Exploring Life’s Seasons: A Folk-Country Ballad Inspiration

This past week found me felled by a viral affliction. Partaking neither in food nor drink, and scarcely participating in sensible cognition, I was confined to bed for more days than I care to recall. Yet, as the affliction ebbed and fragments of normalcy returned, I turned instinctively to the rejuvenating essays of Montaigne and Ralph Waldo Emerson—sources of intellectual nourishment I revisit whenever my spirit requires renewal.

Immersed in their timeless prose, I found myself drifting into a peculiar, lyrical state of mind. Suspended between the lingering exhaustion of illness and the clarity that accompanies recovery, I began reflecting on the seasons of life as illuminated by these great essayists. One restless night, as I contemplated the transformations we undergo from youth to old age, a thought emerged: our lives might be divided into three distinct seasons. The first is the boundless optimism of youth, the second the tempered cynicism of middle age, and the third, a kind of amiable reconciliation in later years.

Initially, I intended to encapsulate each season in a simple couplet, but inspiration soon carried me beyond that modest aim. Each season grew into a stanza, and those stanzas evolved into lyrics for a song. To the surprise of anyone familiar with my usual preferences, I envisioned the piece as a folk-country ballad—an entirely unexpected departure. Adding a touch of mischief, I deliberately included a non-grammatical line to irk a particular friend who finds such lapses intolerable to his Germanic sensibilities. With lyrics in hand, I collaborated with Udio.com to set the lyrics I had written to music. The result is a short composition titled Three Seasons We Live.

This song traces the journey of life through its phases: from the bright-eyed optimism of youth, through the shadows of midlife cynicism, and ultimately into the serenity of autumnal reflection. Its brevity is telling of my still-recovering stamina; I am reserving my energy for Vitruvian Man Unbound, a work that remains in need of substantial emendation, refining, revising, reorganizing—and likely, the painful excision of several dozen eight-line stanzas. I simply got carried away with the iambic pentameter once I got started.

In the meantime, as Monty Python would say, “And now for something completely different.” I invite you to listen to this heartfelt piece, an unexpected blend of introspection and melody, crafted during a week marked by convalescence and quiet inspiration.

Exploring Paul Klee’s Rosengarten and Emerson’s Philosophy

Paul Klee, Rose Garden (1920, 44, oil and pen on paper on cardboard, 49 cm x 42.5 cm), Städtische Galerie im Lenbachhaus and Kunstbau Munich, on permanent loan from the Gabriele Münter and Johannes Eichner Foundation, Munich, CC BY-NC-SA.

Periodically, I revisit the essays of Ralph Waldo Emerson. His writing style is sometimes jarring but just as often sublime (Henry James, in Partial Portraits (1888), observed that Emerson “never really mastered the art of composition” (p. 20) while also acknowledging that “he had frequently an exquisite eloquence” (p. 32)). The visit is always profitable.

While rereading Emerson’s perhaps most famous essay, Self-Reliance (1847), I found that after much of my recent reading focusing so heavily on things temporal, especially in the past month (e.g., Carlo Rovelli’s masterful works The Order of Time, Seven Brief Lessons on Physics, and Reality is Not What it Seems and Tom Siegfried’s lyrical The Number of the Heavens: A History of the Multiverse and the Quest to Understand the Cosmos), the following passage resonated in a manner it had not on previous readings of the essay:

“Man is timid and apologetic; he is no longer upright; he dares not say ‘I think,’ ‘I am,’ but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose. These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.”

Such an extraordinary observation and lesson—that there is no lamentation of the past, or anticipation of the future, only presence for the rose.

Lamentation, or regret more precisely, I have long regarded as the most useless of human endeavors, if it is more than rectification of error, amends to others, and lessons learned. Anticipation, or anxiety about the future, is also too often misplaced and misdirected energy. Yes, we can and should make plans, but when the energy and effort extend beyond the necessary such that the future becomes a thief of reason, serenity, and equanimity, we are perilously close to toppling over.

The image of the rose in the above essay also brought to mind, fortuitously or not, a wonderful piece of art, Rosengarten (1920) by Paul Klee, ensconced in Lenbachhaus, an art museum in Munich.

After reading Helmut Friedel and Annegret Hoberg’s words about Klee from Der Blaue Reiter im Lenbachhaus München (2007) at the Lenbachhaus website, I readily envision Rosengarten as exemplifying the same harmonious integration of presence and timelessness that Emerson attributes to the rose. Created in 1920, the painting merges organic and constructed forms into a rhythmic whole. Klee’s garden unfolds as a grid of irregular, red-tinged rectangles, delicately framed by black lines, with roses—symbols of growth and vitality—scattered like musical notes across the composition. These roses, like Emerson’s, embody the eternal present; their rounded, spiral blooms suggest continuous life and creation. For Klee, as for Emerson, nature’s rhythms transcend human constructs of time.

