"Reason" John Pomfret (1667-1702)

Unhappy man! Who, thro’ successive years,

From early youth to life’s last childhood errs;

No sooner born but proves a foe to truth

For infant Reason is o’erpow’r’d in youth.

The cheats of sense will half our learning share,

And preconceptions all our knowledge are.

Reason, ‘tis true, should over sense of preside,

Correct our notions, and our judgements guide;

But false opinions, rooted in the mind,

Hoodwink the soul, and keep our reason blind.

Reason’s a taper which faintly burns;

A languid flame, that glows and dies by turns:

We see’t a little while, and but a little way;

We travel by its light, as men by day;

But quickly dying it forsakes us soon,

Like morning-stars, that never stay till noon.

The soul can scarce above the body rise,

All we see is with corporeal eyes.

Life now does scarce one glimpse of light display:

We mourn in darkness, and despair of day:

That nat’ral light, once dress’d with orient beams,

Is now diminished, and a twilight seems;

A miscellaneous composition, made

Of night and day, of sunshine and shade.

Thro’ an uncertain medium now we look,

And find that falsehood which for truth we took:

So rays projected from the eastern skies

Shew the false day before the sun can rise.

That little knowledge now which man maintains,

From outward objects and from sense he gains:

He, like a wretched slave, most plod and sweat,

By day must toil, by night that toil repeat;

And yet at last what little fruit he gains!

A beggars harvest, glean’d with mighty pains.

The passions still predominant will rule,

Ungovern’d rude, not bred in Reason’s school;

Our understanding they with darkness fill,

Cause strong corruptions, and pervert the will:

On these the soul, as on some flowing tide,

Mus sit , and on the raging billows ride,

Hurry’d away;  for how can be withstood

Th’ impetuous torrent of the boiling blood?

Be gone, false hopes! for all our learning’s vain;

Can we be free where these the rule maintain?

These are the tools of knowledge which we use:

The spirits heated will strange things produce.

Tell me who e’er the passions could control,

Or from the body disingage the soul:

Till this is done our best pursuits are vain

To conquer truth, and unmix’d knowledge gain.

Thro’ all the bulky volumes of the dead,

And thro’ those books that modern times have bred,

With pain we travel, as thro’ moorish ground,

Where scarce one useful plant is ever found;

O’er-run with errors, which so thick appear,

Our search proves vain, no spark of truth is there.

What’s all the noisy jargon of the schools

But idle nonsense of laborious fools,

Who fetter reason with perplexing rules?

What in Aquinas’ bulky works are found

Does not enlighten Reason, but confound.

Who travels Scotus’ swelling tomes shall find

A cloud of darkness rising on the mind.

In controverted points can reason sway,

When passion of conceit still hurries us away?

Thus his new notions Sherlock would instill,

And clear the greatest mysteries at will;

Bu by unlucky wit perplex’d them more,

And made them darker than they were before.

South soon oppos’d him, out of Christian zeal,

Shewing how well he could dispute and rail.

How shall we e’er discover which is right,

When both so eagerly maintain the fight?

Each does the other’s argument’s deride;

Each has the Church and Scripture on his side:

The sharp ill-natur’d combat’s but a jest:

Both may be wrong; one, perhaps, errs the least.

How shall we know which Articles are true,

The Old ones of the church, or Burnet’s New?

In paths uncertain and unsafe he treads,

Who blindly follows others’ fertile heads.

What sure, what certain mark have we to know

The right or wrong ‘twixt Burgess, Wake, and Howe?

Should untun’d Nature crave the medic art,

What health can that contentious tribe impart?

Ev’ry physician writes a diff’rent bill

And gives no other reason, but his will.

No longer boast your art, ye impious race!

Let wars ‘twixt alcalies and acids cease,

And proud G—ll with Colbatch be at peace.

Gibbons and Radcliffe do but rarely guess;

To-day they’ve good, to-morow no success.

Ev’n Garth and Maurus (Sir Richard Blackmore) sometimes shall prevail,

When Gibson, learned Hainnes, and Tyson,fail.

And, more than once, we’ve seen that blund’ring S—ne,

Missing the gout, by chance has hit the stone;

The patient does the lucky error find;

A cure he works, tho’ not the cure deign’d.

Custom, the world’s great idol, we adore,

And knowing this we seek to know no more.

