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February 21, 2017

For poetry was all written before time was, and whenever we are so finely organized that we can penetrate into that region where the air is music, we hear those primal warblings, and attempt to write them down, but we lose ever and anon a word, or a verse, and substitute something of our own, and thus miswrite the poem. The men of more delicate ear write down these cadences more faithfully, and these transcripts, though imperfect, become the songs of the nations. For nature is as truly beautiful as it is good, or as it is reasonable, and must as much appear, as it must be done, or be known. Words and deeds are quite indifferent modes of the divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words. 

The sign and credentials of the poet are, that he announces that which no man foretold. He is the true and only doctor; he knows and tells; he is the only teller of news, for he was present and privy to the appearance which he describes. He is a beholder of ideas, and an utterer...

May 12, 2016


Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, 

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— 

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, 

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. 

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— 

            Only this and nothing more.” 

 

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; 

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. 

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow 

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— 

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— 

            Nameless here for evermore. 

 

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain 

Thrilled me—filled me w...

May 7, 2016

Helen, thy beauty is to me 

   Like those Nicéan barks of yore, 

That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, 

   The weary, way-worn wanderer bore 

   To his own native shore. 

 

On desperate seas long wont to roam, 

   Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, 

Thy Naiad airs have brought me home 

   To the glory that was Greece,       

   And the grandeur that was Rome. 

 

Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche 

   How statue-like I see thee stand, 

The agate lamp within thy hand! 

   Ah, Psyche, from the regions which 

   Are Holy-Land! 

 

 

March 19, 2016

The functions of the poetical faculty are twofold: by one it creates new materials of knowledge, and power, and pleasure; by the other it engenders in the mind a desire to reproduce and arrange them according to a certain rhythm and order which may be called the beautiful and the good. The cultivation of poetry is never more to be desired than at periods when, from an excess of the selfish and calculating principle, the accumulation of the materials of external life exceed the quantity of the power of assimilating them to the internal laws of human nature. The body has then become too unwidely for that which animates it.  

 

  Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and circumference of knowledge; it is that which comprehends all science, and that to which all science must be referred. It is at the same time the root and blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that from which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that which, if blighted, denies the fruit a...

November 21, 2015

The whole objection, however, of the immorality of poetry rests upon a misconception of the manner in which poetry acts to produce the moral improvement of man. Ethical science arranges the elements which poetry has created, and propounds schemes and proposes examples of civil and domestic life: nor is it for want of admirable doctrines that men hate, and despise, and censure, and deceive, and subjugate one another. But poetry acts in another and diviner manner. It awakens and enlarges the mind itself by rendering it the receptacle of a thousand unapprehended combinations of thought. Poetry lifts the veil from the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if they were not familiar; it reproduces all that it represents, and the impersonations clothed in its Elysian light stand thenceforward in the minds of those who have once contemplated them, as memorials of that gentle and exalted content which extends itself over all thoughts and actions with which it coexists. Th...

October 24, 2015

Part Four: Time and Eternity

X

 

I DIED for beauty, but was scarce

Adjusted in the tomb,

When one who died for truth was lain

In an adjoining room.

  

He questioned softly why I failed?

“For beauty,” I replied.

“And I for truth,—the two are one;

We brethren are,” he said.

  

And so, as kinsmen met a night,

We talked between the rooms,      

Until the moss had reached our lips,

And covered up our names.
 

Emily Dickinson, without doubt, earned her title as one of the Masters of Literature. From the hundreds of poems she wrote throughout her life, even if she stored them secret in her desk drawer, comes the life of poetry, the spirit of art, the inspiration of writing, and the eternal aspects of Beauty and Truth.

“I died for beauty” is poem full of spiritual, artistic, and humanistic allegories which transcend time, space, and even death. Although there are many interpretations and analysis for this poem, the words contain a deeper meaning that will always reflect to the...

July 3, 2015

It is hard to explain how alchemy, the philosopher’s stone, and the spiritual aspects of our human characteristics reflect themselves through Art. Music is primarily the essence of that, which we may symbolize and name it as “Beauty,” or “Truth” per se. However, it is because of Literature that we begin to understand it. It is because of Literature that we globally understand symbols of communication (that we call “words”) to perceive it, and share it. And it is through those words that we shade or light on that which is always with us, inside us, outside us, through us, and beyond us.
 

It was when Paul Verlaine was a young boy that he read Charles Baudelaire’ Les Fleurs de Mal and inspired him to write, consequently joining the other Parnassian poets. Maybe it takes such a vivid, dark poem like this to truly inspire the Reader in one way…or another…

 


 

"The Flowers of Evil"

By Charles Baudelaire
 

Infatuation, sadism, lust, avarice
possess our...

May 28, 2015

Listen . . . Do you hear that?

Perhaps it’s hard to hear with all those cars running by, or with all the rumbling and grumbling the factories make when you pass by. But the music of sound is always playing for those who listen.

 

William Wordsworth (1770-1850) may be one of the best icons to represent the Romantic Movement. With the Lyrical Ballads composed with his friend Samuel Coleridge and many marvelous poems he wrote throughout his life, Wordsworth proves to be a Master of Literature as he presents us beauty and truth.

 

The Masters of Literature are not only masters by their control, wisdom and connectivity with words; they speak the truth through them. And I'm not only talking about facts, ideas, political statements, or cultural representations, I'm talking about all of them mixed together inside the writer's mind, like a fruit punch made of the soul's most natural fruits, by which makes the artist who he/she truly is. Wordsworth (As a true Romantic) described to write his poems...

May 17, 2015

Following the Parnassian French poets of the late 19th century, comes one named Paul Verlaine, whose writings lead to inspire and shape the twentieth-century free verse. Hereby I shall present to you “The Art of Poetry”
 

The Art of Poetry

by Paul Verlaine
 

You must have music first of all,
and for that a rhythm uneven is best.
vague in the air and soluble,
with nothing heavy and nothing at rest.

 

You must not scorn to do some wrong
in choosing the words to fill your lines:
nothing more dear than the tipsy song
where the Undefined and Exact combine.

 

It is veiled and lovely eye,
The full noon quivering with light;
it is, in cool of an autumn sky,
the blue confusion of stars at night!

 

Never the Color, always the Shade,
always the nuance is supreme!
Only by shade is the trothal made
between the flue and horn, of dream with dream!

 

Epigram’s an assassin! Keep
away from him, fierce Wit, and vicious
laughter makes the Azure keep,
and from all that garlic vulgar dishes!

 

...

May 16, 2015

Soft, smooth surface like milk made flesh… Airy sway of millions and trillions of strings as if the wind were sweetly kissing the meadow…two dreamlike galaxies which emphasize a soaring brilliance into a charming Eden of delight…and a precious melodic voice so innocent, so mysterious and natural in sound that graces God’s name for such creation in the perfect time sung.

 

Symbolism is a very visual writing technique, it makes you appreciate that in a more vivid matter; that which is not named but felt by the letters that fly around and describe it. Stepháne Mallarmé (mahl-ahr-may’) presents a more elaborated approach of this, in one of his interviews:

“The Evolution of Literature;” by Jules Huret (a French journalist) in 1891:

 

“As far as content is concerned,” Mallarmé answered, “I feel that the young poets are nearer than the Parnassians to the poetic ideal. The latter still treat their subjects as the hold philosophers and orators did: that is, they pr...

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Art, Music & Literature:
Facundo Raganato

Artistic Photographs of The Author:
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