Interestingly, Klee drew inspiration from music, speaking of “cultural rhythms” in his Bauhaus writings and comparing his visual compositions to musical structures. In Rosengarten, he achieves a polyphony of visual forms, where the temporal becomes spatial, and each element contributes equally to the whole. Just as Emerson’s rose is “perfect in every moment of its existence,” Klee’s garden suggests an infinite unfolding—a melody extending endlessly beyond the canvas.

Both Emerson and Klee challenge us to inhabit the present, to find harmony in life’s rhythms, and to appreciate the completeness inherent in each moment. The rose, whether in prose or paint, invites us to rise above time.

Zbigniew Herbert’s Poem on Caligula’s Contempt: The Appointment of the Horse Incitatus

Gaius (Caligula). AD 37-41. Æ Sestertius. Photograph from CNG, Triton XXVII Auction, Lot 675.

The Roman Emperor Caligula, to demonstrate his contempt for the Roman Senate, appointed, by some accounts, his horse, Incitatus, to the Senate so that the horse could be made a consul of Rome. This ancient tale is called to mind by events of recent days, but not for reasons many may suspect. The following poem of Zbigniew Herbert (translated by Oriana Ivy) suggests that the horse had merits as an appointee which many of the recent suggested appointees do not.

***

Caligula Speaks

Among all the citizens of Rome

I loved only one

Incitatus–a horse

when he entered the Senate

the unstainable toga of his coat

gleamed in the midst

of purple-lined assassins

Incitatus possessed many merits

he never made speeches

had a stoic temperament

I think at night in the stable he read the philosophers

I loved him so much that one day I decided to crucify him

but his noble anatomy made it impossible

he accepted the honor of consulship with indifference

exercised authority in the best manner

that is not at all

he would not be persuaded toward a lasting liason

with my second wife Caesonia

thus unfortunately the lineage of centaur caesars

was not engendered

that’s why Rome fell

I determined to have him declared a god

but on the ninth day before the February calends

Cherea Cornelius Sabinus and the other fools

interfered with my pious plans

he accepted the news of my death with calm

was thrown out of the palace and condemned to exile

he bore this blow with dignity

he died without descendants

slaughtered by a thick-skinned butcher from Ancium

Tacitus is silent

about the posthumous fate of his meat

Mastering Language: Balancing Craft and Emotion in Poetry

As one who is new to crafting poetry, I am aware that my journey is one of growth, learning, and exploration. What follows is a discussion of the approach I have consciously adopted to refine my poems and avoid the criticisms and condemnations so freely voiced by those such as Wilde—“All bad poetry springs from genuine feeling. To be natural is to be obvious, and to be obvious is to be inartistic”—and Bloom, who remarked, “All bad poetry is sincere.”

The Art of Moving the Soul: My Approach to Poetry

My approach to poetry is grounded in a vision that goes beyond crafting words into aesthetically pleasing forms; it is about shaping language into something that moves the reader deeply. Poetry is, at its heart, the pursuit of connection, of reaching into the depths of an emotion and distilling it into a form that resonates universally. To accomplish this, I focus on balancing the technical mastery of language with an awareness of emotional truth—crafting a poem not to be admired for its sophistication but to stir something fundamental within its audience.

Mastery of Language and Artifice

A poet must be a master of language—but this mastery is more than an extensive vocabulary or a mastery of grammar. It encompasses an intimate understanding of all the artifices of language, from metaphor and rhythm to sound, cadence, and imagery. Each of these elements is a tool that, when used with precision and intention, can amplify the emotional power of a poem.

  • Metaphor and Symbolism are central to my work. I believe that a well-crafted metaphor can reveal truths that straightforward language cannot reach. Metaphor allows me to take the deeply personal and translate it into the universal. It transforms emotions into imagery that transcends the particularity of my own experiences, inviting readers to see their own reflections within the lines.
  • Sound and Rhythm are equally crucial. Poetry is inherently musical, and I strive to create an aural experience that mirrors the emotional landscape of the poem. The rhythm of a line, the careful use of alliteration or consonance, can evoke a specific mood—whether it be urgency, tranquility, or dissonance. This musicality helps bridge the gap between the reader’s intellect and their emotional response, drawing them into the essence of the poem.
  • Precision in Word Choice is another aspect of my approach. Every word in a poem must be chosen with purpose, as the weight each carries is amplified by the brevity and density of poetry. Words must be evocative, precise, and imbued with the potential to convey a spectrum of meanings. The challenge lies in selecting words that are capable of evoking the complexity of emotion I aim to convey, while still maintaining accessibility for the reader

What I Seek to Avoid

While I strive to use all the tools of language, I am cautious of letting craft overpower emotional authenticity. There is a risk in focusing too heavily on technical mastery—in creating something that is elaborate but lacks heart. A poem must not be an exercise in showing off the artifices of language; it must always remain rooted in emotional truth.

