So I’m going with Dylan Thomas’s poem “Fern Hill” instead. Its lyricism conjures the innocence of youth that cannot imagine its own end. That’s kind of what innocence is: a brilliantly perfect inability to envision its own conclusion.
Thomas’s second stanza begins,
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means
We are “young once only” and we play and are golden. We all see this in the delight of children and also in the mesmerizing natural panoramas that remind me of a summer evening on a hilltop in Maine. It’s summer vacation all the time. It evokes the feeling that I think that character from Friday Night Lights has in mind when he says, “My heart is full.”
In a way, the ending of “Fern Hill” brings me to what I love so much about Don Quixote and the scene I mentioned a minute ago. Here I am, a middle-aged guy spending every day with teenagers, hoping to share and discuss with them truths about the human condition and our relationships and tragedy and beauty while they, children who are “green and golden” in their “heedless ways,” in their Eden of hope and vigor, start to gain insight about how Time holds them. They are looking toward college and work and beyond, and often they worry and fear, and although for many the curiosity of youth is sputtering, its flame is not out.
Thomas:
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that Time would take me
Up to the swallow-thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
Whenever I read “Fern Hill,” and whenever I think of Don Quixote, I do so from the Experience side of the divide between innocence and experience. I peer longingly over at innocence, and I wish for it…and I feel it as if it were still here. It is the wonder of the poem, and of art, that in its presence we can be both green and dying.
]]>I could do several Humanities Hours out of Humanities Moments – there are so many passages and ideas that have animated my imagination. I first find myself drawn to the heart-wrenching climax of Cervantes’s novel Don Quixote, but to describe that would be to reveal the ending, which I would feel queasy doing.
So I’m going with Dylan Thomas’s poem “Fern Hill” instead. Its lyricism conjures the innocence of youth that cannot imagine its own end. That’s kind of what innocence is: a brilliantly perfect inability to envision its own conclusion.
Thomas’s second stanza begins,
And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
In the sun that is young once only,
Time let me play and be
Golden in the mercy of his means
We are “young once only” and we play and are golden. We all see this in the delight of children and also in the mesmerizing natural panoramas that remind me of a summer evening on a hilltop in Maine. It’s summer vacation all the time. It evokes the feeling that I think that character from Friday Night Lights has in mind when he says, “My heart is full.”
In a way, the ending of “Fern Hill” brings me to what I love so much about Don Quixote and the scene I mentioned a minute ago. Here I am, a middle-aged guy spending every day with teenagers, hoping to share and discuss with them truths about the human condition and our relationships and tragedy and beauty while they, children who are “green and golden” in their “heedless ways,” in their Eden of hope and vigor, start to gain insight about how Time holds them. They are looking toward college and work and beyond, and often they worry and fear, and although for many the curiosity of youth is sputtering, its flame is not out.
Thomas:
Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that Time would take me
Up to the swallow-thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
In the moon that is always rising,
Nor that riding to sleep
I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
Time held me green and dying
Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
Whenever I read “Fern Hill,” and whenever I think of Don Quixote, I do so from the Experience side of the divide between innocence and experience. I peer longingly over at innocence, and I wish for it…and I feel it as if it were still here. It is the wonder of the poem, and of art, that in its presence we can be both green and dying.
My beloved Latin teacher Dr. Fiveash soon introduced me to “Helen,” a play by the Greek playwright Euripides. The Trojan War is said to have started when Helen runs away to Troy with a prince named Paris. But in “Helen,” the story is turned on its head; she never goes to Troy. Instead, a cloud that resembles her was placed at Troy while the real Helen lived in Egypt and wondered when her husband could come to pick her up. I realized the story of the war is so complex that even the most fundamental aspects can be reinterpreted.
The beautiful thing about the humanities is that the search for truth need not be a matter of “right” or “wrong” — there is room both for the mastery of facts as well as for creativity and innovation. Through Euripides’ play, I realized that the story of the war really belongs to everyone; if even the ancient Greeks had creative and radically different versions, that frees up modern classicists to similarly transcend the traditional narrative. This experience invited me into the field because I could finally see myself doing something new within the discipline, and I was eager to be part of a long tradition of reinterpreting the story in a way that resonated with my own experiences. In the years that followed, I have written poetry about mythological subjects, and the process of writing about mythology helped me see connections across the disciplines of the humanities. From history to literature and art to music, the myths of ancient Greece continue to be reinvented and Euripides’ imagination has passed on to a new generation of artists, scholars, and thinkers.
While taking Latin in high school, I became fascinated by the story of the Trojan War. I loved the interconnected perspectives of soldiers, royalty, deities, and ordinary people. The family trees and catalogues of soldiers seemed endless, and I was thrilled to discover that each individual inspired stories, plays, and art. As I began to master the intricacies of the myths, I prided myself on recognizing the differences between movies like “Troy” or Disney’s “Hercules” and the original story. I watched eagerly to notice what they got wrong or right about the myth.
My beloved Latin teacher Dr. Fiveash soon introduced me to “Helen,” a play by the Greek playwright Euripides. The Trojan War is said to have started when Helen runs away to Troy with a prince named Paris. But in “Helen,” the story is turned on its head; she never goes to Troy. Instead, a cloud that resembles her was placed at Troy while the real Helen lived in Egypt and wondered when her husband could come to pick her up. I realized the story of the war is so complex that even the most fundamental aspects can be reinterpreted.
