Paradise Regained by Milton

Following on from Paradise Lost, Milton describes Man's redemption through Jesus Christ. Paradise Regained is comprised of four books and is essentially a lengthy dialogue between Christ and Satan who intends to tempt Jesus away from God. 

This epic poem lacks the introductory arguments that accompany each book of Paradise Lost however the brevity of the work means the reader can follow the story without explanatory summation. Milton posits many theological questions in this work all of which are answered through the character of Christ and voices of Heaven. The notion of Paradise being regained stems from Jesus' claim that He will lead man from sin and excess and instead teach him to be wealthy of morals and love for God. There is a modern message here in this work, that man should be less concerned with building reputation and wealth and instead live a life of moderation and piety to secure a place in heaven. 

Milton's language in this poem maintains its heroic tone but is arguably more subdued as the action is centered around the dialogue of Jesus and Satan. Nevertheless, the poem remains a worthy sequel to Milton's magnum opus, the fulfilling conclusion in which Satan is cast back to Hell after failing to tempt Jesus, leaves the reader both satisfied in terms of narrative structure but also morally resolved. Paradise is regained by Jesus' refusal of temptation and although man is not permitted to re-enter, he may aspire through a life of virtue to a paradisaical after-life. 

Milton is one of the greatest poets of the western canon, on par with Dante and Shakespeare. By reading these tales of Paradise the reader may experience their own vision of utopia, such is the vividness of Milton's narrative.

Paradise Lost by John Milton

After reading Dante's epic trilogy, The Divine Comedy, I was intrigued to read what is perhaps the English equivalent of the Christian epic poem, Paradise Lost. The poem itself is arranged into twelve books and chronicles the creation and eventual expulsion of Adam and Eve from the garden of Eden. Milton's retelling of the book of Genesis is so captivating in its heroic narrative that the reader may liken it to the very Scriptures themselves.
Milton's archaic language is similar to that of Shakespeare, yet in Paradise Lost there are a myriad religious references which the modern reader may have to look up in the footnotes. Similarly to Dante, Milton is keen to illustrate how Christian justice is meted out. However, Milton's impersonal narrative does not question religious doctrine in the same way that Dante as narrator of The Divine Comedy was oft to do, instead Milton uses Adam as an interlocutor to the Archangel to question whether man has ultimate responsibility over his actions. The crux of the poem revolves around the concept of 'felix culpa' or 'happy fault', meaning that Eve and Adam's tasting of the forbidden fruit may have led to man's exile from Eden but as a result man is given the chance to redeem himself and thus find a place in Heaven.
Each book of Paradise Lost begins with an argument, this is essentially a synopsis of the book and here Milton writes straightforward prose summaries that are then elaborated through the proceeding verse. The startling imagery at the beginning of the poem describes the battle between Heaven and Hell and the reader can enjoy a dramatic chain of events in which 'war open or understood must be resolved' (Book I i 661).
Although the story of the fall of man has been told ad infinitum, Milton's retelling of this Biblical tale is easily the most captivating and acutely allegorical of man's follies. This text serves as a standard for which all epic poems should be judged, and this is no exaggeration as Milton's flawlessly consistent tone is unmatched in its poetic beauty and narrative strength.

The Eclogues and The Georgics by Virgil

Continuing on with my reviews of classical poetry, I stumbled across the ancient Roman poet, Virgil. After reading The Divine Comedy I was intrigued to learn more of Dante's Spiritual Guide, Virgil.
The first point to mention about this poet's work is that any modern translation is only a rough adaptation of the original work due to the age of the text. Still, The Eclogues, a collection of ten pastoral poems prove an interestingly relevant read with their message of turning swords into ploughs. The odd phrasing and imagery of The Eclogues as well as cultural and religious references may throw the reader off at times, but Virgil's rustic narrative is relatively easy-going. The Eclogues are fairly short, only about two pages or so each, however their brevity is compensated by the poetic (and at times didactic) voice of the poet.
The Georgics are comprised of four books, each of about twenty or so pages. Virgil uses a combination of script-based dialogue and prose poetry to create a series of sketches denoting rural life in ancient Rome. The first book asserts Virgil's idea of agriculture over warfare and is summed up by the beautiful lines:

'Right and wrong are confused here,

There's so much war in the world.