What education did at first receive,

Our ripened age confirms us to believe:

The careful nurse and priest are all we need,

To learn opinions and our county’s creed:

The parents’ precepts early are instill’d,

And spoil the man while they instruct the child

To what hard fate is human-kind betray’d,

When thus implicit faith’s a virtue made,

When education more than truth prevails,

And nought is current but what custom seals?

Thus from the time we first began to know,

We live and learn, but not the wiser grow.

We seldom use our liberty aright,

Nor judge of things by universal light;

Our prepossessions  and affections bind

The soul in chains, and lord it o’er the mind;

And if self-int’rest be but in the case,

Our examin’d principles may pass.

Good Heav’ns! that man should thus himself deceive,

To learn on credit, and on trust believe!

Better he mind no notions had retained,

But still a fair unwritten blank remain’d:

For now, who truth from falsehood would discern,

Must first disprove the mind, and all unlearn.

Errors contracted in unmindful youth,

When once remov’d will smooth the way to truth.

To dispossess the child the mortal lives.

But death approaches ere the man arrives.

Those who would learning’s glorious kingdom find,

The dear bought purchase of the trading mind,

From many dangers must themselves acquit,

And more than Scylla and Charybdis meet.

Oh! what an ocean must be voyag’d o’er

To gain a prospect of the shining shore?

Resisting rocks oppose th’ inquiring soul,

And adverse waves retard it as they roll.

Does not that foolish deference we pay

To men that liv’d long since our passage stay?

What odd prepost’rous paths at first we tread,

And learn to walk by stumbling on the dead?

First we a blessing from the grave implore,

Worship old urns, and monuments adore;

The rev’red sage, with vast esteem we prize;

He lived long since and must be wondrous wise.

Thus are we debtors to the famous dead

For all those errors which their fancies bred:

Errors indeed! for real knowledge stay’d

With those first times,nor father was convey’d,

While light opinions are much lower brought,

For on the waves of ignorance they float;

But solid truth scarce ever gains the shore,

So soon it sinks, and ne’er emerges more.

Will knowledge dawn and bless the mind at last?

Ah! no;  ‘tis charms, and undiscovered lies.

Truth, like a single point, escapes the sight,

And claims attention to perceive it right:

But what resembles truth is soon descry’d

Spread like a surface and expanded wide.

The first man rarely, very rarely, finds

The tedious search of long inquiring minds:

But yet what’s worse, we know not when we err;

What mark does truth, what bright distinction , bear?

How do we know that what we know is true?

How shall we falsehood fly, and truth pursue?

Let none then here his certain knowledge boast,

‘Tis all but probability at most:

This is the easy purchase of the mind,

The vulgar’s treasure, which we soon may find:

But truth lies hid, and ere we can explore

The glitt’ring gem, our fleeting life is o’er.

John Pomfret 

Was searching through old poems - and the name for this one caught my eye. It looked interesting enough, so started transcribing...and transcribing (P.S happy to have people point out mistakes, just be careful I've deliberately tried to leave in the spelling of the day, not to mention the apostrophes and inconsistent captilisation of the word reason. Still, it was a fun romp, showing that even while things change (the poets idea of reason would have encompassed his religious views) they stay the same. 

I think the modern version would be a heap shorter - along the lines of "You want the truth...you can't handle the truth, and even if you could, you'd never see it because the only thing you've learned is how to close your eyes!!" ;)

Have a great week

A.J. Ponder
PS, please note this poem has thematic links to my recent "Hey Neil DeGrasse Tyson, There's No Need to Welcome Science"

Vertical by A.J. Ponder

When you're digging down
to the bedrock of belief
the truth is hard to hide
and easy to misrepresent

When the slope is vertical,
there are no handholds
and little water to soften
the fall

No one can deny the majesty,
of the view -
it's just the little matter 
of the cost

When, for almost nothing
we can hug a tree
in a horizontal forest,
and taste the rain


Bit late for Tuesday - but I am busy, busy, busy, it's just that time of year. Lilly Lionheart and the Labyrinth of Doom is close...very close, just the last, last, last edits. And I got a little distracted, the world is facing some seriously exciting prospects, people planning to end extreme poverty in our lifetime, and just as this amazing goal seems almost within reach...

