#arthur symons

[dreaminginthedeepsouth]

Christopher Richard Wynne Nevinson, The Wave, Lithograph, 1917  :: more

* * * *

“The sea is a mirror, not only to the clouds, the sun, the moon, and the stars, but to all one’s dreams, to all one’s speculations… . The sea tells us that everything is changing and that nothing ever changes, that tides go out and return, that all existence is a rhythm.”

— Arthur Symons, “In a Northern Bay,” Cities and Sea-Coasts and Islands (1918)

[bergahorn]

[pearl-harp-and-thread]

Arthur Symons

[poemoftheday]

Poem of the Day 10 August 2023

Amends to Nature

by Arthur Symons

I have loved colours, and not flowers; Their motion, not the swallows wings; And wasted more than half my hours Without the comradeship of things.

How is it, now, that I can see, With love and wonder and delight, The children of the hedge and tree, The little lords of day and night?

How is it that I see the roads, No longer with usurping eyes, A twilight meeting-place for toads, A mid-day mart for butterflies?

I feel, in every midge that hums, Life, fugitive and infinite, And suddenly the world becomes A part of me and I of it.

[poem-today]

A poem by Arthur Symons

THE OPIUM-SMOKER

I am engulfed, and drown deliciously Soft music like a perfume, and sweet light Golden with audible colours exquisite, Swathe me with cerements for eternity. Times is no more. I pause and yet I flee. A million ages wrap me round with night. I drain a million ages of delight. I hold the future in my memory.

Also, I have this garret which I rent, This bed of straw, and this that was a chair, This worn-out body like a tattered tent, This crust, of which the rats have eaten part, This pipe of opium; rage, remorse, despair; This soul at pawn and this delirious heart.

Arthur Symons (1865-1945)

Image:  Eaters of Opium by Vasily Vereshchagin (1867) in the State Art Museum of Uzbekistan.

[milo-the-crotonian]

Amoris Victima

Poems by Arthur Symons

https://archive.org/details/poemssymons00symo/page/9/mode/1up

[nudeartpluspoetry]

"Venice," by Arthur Symons

[samuraiko]

My robes are red with blood. My name Is Anger, the delicious flame Which burns within me shall not die Till the last lover has put by The last kiss; for it is the fire Of love, which with extreme desire Burns out the heart that love has lit With the extreme desire of it. I love so ardently, I know Not love from hate, not joy from woe. I, when I love, am wroth awhile With love's delight, if that can smile At love's desire, that can abate With this most pure and passionate Moment of moments, if that last Less than to measure all the past And all the future. I am sad Only for this; that I have had No other hatred so intense In justice and magnificence As that self-hatred which I press Against my own unworthiness. Could I so dear a hatred prove That rapture would out-rapture love? I walk on many a steep path, Yet without weariness; my wrath That strives against all mortal strife Is as a wellspring of new life. I sharpen in the lover's heart Desire, and when the pointed dart Has flown, and quivers, turn afresh The barb in the delighted flesh. The flesh cries out and thanks me; I In hearts am also jealousy, Which is love's anger against love For love's sake. It is I who move The hearts of men that they refuse Sought gifts, and women, that they choose What they desire not. Love becomes Without me as a rich man's crumbs Unto a poor man; love with me Is the rich man's satiety Of his spread feast; I am in these Mother of madness, the disease That proud men die of, and in those, Mother of wisdom. There arose Many, by me, that have gone far And for a perilous pilgrim star, Have left their hamlets in the vale, And have found kingdoms. Mine the tale Of those who, having overturned Kingdoms, and unto ruins burned Strong cities, have sat down thereon, Forgetting to lay stone on stone That they might build, and wall about, Mightier cities. I cry out In glory on the topmost towers Of the world, exulting that the hours Of the world are numbered, and my voice Is louder than the confluent noise Of the four winds that hurry forth From South and East and West and North. Come hither, all who are the slaves Of any bondage; of the graves Wherein the dead bury their dead, Or of youth's bubbling fountain-head. Come hither, bondslaves of content, You, bondslaves of that indolent Languor of love too satisfied; Drink of the spirit of my pride And I will free you of your chains. Yea, I will light within your veins An inextinguishable fire Which shall consume even that desire Of bondage. Who shall set me free Lastly, of mine own slavery?

---

I love Arthur Symons' poetry, so I decided to memorize my favorite ones. This is Anger's soliloquy from his poem "The Dance of the Seven Sins" -- and I just typed that whole thing up from memory.

Go me. :)

PS - my goal for 2024 is to memorize all seven soliloquies from "The Dance of the Seven Sins" - in order, Lust, Sloth, Avarice, Gluttony, Anger, Pride, and Lying (which replaces Envy).

[pop-sesivo]

"El mar es un espejo, no sólo de las nubes, el sol, la luna y las estrellas, sino de todos los sueños, de todas las especulaciones… . El mar nos dice que todo está cambiando y que nada cambia nunca, que las mareas van y vuelven, que toda la existencia es un ritmo, sólo la acelera o la detiene por un momento…"

“The sea is a mirror, not only to the clouds, the sun, the moon, and the stars, but to all one’s dreams, to all one’s speculations… . The sea tells us that everything is changing and that nothing ever changes, that tides go out and return, that all existence is a rhythm, only hastens or holds it back for a moment”

— Arthur Symons, “In a Northern Bay"  (via albarrancabrera)

[merchantarthurn]

“-You cannot tell you buy into this, Hog, you’re not that stupid.” “Fuck off, Sy’munuk. And we’re all bought in - so you are, once again, presuming much of your position in this family.” “Even father? Durz?” Faith had never had much place with his mother or the rest of his siblings, but the two of them were clerics for gods’ sake. Their belief was a part of them. No meagre promise from the Absolute should change that. “Surely they didn’t abandon Gruumsh so easily?” Hogarth rolls his eyes. They return twice as scathing to Symon’s face. “Durz’s been abandoning Gruumsh for years, Symon. But regardless of their doubts, they don’t abandon family.”

Continuing to think about Hogarth... literally get him outta there, Symon.

[artemlegere]

“𝐀 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭, 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐜𝐞, 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐚 𝐫𝐨𝐦𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜 𝐛𝐲 𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐟𝐮𝐥𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐰 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦.”

– 𝐀𝐫𝐭𝐡𝐮𝐫 𝐒𝐲𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐬

🛶 "𝐕𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐳𝐢𝐚" | 𝐈𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐒𝐜𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫

[starfoam]

//You ever reread a poem you read in high school and are just like oh. oh

[pearl-harp-and-thread]

Arthur Symons

[lightthereis]

The Savoy by Arthur Symons, Aubrey Beardsley

[belle-keys]

– On Ballet, and Passion, and Pain

"The Ballerinas" by Rachel Kapelke-Dale // Kazuha for ELLE August 2022 // "The death of an artist" by The Michigan Daily // "Tiny Pretty Things" by Sona Charaipotra // “Suspiria” (2018) // "Tiny Pretty Things" by Sona Charaipotra // “Black Swan” (2010) // quote by Edgar Degas // "Ballet Rehearsal", 1873, by Edgar Degas // "Ballet and pain: Reflections on a risk-dance culture", 2011, by Krista McEwan and Kevin Young // "The Toll of Perfectionism" by Claire Angyal // “Pink" on Flickr // "Black Swan" by BTS (2020) // “To A Dancer” by Arthur Symons // “Swan song” definition via Wikipedia

[metamorphesque]

When a sighing begins In the violins Of the autumn-song, My heart is drowned In the slow sound Languorous and long

"Chanson d’automne", Paul Verlaine (translated by Arthur Symons)