Evil has so many faces, the plough so little.'

The second book includes Virgil's advice to farmers on wine, arboreal cultivation, yielding of fruits and the book concludes with a likening of farming to acts of warfare on the earth.

The third book of The Georgics addresses shepherds and horse owners as well as Virgil's warnings about diseases of livestock and the profound effect this has on the farmer.

The final book, and my personal favourite of Virgil's work, describes the maintenance of the beehive. The bees are likened to the Roman people, from the servile drones to the protected queen. Virgil satirises his native country and the notion of dulce et decorum est pro patria mori, sweetness is to be found through the cultivation of honey not through bloodshed or glory. Again Virgil describes diseases which may afflict the bees, only this time the image is extended into a story describing a character called Proteus who is angry at the god Orpheus for the loss of his bees. The story develops as Eurydice, a mythological character is killed by a snake bite. This peculiar narrative is an allegory perhaps for losses and victories experienced not by the soldier but by the farmer. 

Although Virgil's works may seem daunting and obtuse to the modern reader, there are present many socially relevant themes, such as that of subsistence farming and pacifism. As with most classical texts, the reader would be well advised to consult the footnotes and translations in the appendix, however,Virgil for the best part of The Eclogues and The Georgics maintains the common language of man.

The Divine Comedy, Book III: Paradiso by Dante

In this final installment of Dante's masterpiece trilogy, we witness the Pilgrim's ascent through the spheres of heaven to be reunited with his lover Beatrice. Having parted from his Guide, Virgil in Purgatory, Dante is guided by Beatrice through heaven. The spheres of paradise are planetary or celestial bodies, the first being the moon and the proceeding through the known solar system of the period. On each sphere, Dante describes beautiful glowing lights accompanied by angelic voices that recite hymns, most of which are in Latin, but the translations are provided in the notes. Unlike the previous two books there is markedly less action in Paradiso as Dante seems more inclined to describe the beatific, rapturous realms of Heaven. This may deter some readers who were expecting an action-packed denoument to the Divine Comedy, however, Dante retains his masterful narrative by using engaging discourse between narrator and character in each canto.
Perhaps the most striking images of Paradiso are the formations of a giant eagle composed of saints and other virtuous people that flies over the head of the Pilgrim and asks him questions; and also the celestial rose made of an assembly of angelic souls where in Dante is questioned about the origins of faith.
The theological themes of the Divine Comedy, derived from Dante's knowledge of Christianity and Aquinian philosophy, makes the work a vitally significant source for both religious and atheistic readers who may draw swifter conclusions from reading this work than sifting through the vast canon of Christian doctrine.
All in all, Paradiso is a fitting end to a brilliant trilogy. The touching reunion between Dante and his deceased lover, Beatrice makes for a delightful story and the wealth of religious allegory and analogy keeps the reader focussed on the intention of the text; to provide an insight into the unseen, the afterlife.

Sample chapters of my new novella

Here are the first two chapters of a short novel I am working on. (N.B: the lack of grammar and extended sentences is a nod to Marcel Proust/Beckett) Let me know what you think.


