Eleanor Farjeon’s “Love Lives Again”

Michael’s latest books are an edition of The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutz and Transfiguration: Notes toward a Radical Catholic Reimagination of Everything. He can be reached at director@thecenterforsophiologicalstudies.com See also The Center for Sophiological Studies' available courses. Also check out the latest volume of Jesus the Imagination: The Garden.

The Stolen World

Modernity has a unique gift—that of generating its opposite. In the sterile wake of the Scientific Revolution and the Enlightenment, the Romantic philosophers and poets, especially those of Germany and England, resisted the totalizing demands of “science” and “progress” and sought to restore a vision of human flourishing mindful of mystery, of nature, and of the imagination. In the bleak aftermath of industrialization and rapacious streams of Capitalism in the late 19th century, people turned to alternative methods of inquiry in movements as diverse as the Celtic Twilight, The Theosophical Society, the Occult Renaissance, and a renewed fascination with the World of Faerie. All of these various movements hide within themselves the often unspoken admission that modernity (and postmodernity) leaves much unspoken and more unaddressed.

We live in such times, times that are always-already happening.

In the early modern period, hermetic thinkers like Paracelsus, Jacob Boehme, Robert Fludd, as well as the Metaphysical poet Henry Vaughan and his twin brother, the Anglican priest and alchemist Thomas, resisted the abstractions of Descartes and the world he was creating (by ignoring half of it) that directly led to the disenchanted and dismal landscape we now inhabit. In the transition from the 18th to the 19th centuries, William Blake’s poetic railing against all forms of slavery—both of physical servitude as well as of mental and imaginative enthrallment—did much the same thing. They all may have been on the losing side of history, but they were not on the wrong side.

In the late 19th and into the 20th century, the Irish poet William Butler Yeats straddled all of these worlds. A folklorist, hermetic magician, mystic, and politician as well as a poet, Yeats upheld the value of what might be called the Great Tradition, which encompassed not only Neoplatonism and medieval sensibilities of the microcosm and the macrocosm, but also folk traditions he found in the Irish peasantry, particularly the belief in faerie and the magical properties of stones and plants. Indeed, the desire for a society more closely connected to the visible and palpable world as well as the invisible worlds that coincide and shine through it is characteristic of those facing the abyss of modernity’s false promises of progress. The Cottingley Fairies, for instance, became cause célèbre in face of the inhumanities and horrors of World War I (the 1997 film Fairy Tale: A True Story illustrates this beautifully), echoing the popularity of J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan just a decade earlier. All were responses to the crowning features of alienation and confusion that is modernity: “For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand,” in Yeats’s apt phrase.

We live in such a time.

Yet, it is still a time of hope, a time of creating a new world, reimagining where we are and examining how we arrived here. Unfortunately, not everyone in the reimagining business is interested in hope so much as in control, and I am as concerned as anyone about people in whom I have no trust (politicians for the most part) exerting power in a moment of distress. Nevertheless, I find great comfort in Yeats’s short meditation “The Body of Father Christian Rosencrux,” first published in 1895 and later gathered in the collection, Ideas of Good and Evil (and which I later published in The Heavenly Country):

The followers of the Father Christian Rosencrux, says the old tradition, wrapped his imperishable body in noble raiment and laid it under the house of their order, in a tomb containing the symbols of all things in heaven and earth, and in the waters under the earth, and set about him inextinguishable magical lamps, which burnt on generation after generation, until other students of the order came upon the tomb by chance. It seems to me that the imagination has had no very different history during the last two hundred years, but has been laid in a great tomb of criticism, and had set over it inextinguishable magical lamps of wisdom and romance, and has been altogether so nobly housed and apparelled that we have forgotten that its wizard lips are closed, or but opened for the complaining of some melancholy and ghostly voice. The ancients and the Elizabethans abandoned themselves to imagination as a woman abandons herself to love, and created great beings who made the people of this world seem but shadows, and great passions which made our loves and hatreds appear but ephemeral and trivial phantasies; but now it is not the great persons, or the great passions we imagine, which absorb us, for the persons and passions in our poems are mainly reflections our mirror has caught from older poems or from the life about us, but the wise comments we make upon them, the criticism of life we wring from their fortunes. Arthur and his Court are nothing, but the many-coloured lights that play about them are as beautiful as the lights from cathedral windows; Pompilia and Guido are but little, while the ever-recurring meditations and expositions which climax in the mouth of the Pope are among the wisest of the Christian age. I cannot get it out of my mind that this age of criticism is about to pass, and an age of imagination, of emotion, of moods, of revelation, about to come in its place; for certainly belief in a supersensual world is at hand again; and when the notion that we are “phantoms of the earth and water” has gone down the wind, we will trust our own being and all it desires to invent; and when the external world is no more the standard of reality, we will learn again that the great Passions are angels of God, and that to embody them “uncurbed in their eternal glory,” even in their labour for the ending of man’s peace and prosperity, is more than to comment, however wisely, upon the tendencies of our time, or to express the socialistic, or humanitarian, or other forces of our time, or even ‘to sum up’ our time, as the phrase is; for Art is a revelation, and not a criticism, and the life of the artist is in the old saying, “The wind bloweth where it listeth, and thou hearest the sound thereof, but canst not tell whence it cometh and whither it goeth; so is every one that is born of the spirit.”

Neither can I get it out of my mind that this age is about to pass, and an age of imagination, of emotion, of moods, of revelation, about to come in its place.

William Butler Yeats’s poem “The Stolen Child” set to music by Mike Scott of The Waterboys

Michael’s latest books are an edition of The Chymical Wedding of Christian Rosenkreutzand Transfiguration: Notes toward a Radical Catholic Reimagination of Everything. He can be reached at director@thecenterforsophiologicalstudies.com See also The Center for Sophiological Studies' available courses.