Countries like India are frustrated that too much time and money has been misspent on vertical programs that only tackle one, or very few diseases, drawing money away from much needed health projects. They've had enough, and want co-ordinated projects that tackle the diseases and conditions that most affect their populations. They're calling for horizontal programs (water and primary care), and an end to being bullied into Western disease of the week agendas. So I'm keen to put a little money where my mouth is, but it's hard work finding the perfect charity....good enough will have to do.  It's all anyone can do.   

7 water charities: because water is life, and clean water will save more lives than almost anything else we can do. http://www.goodnet.org/articles/1000


http://www.doctorswithoutborders.org/about-us/history-principles

for checking out your "perfect" charity (already set to "save the children") http://www.charitynavigator.org/index.cfm?bay=search.summary&orgid=4438#.VhzyoSst540

Any ideas or suggestions welcome. 
Have a fantastic week!
A.J.

Robin Hood and Alan a Dale - Folk tale

I've been busy writing some pieces for publication, one's in a secret project - and getting around to editing it  (I promise Lee) just as soon as I have my Choose your Own Way FairyTale Adventure in to the publisher. I found this poem while researching my adventure...just because

Come listen to me, you gallants so free,
All you that loves mirth for to hear,
And I will tell you of a bold outlaw,
That lived in Nottinghamshire.

As Robin Hood in the forest stood,
All under the greenwood tree,
There was he ware of a brave young man,
As fine as fine might be.

The youngster was clothed in scarlet red,
In scarlet fine and gay;
And he did frisk it over the plain,
And chanted a roundelay.

As Robin Hood next morning stood,
Amongst the leaves so gay,
There did he espy the same young man
Come drooping along the way.

The scarlet he wore the day before,
It was clean cast away;
And at every step he fetcht a sigh,
“Alack and a well a day!”

Then stepped forth brave Little John,
And Nick the miller’s son,
Which made the young man bend his bow,
When as he see them come.

“Stand off, stand off,” the young man said,
“What is your will with me?”
“You must come before our master straight,
Under yon greenwood tree.”

And when he came bold Robin before,
Robin askt him courteously,
“O hast thou any money to spare
For my merry men and me?”

“I have no money,” the young man said,
“But five shillings and a ring;
And that I have kept this seven long years,
To have it at my wedding.

“Yesterday I should have married a maid,
But she is now from me tane,
And chosen to be an old knight’s delight,
Whereby my poor heart is slain.”

“What is thy name?” then said Robin Hood,
“Come tell me, without any fail”:
“By the faith of my body,” then said the young man,
“My name it is Allin a Dale.”

“What wilt thou give me,” said Robin Hood,
“In ready gold or fee,
To help thee to thy true-love again,
And deliver her unto thee?”

“I have no money,” then quoth the young man,
“No ready gold nor fee,
But I will swear upon a book
Thy true servant for to be.”

“How many miles is it to thy true-love?
Come tell me without any guile”:
“By the faith of my body,” then said the young man,
“It is but five little mile.”

Then Robin he hasted over the plain,
He did neither stint nor lin,
Until he came unto the church,
Where Allin should keep his wedding.

“What dost thou do here?” the bishop he said,
“I prithee now tell to me”:
“I am a bold harper,” quoth Robin Hood,
“And the best in the north countrey.”

“O welcome, O welcome,” the bishop he said,
“That musick best pleaseth me”:
“You shall have no musick,” quoth Robin Hood,
“Till the bride and the bridegroom I see.”

With that came in a wealthy knight,
Which was both grave and old,
And after him a finikin lass
Did shine like glistering gold.

“This is no fit match,” quoth bold Robin Hood,
“That you do seem to make here;
For since we are come unto the church,
The bride she shall chuse her own dear.”

Then Robin Hood put his horn to his mouth,
And blew blasts two or three;
When four and twenty bowmen bold
Came leaping over the lee.

And when they came into the church-yard,
Marching all on a row,
The first man was Allin a Dale,
To give bold Robin his bow.

“This is thy true-love,” Robin he said,
“Young Allin, as I hear say:
And you shall be married at this same time,
Before we depart away.”

“That shall not be,” the bishop he said,
“For thy word shall not stand;
They shall be three times askt in the church,
As the law is of our land.”

Robin Hood pulld off the bishop’s coat,
And put it upon Little John;
“By the faith of my body,” then Robin said,
“This cloath doth make thee a man.”