In a large garden barefoot on patio surrounded by tall flowers swaying on zephyrs lemon oil rubbed on callussed hands scent hits back of throat and moistens eyes step off dusty patio onto wet wet grass blades of grass mother nature's little hairs wet & fresh ground walking to a lemon tree that bears orange fruit sweet and earthly.
Outside, upside-down morning stepping on her foot by accident I said sorry and then she kissed me because I weigh nothing to her. We held hands and circumnavigated the garden treading on all the flowers with our bare feet the birds sang a strange aria. We settled in the middle of the garden on a large gray pedestal raising us only a few inches from the fresh ground. Rather than sunlight there was a yellowish smear in the sky, rather than clouds were smudges of thick white paste at irregular spurts across the horizon. With the birds flying above us and the aerial glow it all felt rather quaint and like it should be in English gardens. It was a shame the city adjacent never got a look in on our little garden.
Everybody in the city had jobs to do and roles to fill and sandwiches to tear from plastic wrapping. Here in the garden I could sit with this strange girl and be whatever I wanted to be. We could circumnavigate the garden and trample the flowers or we could drink from the stream ( more later) or we could eat the orange fruit of the lemon tree. People in the city never had time for things like this, subsistent on smog, gossip and takeaways, the city people got by from day to day but there was nothing to look forward to. I have only learnt of the citry through telepathic communication from my dear friend and city dweller, Proust ( more of him later)
Anyhow, the strange girl and I were sitting on the gray pedestal staring into each other's eyes, waiting for the colours to change. 'How come mother is in such pain?' I asked. She turned her eyes to the ground, colour draining from her doll-like face. I quickly dug my hand into my pocket and pulled out a lozenge of blue candy. 'Be careful' Proust echoed to me, inside my mind. I clutched her nose between my thumb and forefinger her lips involuntarily parted and with surgical precision I slid the lozenge onto her tongue and retracted my hands leaving her to suck on the ambrosial candy. After a few minutes the lozenge dissolved and she cleared her throat 'hrrph'. 'In answer to your question, my dear boy; in sickness ded junkies play in forest fires and yet you still suffer daily. Just wait 'till climate change, I'll store you downstairs in dead twentieth century thinkers left on the bus, you'll get your children soon'. Rather than submit to roaring passion and overwhelming lust, I went cold turkey, leaving her high and dry on the gray pedestal while I went for another one of my walks around the garden. I went down by the stream where I inhaled a cup of spiced tea, we could get tea from an old sewage pipe that leaked from the city into the garden. As I drank I thought about the wasted years of my life, that nothing could compensate for my loss of interest in all things and the treadmill of time I am doomed to walk 'till my liver backs up on this tea. Hardly the waters of the Lethe.
I then ventured into the deeper realms of thought; how I do not understand or appreciate any aspect of modern society from the last ten years or so. All those telepathic bus rides into the city, city, city blocked up in London and not permitted access to lovers and travellers and whereto now? Only way seems wombwards, to decay into an infantile state, rebuilding innocence and forgetting this whole horrible waiting game of life with inefficient one-time pleasures renewed daily with idiotic optimism. I am hamstrung in the human race, I am crippled and lame and countless other diseases. Only a sincere kiss from a like-minded Christmas-lover can save me from this terrible winter.
I found myself and left the stream, the strange girl was by the lemon tree standing reading Spenser's Faerie Queene; it's a biography of the unknown soldier's fairy godmother.
I have a brother in the city but more of him later. Well if you must know we talk only telepathically like Proust but only tedious things like death, coffee & lunch-break gossip.
Am I destined for the rest of my days to scratch this irrestible itch of curiosity? What is it that I must apologize for? What, what, what does it mean to be a pious character these days? Laying on sentiments to an invisible force, presenting to gods nosegays of compassion after fighting bloody wars? Find peace first, then find the correct authority.
I am a man of unstable convictions, that is my prinicples change with the current clime. Here in the garden it is the same situation evr'y day and night. I have explained to you my routines of circumnavigating and tea-drinking, but it is the strange girl who holds the majority of my life's essence. All my long life I have been entrusting my future into this girl hoping one day that she will reciprocate my devotion somehow. I am reaching the point now where it seems my efforts have been in vain, though we hold hands we do no tyet hold hearts. How I wish I could open the floodgates of my inner psyche, flooding her with my hidden thoughts, I would hold back nothing and nothing would remain. But alas, I am subjected to this pitiful existence in this Babylonic garden of unsurpassable beauty, to tread through fields of swaying daisies, buttercups whatever they are... how I wish I had one of those city relationships where couples vent their feelings to each other after a hard day's work at the office. How they share a two-bedroom apartment, how they send text messages to each other and make phone calls, arrive home at late hours, go drinking, go raving but most importantly get laid..Yes it seems like it would be quite preferable for a person in my situation, and a sad situation it is, to move into the city and become one of those awesome creatures known culturally as 'a citizen'. Oranges and Lemons say the bells of...

