My world is a painted fresco, where coloured shapes
Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm;
An endless tapestry the past has women drapes
The halls of my life, compelling my soul to conform.
The surface of dreams is broken,
The picture of the past is shaken and scattered.
Fluent, active figures of men pass along the railway, and I am woken
From the dreams that the distance flattered.
Along the railway, active figures of men.
They have a secret that stirs in their limbs as they move
Out of the distance, nearer, commanding my dreamy world.
Here in the subtle, rounded flesh
Beats the active ecstasy.
In the sudden lifting my eyes, it is clearer,
The fascination of the quick, restless Creator moving through the mesh
Of men, vibrating in ecstasy through the rounded flesh.
Oh my boys, bending over your books,
In you is trembling and fusing
The creation of a new-patterned dream, dream of a generation:
And I watch to see the Creator, the power that patterns the dream.
The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned, and sure,
But the dream-stuff is molten and moving mysteriously,
Alluring my eyes; for I, am I not also dream-stuff,
Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the pattern, shaping and shapen?
Here in my class is the answer for the great yearning:
Eyes where I can watch the swim of old dreams reflected on the molten metal of dreams,
Watch the stir which is rhythmic and moves them all as a heart-beat moves the blood,
Here in the swelling flesh the great activity working,
Visible there in the change of eyes and the mobile features.
Oh the great mystery and fascination of the unseen Shaper,
The power of the melting, fusing Force—heat, light, all in one,
Everything great and mysterious in one, swelling and shaping the dream in the flesh,
As it swells and shapes a bud into blossom.
Oh the terrible ecstasy of the consciousness that I am life!
Oh the miracle of the whole, the widespread, labouring concentration
Swelling mankind like one bud to bring forth the fruit of a dream,
Oh the terror of lifting the innermost I out of the sweep of the impulse of life,
And watching the great Thing labouring through the whole round flesh of the world;
And striving to catch a glimpse of the shape of the coming dream,
As it quickens within the labouring, white-hot metal,
Catch the scent and the colour of the coming dream,
Then to fall back exhausted into the unconscious, molten life!
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Part I of Comment
'My world is a painted fresco, where colored shapes
Of old, ineffectual lives linger blurred and warm;'
The meaning, I feel, when he says that his world is a 'painted fresco' is that, it is just plastered on with little dignity left in an age of old historical aspects of life that seem to be dissipating like the clouds.
The use of 'ineffectual' which means worthless or just the loss of self in some way, conveys that to me.
And just in those two lines, I feel that is what he means.
And the third and fourth line, I feel, is his regression of losing a part of himself, like the youthful man he once was, and now, he has conformed to the ways his spouse has made him, or had made him.
'The surface of dreams is broken,
The picture of the past is shaken and scattered.'
The first line, gives me the impression, that he is now reflecting on the melancholy of what he states in the above part(s). He can see the shards of glass and mirror laying on the ground (metaphorically of course) and sees the undying view of his own gray image.
'Fluent, active figures of men pass along the railway, and I am woken
From the dreams that the distance has flattered.'
Tells me, as he watches those younger than him, that he wishes or hopes in some aspect or way, that he can step back and be a part of that crowd, but, he realizes he can not, and thus he awakens to that aspect that flutters in front of him.
He, again, reflects on the youth by repeating a previous thought in the next part 'Along the railway, active figures of men,'
He feels, they are holding on to something that he used to possess but not he no longer can grasp, and he wishes to peer behind their limbs to see this magical corruption. Yet, still, he is remained in the depths of his 'dreamy world'.
'The fascination of the quick, restless Creator moving through the mesh..' -
'Of men, vibrating in ecstasy through the rounded flesh.'
This gives me the impression that he is reflecting on how the body, how these young souls, these young men, are in their prime, that there is excitement within their 'rounded flesh' and on the bare of it, yet, in his mind, it's the opposite.
I do not feel, when he mentions the 'Creator' as if the 'Creator' is a representation of a deity but of the universal aspect of: youth. As in 'And I watch to see the Creator, the power that patterns the dream.'
-- 'The creation of a new-patterned dream, dream of a generation:'
It seems, the 'Creator' is the nonchalant and mystical viewing of the perpetual aspect of 'dreams' so to say. That's what I feel, in an overall aspect/viewing of what he is stating here.
If one would take the title, 'Nascent' means to come into, to emerge, and I feel, his reflection on the past, the 'dreams' in which he visualizes of a youth, maybe not his, but, the thought, the dignity of it, the depth of it, that's what he's writing about, that's the meaning he's portraying in his words.
When he writes:
'Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the pattern, shaping and shapen?'
It's a realization of that concept, I feel, in which he means. That, though he is past the youthful eye, and the dreams that encompass upon that aspect, that there is more, and though the melancholy is there, he is not.
Then, near the end, he states:
'Oh the terrible ecstasy of the consciousness that I am life!'
As if, his reflection has turned away from that particular dream. That, though is now conformed to a society of everyday life of everyday predictable-ness, it's the life in which he is at most comfortable, and that line conveys that to me. In the viewing and meaning, I feel he is touching on.
The last two lines, sum up the entirety of the meaning I feel he meant for this piece:
'Catch the scent and the colour of the coming dream,
Then to fall back exhausted into the unconscious, molten life!'
The first line, I feel he means, that it's okay to reflect on your youth, but, see the 'colours' of your future dreams, in the life in which you are in at present. Be thankful for them. But, realize, it's a predictable outcome, so don't expect too much.
I feel, overall, that's what he means, when he wrote this piece.
The meaning, I, myself, got, is basically the same interpretation. I didn't see it as a birth from old to become a new birth, I didn't see it about a baby being born, or the overall emerging of a 'new life'.
I find that he means, in such simple terms, that, to reflect on your past life is a godsend but to not reflect on your future life, is where the dreams, the 'nascent' will cease and the melancholy of youth will perpetuate and encompass the entirety of your solitude and ease.
Basically, I feel, he means:
"Be glad you lived so long, and don't worry, tomorrow's another day."
This is my interpretation of what I feel the Author means, and as well as I feel what it means to myself.
to be continued .. -
it seems as if the author is missing what his dreams used to be like as opposed to what they have become an example:
"The old dreams are beautiful, beloved, soft-toned, and sure,
But the dream-stuff is molten and moving mysteriously,
Alluring my eyes; for I, am I not also dream-stuff,
Am I not quickening, diffusing myself in the pattern, shaping and shapen?"
the format and the shape of this poem is wonderful now to tell you what this poem means to me.....................
the way i see this poem is that not all dreams are shattered or broken and that what lies on the suface is not what is under
now when i say this an old saying comes to mind "don't ever judge a book by it's cover" great write
~~Alex~~
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