When Little John went into the quire,
The people began for to laugh;
He askt them seven times in the church,
Lest three times should not be enough.

“Who gives me this maid?” then said Little John;
Quoth Robin, “That do I,
And he that doth take her from Allin a Dale
Full dearly he shall her buy.”

And thus having ended this merry wedding,
The bride lookt as fresh as a queen,
And so they returned to the merry greenwood,
Amongst the leaves so green.

Traditional folk ballad, a couple of old collections: Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed (1863–1944). The Oxford Book of Ballads. 1910. & The English and Scottish Popular Ballads by Francis James Child, 1888.





Have a great week everybody, 

A.J. 
and check out more poems at the Tuesday Poem blog.

Solomon's Wisdom

Solomon's Wisdom

Dear Solomon,
I didn't come to you for judgement
your swords are useless here

Besides,
the question
of who will break first
is long since moot

I fear it's
something I will
prove time and time again.
It's not the
revelation it was
BC
So let's move on
to the twenty-first century

and make a decision
that doesn't involve grinding
the last
spoon
underfoot

A.J. Ponder 

This is the final poem to the sequence Count your Spoons and The SEP. 

If you do have a diagnosis of  CFS/ME, I'd be looking for alternative treatable conditions. Because for now, it is difficult to say what CFS is other than a dumping ground, that may (or may not) include a condition that can be separated out as CFS. There can be no doubt, the one we've been dealing with is not CFS as such, or postural hypotension, or POTs  because of a failed a test that is almost universally accepted as 100% specific. Unfortunately, despite the diagnostic criteria being available in Up to Date and in other medical papers his condition it has not been recognized by the local endocrinologists.  Which leaves us counting spoons, like everybody else. But if anyone is aware of people who think they may be misdiagnosed, I'm thinking seriously about going to the health and disability commissioner, to ensure that NZ doctors properly rule out endocrine and other issues, before randomly diagnosing people with CFS, as that is theoretically the British/Australian criteria.


References 
Spoon Theory: http://www.butyoudontlooksick.com/articles/written-by-christine/the-spoon-theory/

Up to Date: Diagnosis of adrenal insufficiency in adults (you will need a log in to get any more than a peek)
http://www.uptodate.com/contents/diagnosis-of-adrenal-insufficiency-in-adults

Isolated corticotrophin deficiency, Andrioli et al (2006)
http://pathology2.jhu.edu/hypophysitis/pdf/425_2006_Andrioli.pdf

Adrenal insufficiency, Charmandari et al 2014 http://www.thelancet.com/journals/lancet/article/PIIS0140-6736%2813%2961684-0/abstract  (p.s. sometimes you can find a version of this online that is not a paid version, but as it is relatively new, I suggest payment is ethical if you have the money)

CFS as a dumping ground of hard to diagnose illnesses
http://www.meresearch.org.uk/information/publications/misdiagnosis-on-a-grand-scale/ 
I'd have to agree with this. For instance, the diagnosis of CFS was made for my son despite the fact that he didn't fit the CDC (The US 1994 Fukuda) definition of CFS, the definition used in Australia and Britain, is so vague as to be nothing more than a dumping ground of "too hard." Theoretically other conditions are supposed to be ruled out. But that certainly was not the case.

One possible misdiagnosis of CFS / ME is POTS: http://www.webmd.boots.com/healthy-ageing/news/20140617/misdiagnosed-condition-confused-with-me-cfs
PoTS is generally and most safely treated with fludrocortisone. Unfortunately this not only didn't work for us, but made the symptoms worse, still it should be seriously looked at as an alternative diagnosis, as it is treatable. The same article also indicated a link with Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (a connective tissue condition with joint hyper-mobility and may have problems with skin, tendons, and bloodvessels etc.

A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion) by John Keats

This week, a poem by Keats himself. The first line of which is so famous as to be almost infamous, but I hope you enjoy it's old worldy-ness. It's quite different from what I've been writing lately, but I still do love the cadence only rhyme can give, even though it can be patchy. The moments are exquisite. I really like the end, from ...O may no wintry season, bare and hoary... And the end of the first verse is pretty amazing as well.
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Anyway, have a great week, look forward to seeing you all again next week, hopefully with a poem.

A.J.