Phase 2: Into the City

I decided to cut my losses and leave the garden, to head out into the city and get some real action. It would be tough certainly to break the cycle; the routine I had developed from spending years in the garden with the strange girl. But I decided it was now or never, else I faced further fermentation of the spirit sitting in the garden slowly becoming part of the loamy soils day by day.
As the jaundiced sky lit up a sickly glow, I gathered myself from the midst of a frilly shrub, the strange girl was still deep in slumber, her birdcage chest swelling and subsiding with each languid breath. I realised it would be best not to wake her lest she launch into another tirade of how lucky I was to live in such a garden whereas others such as her brother never got such a good opportunity to live a wholesome life. No, I most certainly did not want to hear that old rhubarb, so I dashed across the garden, trampling countless flowers, only this would be the last time I would do such a thing. I scaled the tired brown wall that surrounds the garden, it is quite high but I am quite the athlete and so I made it over easy. I jumped down off the wall onto the cold hard concrete of reality. I quickly surveyed my surroundings and was almost surprised by what I saw. I received regular telepathic images of the City from Proust so I knew what to expect, however, what caught me off guard here was seeing actual real humans walking, talking and riding across the streets. Proust had only transmitted static images of the city, mere photographs, tableaux of typical city scenes. I was taken aback by a young man in a business suit strolling along whispering sweet nothings into his mobile phone which he cradled lovingly in his finely manicured hand. I always notice these lovely details about people, maybe I spent too long looking through the rose kaleidoscope we used to have in the garden. I headed to city hall, piecing together the static images in my mind into some kind of makeshift map. The air was thick with exhaust fumes, sweat and vittels. A smell that attacks your lungs and soon you no longer notice it,as the city draws you deeper into its sensory maze . After milling about the high street for twenty minutes or so, I realised it was time to settle down and find somewhere to rest and in the longer term, somewhere to live. I found a vacant apartment above a row of chainstore restrauants. I cut a quick deal with the landlord and put down a deposit. I had come into a windfall back in the garden when the seldom-seen caretaker who trimmed stray mosses passed away in his shed. 'Promise me you'll not give a red cent to charity' he said on his deathbed, an old sack of compost.Staying true to his word, I had come to the city to spoend money lavishly, the apartment was just the beginning. As I only had in my possession the clothes on my back and my money, I decided to hit the shops the next day and furnish my pad. I scoured the high street, flitting from shop to shop like a giddy moth, I returned to the apartment clutching my purchases and awaiting the delivery of several orders I had placed for objects to large to carry.

The Frogs by Aristophanes

This short two-act play by the ancient Greek composer, Aristophanes is a masterpiece of comic theatre. The Frogs is the story of Dionysius, the god of drama, searching for a poet to save the city of Athens which leads him and his slave, Xanthias into the underworld to seek out the best classical poet.
This notion, that 'a poet should teach a lesson, make people into better citizens' is used to comic effect by Aristophanes.The slapstick routines of the characters and the farcical portrayal of gods and their slaves makes for an enjoyable and entertaining read, unlike other intimidating classical texts, Aristophanes writes in the common language of man which maintains its humour to the present day.
As Dionysius is ferried into the underworld by Charon, there is a humourous encounter with the frog chorus who insist that Dionysius join in with their song, he refuses and is mocked. When he arrives in the underworld  he meets the ancient poets Euripides and Aeschylus and under the guidance of Pluto a contest is held to determine who is the greater poet. Each poet proceeds to mock each others work to win the audience's approval. The Frogs is both comical and critical of poetry, Aristophanes' masterful wit questions the value of common vulgar modern poetry, such as that of Euripides to the far-fetched epic tradition of Aeschylus. The latter is ultimately the victor of the contest and the play concludes with Dionysius escorting him back to Athens to save the city.
I chose to read this play simply on a whim, and my curiosity paid off as I believe Aristophanes' work is still relevant and capable of providing inspiration to the modern day audience.