The beautiful thing about the humanities is that the search for truth need not be a matter of “right” or “wrong” — there is room both for the mastery of facts as well as for creativity and innovation. Through Euripides’ play, I realized that the story of the war really belongs to everyone; if even the ancient Greeks had creative and radically different versions, that frees up modern classicists to similarly transcend the traditional narrative. This experience invited me into the field because I could finally see myself doing something new within the discipline, and I was eager to be part of a long tradition of reinterpreting the story in a way that resonated with my own experiences. In the years that followed, I have written poetry about mythological subjects, and the process of writing about mythology helped me see connections across the disciplines of the humanities. From history to literature and art to music, the myths of ancient Greece continue to be reinvented and Euripides’ imagination has passed on to a new generation of artists, scholars, and thinkers.
He notes that at the time he encountered the character he and Stephen were about the same age and describes how he identified his own struggles as a young Southerner with those Dedalus experiences as a young Irishman. He goes on to discuss how the figure of Dedalus has become iconic and is used repeatedly to help discuss the struggles of young artistic spirits.
Beyond personally identifying with one of Joyce’s most well-known character, William Ferris points out how “Joyce keeps renewing his presence in our lives.” The continued circulation and appreciation of literature helps us draw parallels between our experiences and concerns and those of others, across time, national boundaries, and other differences.
In this excerpt from a conversation with William Ferris, former Chairman of the National Endowment of the Humanities, he shares how he came to see himself in Stephen Dedalus, the protagonist of James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, who declares that he will fly from the nets of “nationality, language, and religion.”
He notes that at the time he encountered the character he and Stephen were about the same age and describes how he identified his own struggles as a young Southerner with those Dedalus experiences as a young Irishman. He goes on to discuss how the figure of Dedalus has become iconic and is used repeatedly to help discuss the struggles of young artistic spirits.
Beyond personally identifying with one of Joyce’s most well-known character, William Ferris points out how “Joyce keeps renewing his presence in our lives.” The continued circulation and appreciation of literature helps us draw parallels between our experiences and concerns and those of others, across time, national boundaries, and other differences.
My humanities moment is a memory I have—I figured out, I think I was 11, maybe 10 years old, and I went to this store that was like a Target store of its time, it was just a few blocks from my house, called Treasure City. It’s so cool it was called that because I did find musical treasures there in their little record department in the back.
I remember the moment very clearly. I went to Treasure City, I bought a 45 by The Beatles of the song “Nowhere Man,” and I went home, and I remember it was really sunny out, the window was open in front of my dad’s stereo where I was going to play the 45. Then I put on this song on the stereo and was sitting there alone listening to it for the first time.
I had a lot of feelings from it. First of all, it was really cool and sort of magical sounding. I think it might have been the first time I thought about electric guitars and the sound of them instead of just hearing music as a whole. I really remember the sound of the guitars on it. I had not yet picked up an electric instrument, I think it was probably a year before I would start playing electric bass. That really sticks in my head, thinking about the guitars on it.
Then just the vocal and the message, this idea of the nowhere man who makes all his nowhere plans for nobody, and he knows not where he’s going. Then saying, “Isn’t he a bit like you and me?” To me the song felt like it was about humanity, that I was the nowhere man and if I just realized it the world could be at my command. Or from one of the other sections—it’s such a human thing to say—he says, “Nowhere man, don’t worry. Take your time, don’t hurry. Leave it all till somebody else lends you a hand.” Just that idea as well made me feel like it was a very hopeful thing, that you can get help, and that’s okay.
I understand it in a deeper way now looking back, and I’ve learned a little bit about the song. I didn’t know anything about them really at the time. When “Nowhere Man” came out I was still, I think, only about a year and a half old. I was born in October of 1964. I’ve read since that it was actually the first Beatles song that wasn’t just a relationship song, but explored a different kind of landscape. To me when I see it now, it also is a beautiful piece of art from John Lennon, starting to express really personal kinds of feelings. Even though it makes the nowhere man this focus, all this humanity is coming out of John. And it's a beautiful—it’s like modern art compared to a lot of the things around its same time.
It was really human. It was really special to me. I think it gave me the feeling like I could be—first of all, all of us are kind of nobody, “isn’t he a bit like you and me?” And that even if you feel alone or you feel like you’re nowhere, the world is there and you can go and take command of your life. Even if you can’t do that, you take your time and you let other people help you. It does stay in my mind like an early experience that was a more grown up thing I was listening to, making it into my consciousness.
Across generations, cultural divides, venues, and artistic voices, the power of lyric poetry to capture and convey powerful feeling is undeniable. And when poetry is performed and embodied, “brought to life” if you will, its capacity to create change is palpable.
]]>Thomas Scherer describes two related encounters which speak to the power of hearing poetry performed aloud. The first is an explanatory talk and poetry reading by the great literary scholar M. H. Abrams at the National Humanities Center; the second is hearing Lin-Manuel Miranda discuss his award-winning rap musical, Hamilton.
Across generations, cultural divides, venues, and artistic voices, the power of lyric poetry to capture and convey powerful feeling is undeniable. And when poetry is performed and embodied, “brought to life” if you will, its capacity to create change is palpable.