To assimilate him [William Blake] to the men of the ending eighteenth century-would be
absurd. I will not do it: all those conceited and wordy and stuffy little
characters! As for the other romantics: how feeble and hysterical their
inspirations seem next to the tremendously genuine and spiritual fire of
William Blake. Even Coleridge, in the rare moments when his imagination
struck the pitch of true creativeness, was still only an artist, an imaginer, not
a seer; a maker, but not a prophet.
Perhaps all the great romantics were capable of putting words together
more sensibly than Blake, and yet he, with all his mistakes of spelling,
turned out the greater poet, because his was the deeper and more solid
inspiration. He wrote better poetry when he was twelve than Shelley wrote
in his whole life. And it was because at twelve he had already seen, I think,
Elias, standing under a tree in the fields south of London.
It was Blake’s problem to try and adjust himself to a society that
understood neither him nor his kind of faith and love. More than once,
smug and inferior minds conceived it to be their duty to take this man Blake
in hand and direct and form him, to try and canalize what they recognized
as “talent” in some kind of a conventional channel. And always this meant
the cold and heartless disparagement of all that was vital and real to him in
art and in faith. There were years of all kinds of petty persecution, from
many different quarters, until finally Blake parted from his would-be
patrons, and gave up all hope of an alliance with a world that thought he
was crazy, and went his own way.
It was when he did this, and settled down as an engraver for good, that
the Prophetic Books were no longer necessary. In the latter part of his life,
having discovered Dante, he came in contact, through him, with
Catholicism, which he described as the only religion that really taught the
love of God, and his last years were relatively full of peace. He never seems
to have felt any desire to hunt out a priest in the England where Catholicism
was still practically outlawed: but he died with a blazing face and great
songs of joy bursting from his heart.
As Blake worked himself into my system, I became more and more
conscious of the necessity of a vital faith, and the total unreality and
unsubstantiality of the dead, selfish rationalism which had been freezing my
mind and will for the last seven years. By the time the summer was over, I
was to become conscious of the fact that the only way to live was to live in
a world that was charged with the presence and reality of God.
Merton is a highly passionate man. When something takes hold of him (or he takes hold of something), it/he doesn't let go. Ever. This time, William Blake has led Merton to Dante, who in turn led Blake (and Merton) to God. Suddenly, God is the very air that Merton breathes. God becomes his oxygen.
There come times like that in most people's lives, I think. When some kind of veil is torn away, and everything becomes clear for a little while. If you pay attention, this vision will make a difference. Change your life forever, if you let it.
For the past week, I've been working, grading exams, and watching two movies late into the night: The Man Who Invented Christmas and Greta Gerwig's new adaptation of Little Women. Both of these films are about writing. The former is about Charles Dickens writing A Christmas Carol. The latter is about Jo March writing the book Little Women. They are both about moments of clear vision, when an artist is suddenly touched by inspiration.
This night, I want to write about something that changed my life (and my art) forever. Twenty years ago, my wife and I went to bed on December 3. My wife's suitcase was packed, along with a brand new diaper bag stuffed with baby shower outfits. Early on the morning of December 4, we reported to the hospital, and my wife, who was, as the Bible says, great with child, underwent induction. On December 5, 2020, at 7:29 a.m., my daughter was born.
The veil was torn, and I became a better person. Irrevocably altered. I gazed into the face of love.
In some ways, I think that's what all moments of inspiration are about: love. You fall in love with something. A book. Poem. Writer. Idea. Person. God. And you are never the same again.
My daughter revised me. My poem was headed toward "miles to go before I sleep," and two decades ago, it took a turn. It has been turning ever since. I'm not sure what the ending line will be now. Knowing my daughter, it will be unexpected and wonderful. Something that leaves me breathless with its beauty.
I give thanks for my revised life, and for the reviser. She has helped me through many difficult, dark times, and she fills me with light and hope.
For the miracle of my daughter, on the eve of her twentieth birthday, Saint Marty gives thanks.
And a poem . . .
Pointe
by: Martin Achatz
They're wrecked after a year,
each second my daughter spent
on her toes creased
into the wood box
with sweat and blister,
her first steps, panicked
lurches across the dance floor,
as if she were on the deck
of the Titanic as it listed,
snapped, sent her skidding
to the black Atlantic.
I wanted to save her
from gravity, have her grip
my fingers the way she did
as a baby, tethered to me
like a lifeboat, each move
an exercise in balance,
the ground beneath her feet
as unstable as lake ice
in May. I still have her
first shoes, small, white
as bleached driftwood.
They're reminders of how
she once depended on me
to rescue her from each
drowning stumble. The pink
slippers sit on her dresser now
along with stones she found
on the shores of Superior,
a wrist band for treading water
ten minutes longer than anyone
else at Bible camp last summer,
and medals, ribbons for ballet.
If I close my eyes, I see her,
mid-air or mid-water,
clumsy one-year-old,
graceful almost teen,
her limbs stretched
toward me or away,
wanting to be scooped up, saved,
or wanting to strike out
for swifter currents,
higher leaps,
deeper, bluer waters.
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