As a B.A.D. sufferer, this deep and evocative piece by John Clare (1793-1864) greatly meshes with my own 'condition.'
I 'feel' I am in his mind, with the emphasis on my own I am.
I am!
I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,
My friends forsake me like a memory lost;
I am the self-consumer of my woes,
They rise and vanish in oblivious host,
Like shades in love and death's oblivion lost;
And yet I am! and live with shadows tost
Into the nothingness of scorn and noise,
Into the living sea of waking dreams,
Where there is neither sense of life nor joys,
But the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I long for scenes where man has never trod;
A place where woman never smil'd or wept;
There to abide with my creator, God,
And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.
This belongs to the group of poems written while Clare was confined in the Northampton County Asylum from 1842 until his death in 1864. First published in the Annual Report of the Medical Superintendent of Saint Andrews for the year 1864, but the slightly different accepted text appears first in Martin's Life of Clare, 1865. These, whether rightly or wrongly, are known as his "last lines."
Clare: A Novel; Blackstaff Pr (April 1994) by John MacKenna, can be found in Amazon US, and Abebooks UK.
John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
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Byron
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John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
"Bipolar is a roller-coaster ride without a seat belt. One day you're flying with the fireworks; for the next month you're being scraped off the trolley" I said that.
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
Byron,
After all this time "I Am" is still the real thing.
After all this time "I Am" is still the real thing.
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Byron
- Posts: 3171
- Joined: Tue Nov 26, 2002 3:01 pm
- Location: Mad House, Eating Tablets, Cereals, Jam, Marmalade and HONEY, with Albert
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
And e'en the dearest--that I loved the best--
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I listened to a BBC Radio 4 programme discussion on this piece. It was from there that I realised that the 'strange' and 'stranger' are more significant than seen at first blush. He was using a shortened version of 'estranged,' which shows how much more his loss is within his own family and friends than with other people.
I 'feel' as though he has written this for me to share his woes with. It touches me on so many levels. We have both been at the bottom of that dark well. He's standing next to me down there. If there is a word stronger than 'empathy,' I'll take it.
Are strange--nay, rather stranger than the rest.
I listened to a BBC Radio 4 programme discussion on this piece. It was from there that I realised that the 'strange' and 'stranger' are more significant than seen at first blush. He was using a shortened version of 'estranged,' which shows how much more his loss is within his own family and friends than with other people.
I 'feel' as though he has written this for me to share his woes with. It touches me on so many levels. We have both been at the bottom of that dark well. He's standing next to me down there. If there is a word stronger than 'empathy,' I'll take it.
"Bipolar is a roller-coaster ride without a seat belt. One day you're flying with the fireworks; for the next month you're being scraped off the trolley" I said that.
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
We were in my car and just driving away from my Auntie who is suffering from partial dementia and in a 'home'.
Unc (as we call him) lost most of his mates he says while fighting Erwin Rommel and his troops at the battle of El Alamein,Egypt. He arrived with one thousand men in his division, and 40 survived the 8 month battle. His division was the most highly decorated Division (in the British Empire) of the second World War. He said to me "Rommel was a good man. We had immense respect for him."
So I asked my 89 year old uncle, yesterday, what he had learned from life.
He replied,'Write me as one who loves his fellow men.'
...and he proceeded to recite this poem to me from which the line above was a quote.
Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."
The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!
poem by James Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)
Unc tried to gas himself 30 years after the war (early 1970's) as he was an alcoholic who couldn't stop feeling guilty for not dying with the rest of his friends.
'Write me as one who loves his fellow men.' This attitude must be part of what kept him struggling on after my aunty dragged him unconscious from the oven.
I was reading your great posting here Byron and I thought about my brave old uncle. I was expecting his response (to my question above) to be similar to the mood of your "I am" posting.
'I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,'
Unc 'cares'. That was his weakness and his strength.