The Divine Comedy, Book II: Purgatorio by Dante

The 33 cantos that form the second book of The Divine Comedy describe the realm of Purgatory, a place between Heaven and Hell. Continuing on from the first book, Inferno, the Pilgrim (Dante himself) is accompanied again by his Guide, the ancient poet Virgil. The pair start from the bottom of the Island of Purgatory and begin their climb to reach the Earthly Paradise.
Stylistically, Dante's impeccable use of imagery both common and divine, creates an almost religious experience of the sinner's ascent to Heaven. Each canto, though brief, deals with both the physical suffering of those trapped in Purgatory and also the inner thoughts of Dante as he goes in search of his deceased lover, Beatrice. Dante's innovative use of his native Italian language, which in the Penguin Classics translation is flawless, astounds the reader in its simplicity and vividness. Although it is perhaps inevitable that the modern reader will have to rely on explanatory notes regarding ancient Greek, Roman and Latin references, the plot and poetry of the work flows with such ease and cadence.
Throughout the poem, Dante encounters the various types of sinner, ranging from the Excommunicated (those who were expelled by the church, yet repented before their deaths) as well as various others such as the Envious, the Proud and the Avaricious. Each group of sinners is meted out a suitable punishment, the Envious are forced to stare down at the ground with rocks tied to their backs, the Proud have their eyes sewn shut with iron thread and the avaricious are denied food that appears before them. Dante meets several of his friends in Purgatory, each are amazed to see him in the flesh as only the dead are allowed to reside in Purgatory, but it is by special permission that Dante has gained access along with Virgil, his guide.
The religious themes of the Divine Comedy are portrayed with such engaging imagery that is a refreshing change to the wholly didactic method of other religious texts. Dante is both poet and story-teller but he is not a preacher, here in Purgatory he is merely a spectator among the dead, searching for his lover, Beatrice.
The poignant conclusion of Purgatorio involves the manifestation of Beatrice in the garden of Eden and Dante is lost for words. Yet enough has been told already, like the description of the beautiful woodland in the Earthly Paradise which was described by one critic as ' the sweetest passage of wood description that exists in literature'.
It is clear that Dante was a master of his art, yet he also created a perfect formula for the poetic trilogy: Hell, Purgatory and Heaven have been used ad infinitum since Dante's time as both metephorical and literal settings, but Dante's unique mastery of his language as well as his excellent storytelling makes The Divine Comedy one of the best epic poems in the literary canon.

NEW POEM: Capital Ode: for the Olympics 2012

In line with the myriad poetry competitions based on the 2012 Olympics, I have decided to pen my own ode to the forthcoming games. I ask that the reader take no offence to this work as it is merely a device to counteract the tide of insincere optimism that is churned out by the media ad nauseam. I wrote this poem in the style of The Odes by the ancient poet, Horace.
Enjoy:


For the Parnassus, 2012


A Capital Ode

The tax-supported pillars stand erect in the city,
Streamlined traffic flows to the cardium cynosure.
Amongst the exhausts of pedestrian critics, a spirit is heard:
'There, we are of the disenfranchised youth, glossed over by
Government.
The celebratons are top priority, nothing is given to us.'

It is not cynical to deride those jingoists,
Whose feigned joviality masks their missing identity.
The same is true of the cynics themselves,
 who barely believe in their own lives.
Behind the commrecial facade, lies the same problematic city
That is tinkered with by the Elected.
And when the decorations are torn down at the end,
The citizens will be reminded of their emptiness.
So, the pretence of victory and of showering both victor and victrix ludorum with golden praise, will be in vain.
The victory of unity has yet to be attained.

As a nation connects itself to a legacy
What is to be said of its own native history?
Integrity is not measured in revenue.
But to what lengths will a nation plunge to soar from its debts?
These coming games will reveal
Will commerce overtake the sincere?
I fear the race has already been run.

'The Panther' by Rainer Maria Rilke

After visiting my local library I chanced upon a book of poems by the Bohemian poet, Rilke. As I am currently on a mission to familiarize myself with as many poets as I can, I took out the book and read a few of the poems.
At first glance, I wasn't too impressed. Rilke's early poems seemed to be over-written Romantic depictions of nature and religion. Further on in the book though, I found a poem called 'The Panther' and when I read it I felt a certain kinship between me and Rilke. I felt as if I was looking at 'the thousand bars' of the panther's cage and I sympathized with the notion of 'no more world'.
Though the poem is but only four lines by three stanzas long and has a simple (predictable?) AB rhyme scheme, I felt this was sufficient in enabling close visualization of captivity and the emotive response. The poem itself was a turning point in Rilke's career, he was advised by his friend Ronin (the famous artist): 'to keep on looking at something till you're able to make a poem out of it'. This proved to be good advice as the poem feels like an eternity of incarceration with its comma-broken lines and Rilke has clearly stared long and hard at his subject, the panther in captivity to create a short haunting poem that has influenced a myriad Observationists.

You can find a copy of 'The Panther' in the Penguin Classics edition of Selected Poems by Rainer Maria Rilke