The Realities of Fantasy

The popular thought these days is to be into the hard truths of life. You can see it in the movies Hollywood produces, the reality shows on television, and the novels on best seller lists. But I choose to live in the fantastic. I choose to read novels that create a world, a race of people, a species of magic, a history, a landscape, a foe, and a triumph that I have never before encountered nor will I ever except in the far reaches of imagination. J.R.R. Tolkien shares his opinion: “I have claimed that Escape is one of the main functions of fairy-stories, and since I do not disapprove of them, it is plain that I do not accept the tone of scorn or pity with which 'Escape' is now so often used. Why should a man be scorned if, finding himself in prison, he tries to get out and go home? Or if he cannot do so, he thinks and talks about other topics than jailers and prison-walls?"

Escape is not the only aspect of fantasy that I love. I love the epic triumph of good over evil. I love the grasping ambitions of the hero who is reluctantly trying to save the entire world because there is a small village tucked away in a peaceful valley where his (or her) parents and the livestock only have wolves to fear, and the hero means to keep it that way. I love how magic is so prevalent. I love that fantasy novels use words like ‘vanquish’ instead of ‘win’. I love how I believe that every epic fantasy tale I read is real. G.K. Chesterton backs me up on this one when he says, “Fairy tales are more than true; not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten” (emphasis my own).

I am not writing this to defend all fantasy novels; I am, in fact, quite picky about which ones I will spend time reading, and there are certainly some pretty awful ones out there. What I wish to share with you is why you will be reading book reviews, quotes, and thoughts regarding fantasy literature and why it is so hard for me to stay away from that genre.

Excuse me now while I escape my prison and slay some dragons.

Celebrating the Power of Words

There is so much inherent magic in words. There is power in crafting together a sentence. There is an artistry that shines through the mundane makeup of words. And that's what I want to celebrate today.

My last post featured the poems of Mary Oliver, and now I want to feature the words of Oliver. A while ago I was reading through many poems by her and in almost every poem a line or two would jump out at me, catching my imagination. In a scrambling burst of inspiration I made a piece of "word art" that combines my personality with lines from twenty of Oliver's poems. I haven't changed any of the words of her poetry, I have simply rearranged chunks of twenty poems into one poem. I call it "The Oliver Collage".

I fold the pages as I rise,
And tip the envelope, from which
like stones, leaves, fire it falls cold
into my body, waking the bones.
Something
just now
moved through my heart.
Something
that more or less
kills me with delight,
that lights up the otherwise
blunt wilderness of the body.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant.

The stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which I slowly
recognized as my own.
It was what I was born for-
drowning in the music
so that I might step inside
and be less myself than part of everything.
And yet, how often I'm fooled
before such brisk, corpuscular belief,
but if I had to guess
I would say that only
my heart is on fire
like a shower of meteors,
like a million flowers on fire.

Deep inside me, whispering is
a murmur of
chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity,
but I'll take grace
as I stride deeper and deeper
into the world,
and I plan to be there soon,
and, so far, I am
just that lucky,
my legs splashing
over the edge of darkness.
Don't call this world adorable,
or useful, that's not it.
Don't call this world an explanation,
or even an education.
It's frisky, you can die for it.

I don't know where
such certainty comes from.
Not love,
not the wind,
not the inside of a stone.
Not anything.
But I didn't stop
though the wind pried
as I left their voices behind.
I have done so,
brilliantly,
so joyfully.
This broken year will make no change
on the orderliness of the world.
In the glare of your mind,
be honest.

A lifetime isn't long enough for the
beauty of this world
and the responsibilities of your life.
Every day
I see or hear
something
in the music,
strong as the pulling moon.
I was dazzled,
letting the silver clasps out of my hair,
hurrying, taking off
my clothes.
Oh what is that beautiful thing
that just happened?
I am perfectly content not knowing.
I know that much.

What do I know? But this:
it was what I was born for-
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy
to lose myself,
to look,
to listen,
to become
what the soul is supposed to be-
a wild place never visited,
and I plan to be there soon.
Today began,
I feel myself turning
into something of inexplicable value.
I know that much.

Featured Poet: Mary Oliver

There are poems, and then there are poems. The poems I love I read constantly, and when I do my heart flutters a little, my lips tug themselves into a smile, and I’m pretty sure my eyes shine a little brighter. There are many different authors and styles of poetry that can grasp this reaction from me, but today I will share just one author with you. Her name is Mary Oliver, and here are two poems.

The Journey

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice--
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do--
determined to save
the only life you could save.

After Arguing Against the Contention that Art Must Come From Discontent.

Whispering to each handhold, "I'll be back,"
I go up the cliff in the dark. One place
I loosen a rock and listen a long time
till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush
of the torrent almost drowns it out, and the wind --
I almost forgot the wind: it tears at your side
or it waits and then buffets; you sag outward...

I remember they said it would be hard. I scramble
by luck into a little pocket out of
the wind and begin to beat on the stones
with my scratched numb hands, rocking back and forth
in silent laughter there in the dark--
"Made it again!" Oh how I love this climb!
-- the whispering to the stones, the drag, the weight
as your muscles crack and ease on, working
right. They are back there, discontent,
waiting to be driven forth. I pound
on the earth, riding the earth past the stars:
"Made it again! Made it again!"