Additionally, I seek to also avoid the temptation to use language that is obscure simply for the sake of complexity. My aim is to create poetry that is layered and nuanced but still accessible. Complexity should be employed to deepen meaning, not to obfuscate it. When a poem becomes a puzzle that requires solving, it runs the risk of alienating readers, making them admire or – more likely – curse the poet’s intellect rather than inviting them to connect with the poem’s core. To me, poetry should not be a performance to impress but a bridge to connect—to take a feeling, a moment, and expand it in such a way that it becomes a shared experience.

Lessons from Rhetoric: Demosthenes vs. Cicero

In approaching poetry, I often reflect on an anecdote I read years ago about two of history’s great orators: Demosthenes and Cicero. Cicero was celebrated for his eloquence—when he spoke, people said, “What a fine orator.” His speeches were technically perfect, full of rhetorical sophistication, and they garnered admiration for their artful construction. But when Demosthenes spoke, people said, “Let us march.” Demosthenes moved his audience to action; his speeches were not simply admired, they were felt deeply, and they inspired his audience to do something.

This comparison informs my approach to poetry. While I value the craft—the meter, the rhythm, the careful construction of lines—I strive for something more. I want my poems to move the reader, to evoke a response that goes beyond admiration for a well-crafted verse. I want them to feel the emotional urgency behind the words, to resonate with the core truth of the poem, and perhaps even to be stirred to reflect, to act, or to see the world a little differently. My goal is to use the artifice of language not as an end but as a means—to make my words sing, not just for beauty’s sake but for the sake of the emotion and meaning that lie beneath.

Craft and Emotional Truth in Harmony

Ultimately, my approach to poetry is about finding the balance between mastery of language and emotional authenticity. The artifices of language—metaphor, rhythm, sound, form—are powerful tools, but they must be used with intention. They must serve the deeper purpose of the poem, which is to capture and convey something genuine about the human experience. The artifice should be invisible, or at least secondary, to the emotional impact.

Like Demosthenes, I wish to create not just a polished, skillful verse but something that speaks directly to the heart of the reader, that moves them. The art of poetry, to me, is not in the cleverness of its construction, but in its ability to resonate—to create a moment of connection, a shared breath, a glimpse into the universal truths that bind us all.

I hope that my poetry steadily improves and meets the standards I articulated above, growing in emotional depth, linguistic mastery, and its ability to touch readers in meaningful ways.

A Reflective Meditation on Illuminated Shadows

Photograph from Cleveland Public Power, demonstrating the illuminating power of its new LED technology streetlights. Over 61,000 streetlights will soon have the energy saving bulbs in Cleveland, Ohio.

Contemplate the glow of the streetlight, artificially illuminating the shadows.

The glow of the streetlight, casting its harsh, artificial light against the natural darkness, creates a curious interplay between illumination and shadow. It’s a modern torch, piercing through the obscurity with a steady, almost indifferent beam, not a light of the sun or stars but a product of human hands. Its glow is sterile, pale compared to the warm light of day, yet it transforms the night in ways that natural light cannot.

The streetlight becomes a kind of overseer, dictating where shadows may fall, altering the natural order of things. Instead of the fluid, ever-changing dance of sunlight, this light is fixed, harshly delineating the boundaries between what is seen and what is hidden. The shadows it creates are sharper, more angular, as though the streetlight has imposed a new geometry upon the world.

Beneath this glow, the familiar takes on a different character—edges that fade into indistinct darkness during the day now stand out in sharp relief. The street, the buildings, the trees, all are transformed into figures on a stage, the artificial light giving them a sense of isolation, as if they exist alone in a frozen moment. Yet, despite its clarity, the light itself is never quite enough to banish the shadows. It merely pushes them into different corners, leaving a quiet, lurking presence at the edge of perception.

In this artificial illumination, there is a tension: the light reveals, but incompletely, allowing shadow and light to entwine in an unresolved embrace. The streetlight does not offer the warmth or guidance of natural light, but rather a cold certainty, making the shadows seem more distant, more impenetrable, perhaps even more alive. It’s a glow that brings clarity to what is immediate but deepens the mystery of what lies beyond.