THE MASTERSINGER SINGS ESTATIC SUNSHINE
All poetic art and poeticizing is nothing but
interpreting true dreams.
~Hans
Sachs, Die Meistersinger
Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate/abandon
all hope, you who enter here
~Dante, Canto
III, line 9
A certain sadness, sunshine
whose aesthetic world intoxicated, dreams
night language sunshine shed.
Intoxication thus benighted
ecstatic is the head
struck by Apollon.
©2014 Delighted Anatomy stephanie
pope mythopoetry.com
#ohjDailyWords #ohj #mythopoetic estatic, sunshine
notes
The beautiful appearance of the world of dreams, in
whose creation each man is a complete artist, is the condition of all plastic
art, indeed, as we shall see, an important half of poetry. We enjoy the form
with an immediate understanding, all shapes speak to us, nothing is indifferent
and unnecessary.
For all the very intense life
of these dream realities, we nevertheless have the thoroughly disagreeable
sense of their illusory quality. At least that is my experience. For their
frequency, even normality, I can point to many witnesses and the utterances of
poets. Even the philosophical man has the presentiment that this reality in
which we live and have our being is an illusion, that under it lies hidden a
second quite different reality. And Schopenhauer specifically designates as the
trademark of philosophical talent the ability to recognize at certain times
that human beings and all things are mere phantoms or dream pictures.
Now, just as the philosopher
behaves in relation to the reality of existence, so the artistically excitable
man behaves in relation to the reality of dreams. He looks at them precisely
and with pleasure, for from these pictures he fashions his interpretation of
life; from these events he rehearses his life. This is not merely a case of agreeable
and friendly images which he experiences with a complete understanding. They
also include what is serious, cloudy, sad, dark, sudden scruples, teasing
accidents, nervous expectations, in short, the entire “divine comedy” of life,
including the Inferno — all this moves past him, not just like a shadow play,
for he lives and suffers in the midst of these scenes, yet not without that
fleeting sensation of illusion. And perhaps several people remember, like me,
amid the dangers and terrors of a dream, successfully cheering themselves up by
shouting: “It is a dream! I want to dream it some more!” I have also heard
accounts of some people who had the ability to set out the causal connection of
one and the same dream over three or more consecutive nights. These facts are
clear evidence showing that our innermost beings, the secret underground in all
of us, experiences its dreams with deep enjoyment, as a delightful necessity.
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