A Thing Of Beauty (Endymion) by John Keats

A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness; but still will keep
A bower quiet for us, and a sleep
Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.
Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing
A flowery band to bind us to the earth,
Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth
Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,
Of all the unhealthy and o'er-darkn'd ways
Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,
Some shape of beauty moves away the pall
From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,
Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon
For simple sheep; and such are daffodils
With the green world they live in; and clear rills
That for themselves a cooling covert make
'Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,
Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:
And such too is the grandeur of the dooms
We have imagined for the mighty dead;
An endless fountain of immortal drink,
Pouring unto us from the heaven's brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences
For one short hour; no, even as the trees
That whisper round a temple become soon
Dear as the temple's self, so does the moon,
The passion poesy, glories infinite,
Haunt us till they become a cheering light
Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast
That, whether there be shine or gloom o'ercast,
They always must be with us, or we die.

Therefore, 'tis with full happiness that I
Will trace the story of Endymion.
The very music of the name has gone
Into my being, and each pleasant scene
Is growing fresh before me as the green
Of our own valleys: so I will begin
Now while I cannot hear the city's din;
Now while the early budders are just new,
And run in mazes of the youngest hue
About old forests; while the willow trails
Its delicate amber; and the dairy pails
Bring home increase of milk. And, as the year
Grows lush in juicy stalks, I'll smoothly steer
My little boat, for many quiet hours,
With streams that deepen freshly into bowers.
Many and many a verse I hope to write,
Before the daisies, vermeil rimmed and white,
Hide in deep herbage; and ere yet the bees
Hum about globes of clover and sweet peas,
I must be near the middle of my story.
O may no wintry season, bare and hoary,
See it half finished: but let Autumn bold,
With universal tinge of sober gold,
Be all about me when I make an end!
And now at once, adventuresome, I send
My herald thought into a wilderness:
There let its trumpet blow, and quickly dress
My uncertain path with green, that I may speed
Easily onward, thorough flowers and weed.
John Keats

The SEP

Look!
Can't you see?
We're sitting in the middle of an SEP

We only look like we're breathing
from the outside

In here
the atmosphere's
twenty K's
of
freezing
and group think
has you believing,
hydrogen is water
and air
is simply there

It's a diffusion of responsibility
that cuts at the frozen heart
of a problem
nobody
wanted

A.J.
with thanks to Douglas Adams (An SEP is from Douglas Adam's Life, the Universe and Everything. It's earned a place on Wikipedia: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Somebody_else%27s_problem as well as having a wiki page: http://hitchhikers.wikia.com/wiki/Somebody_Else%27s_Problem_field)

This is a fractured piece of something I began a few weeks ago. It began with Count your Spoons, and may or may not finish on a piece called Soloman's Wisdom.

If you're unfamiliar with the terms, Group Think and Diffusion of Responsibility, also have their own Wikipedia pages. (And Frozen Heart is also apparently the name of a song from Frozen, which is probably quite apt, although I'll admit, a complete accident.)

Have a great week, I'm planning to have a bit of down time myself, and check out some great Tuesday Poem blogs, I know there are a few sites I need to catch up on, including Helen Lowe's and Helen McKinlay's, because they are always so inspirational, not to mention fantastically supportive of NZ poetry and fiction :)

A.J. 

Find my stories and support my writing on ko-fi 

And tell me which poems you'd like to see in my upcoming poetry book—2024? https://ko-fi.com/ajponder

  

 

 

Missed it by "that" much

Life is what happens when other things get in the way. Other things get in the way when life happens? At least that's what happened this week - so I missed my self-imposed deadline

There's a poem that's been "nearly finished" for two weeks now, that I'm keen to post. But it's in no mood to appear this week, so instead of a poem, maybe I can send you to all the things I've been busy doing instead of poetry...

I'm an occasional contributor to www.saharsblog.com/ask-an-author/

Have been very busy writing material for http://www.ronagallery.co.nz/home

Advertising the Rona Gallery Sale and Under A Thousand Art Exhibition

I even put a couple of posts on my facebook Author page (most unusual)

So that's basically it - apart from writing horror and fairy tales - it's becoming my thing :)

Have a fantastic week and why not check out some wonderful NZ poems at the Tuesday Poem hub? Let's hope they're having a more productive poetical week than I am...

A.J.