The Poetry of Exile—James Joyce, Rumi & Adrian Rice
"I will try to express myself in some mode of life or art as freely as I can and as wholly as I can, using for my defense the only arms I allow myself to use—silence, exile, and cunning."
On James Joyce’s birthday, today, I find myself revisiting his quote above and meditating on Exile — is it ever voluntary, do we ever outlive it, and what does it mean to be reborn in a new land and try to make Home, there? Can Literature become our Home, can love for a person act as a substitute for love of a country or homeland? Can the promise of a future displace the roots of memories? In this age of refugees and mass (forced) immigration, these reflections easily come to mind.
As I understand it, as both a poet and immigrant, exile is responsible for so much accidental poetry, with all the Longing it engenders (for an Ideal, perhaps, since we can never set foot in the same river, twice). After all, as artists, we have only to dip our brushes into our aching hearts to produce our art. Then, again, I suspect exile is also a metaphor for the human condition—constantly pining for Home. Here’s an echo from revered 13th-century Persian mystical poet, Jalaluddin al-Rumi:
The Song of the Reed
Listen to the reed flute and the tale it tells
How it sings of separation:
Ever since I was cut off fro my bed of reeds
Men and women have joined in my lament
I keep seeking other hearts, torn by separation,
To share my tale of painful longing
Everyone cut at the same root
Longing for the time they were joined
Out of curiosity, they drew close to me,
But none discovered my secret
My secret is woven into my lament
Yet no eyes have the power to see the soul
Fire, not wind makes this flute sing
If you don't have this fire, don't play.
(Version by Brad Gooch)
More recently, I’ve had the good luck to discover the powerful work of a modern Irish poet, who has since become a friend, Adrian Rice. Hear, below, his elegiac homesickness:
The Ghosts Remain
How sadly once familiar things seem strange –
How much changes for the worse, in our eyes,
Of the homes we love and leave. It’s as if
This is the only way to cope with why we left:
Returning to find them neglected or
Re-arranged; not surviving all that well
Without us. It means that we can tell
Ourselves how blessed we definitely are
To have left them trailing in our wake,
Sailing off for Elsewhere, waltzing with Fate.
But then, ghosts of ourselves and of old friends
Surface round us, smiling gently – they know
That our indifference is mostly show:
And know they will be with us when it ends.
—from 'The Moongate Sonnets', The Clock Flower, Press 53
(Image: Unsplash)
If you enjoyed this post, chances are you might also appreciate these musings on immigration: Stranded at the Border of Compassion—Singing Immigrant Blues in the USA https://steemit.com/writing/@yahialababidi/immigration-blues-in-the-usa
Happy Bloomsday, my dear new friend. I feel you, every word, yours and borrowed with such grace from others. Sadder now, but grateful too. There really is no forgetting, not of the kind any of us could live with, gypsies or not; travelers all. Through the many every changing rivers.
PS: I believe this is precisely the second time since I'd encountered your shimmering presence that you'd used my favorite Heraclitus' quote. It is exactly two times more than I'd heard it from anyone in over two decades. This thought amused me. In the thinking of it. :-)
Peace....
Thanks, for the understanding and smiles, kindred spirit. Y'know, I was thinking of you as I posted this, even thought it a companion piece to our conversation, in a way.
Ah, Heraclitus, perhaps one of the first aphorists, formally... And, what a great one this is: "...it's not the same river and he's not the same man.” I think of an echo, from Eliot's play, The Cocktail Party, re: human nature:
“We die to each other daily. What we know of other people is only our memory of the moments during which we knew them. And they have changed since then."
(Forgive the quotes, as always, they ricochet in this head).
Yes, there is no forgetting... Best to stop trying, pretending.
Sending soft smiles
What a great way to celebrate the birth of an iconic writer such as Joyce @yahialababidi. Serenaded by poets from the annals of the blockchain. Poets both old and new echoing out to the stars from this strange technological ledger, words recorded, immutable, as long as a node is running, an instance of the blockchain updating. It is one of the wonders of steemit for me, the reality that these words are graven, like a tablet in the etchings of code. :-)
Smiling to see how my serenade & good 'ole Steemit have you waxing poetic, dear @raj808. I think of an exchange between 2 literary heroes of mine, Susan Sontag writing a letter to Borges, 10 years after his death: "Since your literature was always placed under the sign of eternity, it doesn't seem too odd to be addressing a letter to you."
In the same way, the Great Dead are alive to me, my friend, and it does not seem odd to celebrate their birthday with other beloved poets.
(I try to not think too, too much of how 'these words are graven' as I find it intimating—rather, I'm sharing a diary entry with the world :)
"If you don't have this fire, don't play" . I feel this when I see how unhappy everyone is in the expectations they act out everyday. Its like kids on a playground, maybe all in a game of kickball. At first the game is fun, but then it starts to become a couple of kids bullying the others, dictating actions and changing the rules to twart gameplay or advancement . Why do the others keep playing? There are swings and slides ,a merry go round, and other fields to go and play a new game. But most of the kids will stay, unhappy, maybe trying to join the bullies so they won't be the target. Then the bell rings and they have wasted the whole recess. But no worry, right? Tomorrow another recess, and then another, and tomorrow will be different, surely. In my darkest hours, I see that tomorrow is not different, into infinity missing the point. And what is sadder than kids at recess, playing without The Fire :(
Thank you, for this. We must try and believe that tomorrow will be different, if we wish to make it so. 🙏🏼
We are never satisfied with what we have, the grass is always greener on the other side. We are always reaching back or into the future, always exploring, always questioning, trying, testing. We're a species that's curious hence our creativity as seen in science, the arts, sports... everything we touch.
I suppose that's why the journey is everything - including yearning itself.
Well said, @bhop42moro our curiosity and restlessness are blessing and curse.
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