I have written here of the approaching birth of a son, and now he has arrived. This morning I read him the first page of Walden, and he picked up on HDT’s wit and humor immediately. I assume, anyway.
In honor of this little human I have been trying to breathe the air of that most divine energy and compose a few lines worthy of his birth, his mother’s strength and bravery, and our new family. But I am not a poet, and when I try to capture cacophony of primal warblings and beautiful nature that I have heard these past days, I find I miswrite the poem with muddled, half-awake mutterings.
Such it is that I turn to a man of more delicate ear. Here is RW Emerson, on poetry.
“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 and are quite indifferent modes of the divine energy. Words are also actions, and actions are a kind of words.”