Now on a lighter note;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hoNytAES ... re=related
or maybe this one makes more sense!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yZOZ-NU ... re=related
Regards, MatbbgJ
Unc (as we call him) lost most of his mates he says while fighting Erwin Rommel and his troops at the battle of El Alamein,Egypt. He arrived with one thousand men in his division, and 40 survived the 8 month battle. His division was the most highly decorated Division (in the British Empire) of the second World War. He said to me "Rommel was a good man. We had immense respect for him."
So I asked my 89 year old uncle, yesterday, what he had learned from life.
He replied,'Write me as one who loves his fellow men.'
...and he proceeded to recite this poem to me from which the line above was a quote.
Abou Ben Adhem
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold:
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The Vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the Angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one who loves his fellow men."
The Angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest!
poem by James Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)
Unc tried to gas himself 30 years after the war (early 1970's) as he was an alcoholic who couldn't stop feeling guilty for not dying with the rest of his friends.
'Write me as one who loves his fellow men.' This attitude must be part of what kept him struggling on after my aunty dragged him unconscious from the oven.
I was reading your great posting here Byron and I thought about my brave old uncle. I was expecting his response (to my question above) to be similar to the mood of your "I am" posting.
'I am! yet what I am none cares or knows,'
Unc 'cares'. That was his weakness and his strength.
Now on a lighter note;
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hoNytAES ... re=related
or maybe this one makes more sense!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7yZOZ-NU ... re=related
Regards, MatbbgJ
Last edited by mat james on Sat Dec 20, 2008 2:23 am, edited 1 time in total.
"Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart." San Juan de la Cruz.
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
Fascinating story Mat.
Coincidentally, Byron, I assume you know that Clare, in his delusional phases, thought himself to be Byron!
Coincidentally, Byron, I assume you know that Clare, in his delusional phases, thought himself to be Byron!
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imaginary friend
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- Joined: Fri Jun 22, 2007 5:09 am
- Location: Vancouver, Canada
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
Thanks for those links Mat.
Was that Unc reciting in the last link? Doesn't matter, it was lovely, as was Mr. Bean.
Seasons Greetings to you, Mat, Poppet and Byron.
Peace.
Sheila
Was that Unc reciting in the last link? Doesn't matter, it was lovely, as was Mr. Bean.
Seasons Greetings to you, Mat, Poppet and Byron.
Peace.
Sheila
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Diane
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
Here is a possible response to "I Am!", from I to I.
To You
Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass
Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.
I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.
Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.
O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?)
The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside.
There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.
As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.
Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable as they;
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.
The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.
~~~~~~~~~~
To You
Walt Whitman, from Leaves of Grass
Whoever you are, I fear you are walking the walks of dreams,
I fear these supposed realities are to melt from under your feet and hands;
Even now, your features, joys, speech, house, trade, manners, troubles, follies, costume, crimes, dissipate away from you,
Your true Soul and Body appear before me,
They stand forth out of affairs—out of commerce, shops, law, science, work, forms, clothes, the house, medicine, print, buying, selling, eating, drinking, suffering, dying.
Whoever you are, now I place my hand upon you, that you be my poem;
I whisper with my lips close to your ear,
I have loved many women and men, but I love none better than you.
O I have been dilatory and dumb;
I should have made my way straight to you long ago;
I should have blabb’d nothing but you, I should have chanted nothing but you.
I will leave all, and come and make the hymns of you;
None have understood you, but I understand you;
None have done justice to you—you have not done justice to yourself;
None but have found you imperfect—I only find no imperfection in you;
None but would subordinate you—I only am he who will never consent to subordinate you;
I only am he who places over you no master, owner, better, God, beyond what waits intrinsically in yourself.
Painters have painted their swarming groups, and the centre figure of all;
From the head of the centre figure spreading a nimbus of gold-color’d light;
But I paint myriads of heads, but paint no head without its nimbus of gold-color’d light;
From my hand, from the brain of every man and woman it streams, effulgently flowing forever.
O I could sing such grandeurs and glories about you!
You have not known what you are—you have slumber’d upon yourself all your life;
Your eye-lids have been the same as closed most of the time;
What you have done returns already in mockeries;
(Your thrift, knowledge, prayers, if they do not return in mockeries, what is their return?)
The mockeries are not you;
Underneath them, and within them, I see you lurk;
I pursue you where none else has pursued you;
Silence, the desk, the flippant expression, the night, the accustom’d routine, if these conceal you from others, or from yourself, they do not conceal you from me;
The shaved face, the unsteady eye, the impure complexion, if these balk others, they do not balk me,
The pert apparel, the deform’d attitude, drunkenness, greed, premature death, all these I part aside.
There is no endowment in man or woman that is not tallied in you;
There is no virtue, no beauty, in man or woman, but as good is in you;
No pluck, no endurance in others, but as good is in you;
No pleasure waiting for others, but an equal pleasure waits for you.
As for me, I give nothing to any one, except I give the like carefully to you;
I sing the songs of the glory of none, not God, sooner than I sing the songs of the glory of you.
Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
These shows of the east and west are tame, compared to you;
These immense meadows—these interminable rivers—you are immense and interminable as they;
These furies, elements, storms, motions of Nature, throes of apparent dissolution—you are he or she who is master or mistress over them,
Master or mistress in your own right over Nature, elements, pain, passion, dissolution.
The hopples fall from your ankles—you find an unfailing sufficiency;
Old or young, male or female, rude, low, rejected by the rest, whatever you are promulges itself;
Through birth, life, death, burial, the means are provided, nothing is scanted;
Through angers, losses, ambition, ignorance, ennui, what you are picks its way.
~~~~~~~~~~
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
I love sweet-baby-Walt (Whitman) at times, but then other-times in 'Leaves of grass' he dives into a verbally autistic blathering tunnel...on and on and onnnnn;Whoever you are! claim your own at any hazard!
and then whammo... he breaks through to today... and immediacy...and I love him again.
"Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart." San Juan de la Cruz.
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Diane
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
Hi Mat. I agree! Sometimes in life you have to go through the blathering to get to the point though. The above has some pretty good blathering going on.
I think my number one (half) line from WW is simply:
O me! O life!
I think my number one (half) line from WW is simply:
O me! O life!
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
But Clare never blathered!
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
I only know of Clare from the rumblings on this thread.I long for scenes where man has never trod;
...And sleep as I in childhood sweetly slept:
Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
The grass below--above the vaulted sky.
It appears he was (perhaps) suited to the monastic life ( or perhaps the opal prospector's life) rather than the asylum.
I usually feel that way when in the distant Outback,Untroubling and untroubled where I lie;
scratching around, lazing around, or cookin' eggs; where
" the vast shipwreck of my life's esteems;" sink/settle away
while I "abide with my creator" as Clare puts it.
...good poem, I am!.
"Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart." San Juan de la Cruz.
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Diane
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
It is a good poem. And Clare is concise and Whitman blathers on. Style aside, Clare is saying, I am deeply lonely and I wish I were dead/unseparated. Whitman is saying, I am enthralled by me/you, because I am/you are, in fact, already dead/part of the whole. I was just trying to comfort the poor old thing.
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
I see that ' I am ' is very much in vogue today .
Boyonce's new world tour is titled 'I am ' and Wayne Dyer is shifting to the ' I am ' mode.
I wonder if this is still the real thing
For one awful moment we remember that we forgot.
Boyonce's new world tour is titled 'I am ' and Wayne Dyer is shifting to the ' I am ' mode.
I wonder if this is still the real thing
For one awful moment we remember that we forgot.
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Diane
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
I'm half-expecting Shirley Bassey to arrive in the thread at any moment!
Re: John Clare (1793-1864) I AM !
Well there's plenty of room for her here as a few vacencies have turned up on account of others gone off to be 'I am what I am 'Diane wrote:I'm half-expecting Shirley Bassey to arrive in the thread at any moment!