His Flock
“How sweet is the Shepherds sweet lot”
—Blake, from Songs of Innocence
A social gathering, with a small group of artists—including James Ward, Sir Thomas
Lawrence, John Flaxman, and John Linnell—gathered around Blake and, nearby, a lady.
Blake: The other evening, taking
a walk, I came to a meadow,
and at the far corner I saw
a fold of lambs.
Coming nearer, the ground
blushed with flowers;
and the wattled cote
and its woolly tenants were of
exquisite pastoral beauty.
But I looked again,
and it proved to be
no living flock,
but beautiful sculpture.
Lady: I beg pardon, Mr. Blake, but may I ask where you saw this?
Blake: Here, madam! [touches forehead]
in Blake’s woodblock prints
of Virgil, the fourth woodcut
shows Colinet telling Thenot
that it will take all day to recite his woes,
which would leave their sheep
untended, to which
Thenot replies,“[Lightfoot]”—
Lightfoot, a most Blakean character
—“he shall tend [the lambs] close,”
—close!—as Lightfoot
overlooks shepherds and their flock
against the distant horizon’s light, an aiery figure
with crook and trailing herding dog
yipping at his buoyant heels
—is that a tree bough or a cloud
or the shape of the wind
dipping down from the top frame,
whisking him along?—in any case,
he is whisked on
by some animating force despite
the heavy medium of his rendering—something
spurs Lightfoot on as he
dances atop the hillside’s silhouette and across a bright, bright sky
Vision of Joseph the Carpenter
after Peter Ackroyd
if you want watercolors
that are more beautiful
and can survive sunlight,
then mix them yourself, William,
on statuary marble—indigo, cobalt, gamboge,
vermillion, Frankfort black, all freely
— ultramarine, rarely—chrome,
never—for white, get the best whitening
& powder it—mix thoroughly
to the consistency of cream, strain
through double muslin, spread it out on the backs
of plates, preferably white tiles, keep warm
over basins of water until stiff—
when painting colors on, apply
not with a sable, no,
but a camel’s hair brush—dilute
common carpenter’s glue and use
as a binder—like varnish—but
the portion must be just right—
when dry upon the thumb nail
or on an earthenware pot, it should have
so much and no more glue
as will defend it from being scratched off
with a fingernail—with these
methods, you may achieve
prismatic and tender brilliancy
The Ghost of a Flea
I.
Blake’s flea isn’t a flea but a flea’s
spiritual reality translated humanoid
into this hulking demonic
tongue thruster, its hunching musculature mid big stride— right hand pinching its tail or a dagger handle or thorn, a golden goblet or basket or bowl held in its left,
from which he drinks and drinks
to slake his bloodthirst—if the flea were large as a horse, Varley wrote, it’d “depopulate
a great portion of the country,” and J.T. Smith said
Blake said, “were that lively little fellow the size of an elephant... he could bound from Dover to Calais
in one leap”—its skin
scaly reptilian, thickly bulked
neck under small head, vertebrae
popping out above the shoulders,
eyes bulged, tongue
licking the air in eagerness for his blood cup,
dragon wings above ears
fanning back—and
in the floorboards in front
of his left shin, ever so faintly,
an actual flea
but Blake’s flea crosses a stage, curtains
on either side, and well beyond
the curtains, a cosmic background—astral, a comet’s fabulously long tail
dragging diagonally down
and in the curtains themselves, in the stars, even in the flea’s saurian skin, Blake’s worked thin gold leaf bits, and into the tempera, he’s powdered gold foil, giving the whole work an edge
of muted fire, a feeling of molten metal coursing under skin, this clash of contraries— human-bestial, infernal-celestial, at once familiar & otherworldly
II.
as he worked, Blake said to Varley,
“I see him now before me”—as we do—not the evidence of what Blake saw but
the darkly aureate shimmer of its envisaging
Solitary Traveler with a Staff
In through my window walks the solitary traveler—balding, high forehead, bright eyes. Carrying a staff in one hand and a hat in the other, he looks windswept, as if having walked a great distance....
Blake: [Humming a vaguely hymnal tune I do not recognize.]
I: Whenever we talk, my mouth clogs with flowers.
I hope you will excuse my delay.
How is Catherine? Will she be coming too? (Lavender.)
My Wife & Sister are both very well & courting Neptune for an embrace.
At Felpham? I can see them now, walking along the shore, collecting shells. Here we go—yellow
tulip petals issuing....
The sweet air & the voices of winds trees & birds & the odours of the happy ground makes it a dwelling
for immortals. A piece of Sea Weed serves for a Barometer.
I made a pilgrimage there, once, to your cottage. I loved the sound of the channel. The salty sea
air.
Our thatched roof of rusted gold!
Your garden.... A white shell among the tulip petals.
I have a thousand & ten thousand things to say.... But I do not wish to irritate by seeming too obstinate
in Poetic pursuits.
No such thing. I’m reading Jerusalem again. I’ll never finish with reading it.
Blessed are those who are found studious of Literature & Humane & polite accomplishments. Such
have their lamps burning & such shall shine as stars.
Hydrangea blossoms now.
Happinesses have wings and wheels; miseries are leaden legged and their whole employment is to clip
the wings and take off the wheels of our chariots.
Maybe it’s as Rimbaud said: if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he
will at least have seen them. On my best days I worry I’m demented.
All Distress inflicted by Heaven is a Mercy.
Los at his smithy tormented by his Spectre. I do not always know whether to trust what I see.
I could tell you of Visions & dreams.
Well then, tell me!
A thousand Angels upon Wind! Heaven opens here on all sides her golden Gates. The time is now
arrived when Men shall again converse in Heaven & walk with Angels.
You can’t even talk of angels anymore. And I can’t know whether to trust what I sometimes see.
This World Is a World of Imagination & Vision. I see Everything I paint In This World. To Me This
World is all One continued Vision of Fancy or Imagination.
You see what you paint. We’ve been over this before. But are there things you see but choose
not to paint? And why?
My Style of Designing is a Species by itself—compelld by my Genius or Angel to follow where he led. If
I were to act otherwise it would not fulfill the purpose for which I alone live.
I have no angel. Evasive you are the closest thing.
I am the companion of Angels.
I’ve always wanted to dance with you. Would you? Strange, I know.
I know that you see certain merits in me which by Gods Grace shall be made fully apparent & perfect in
Eternity.
But would you dance with me?
O What Wonders are the Children of Men! Would to God that they would Consider it That they would
Consider their Spiritual Life Regardless of that faint Shadow Calld Natural Life. & that they would
Promote Each others Spiritual Labours. Each according to its Rank & that they would know that.
Receiving a Prophet As a Prophet is a Duty which If omitted is more Severely Avenged than Every
Sin & Wickedness beside It is the Greatest of Crimes to depress True Art & Science.
A rose on the tongue is both too sweet and too bitter.
The Thing I have most at Heart! more than life or all that seems to make life comfortable without. Is
the Interest of True Religion & Science.... I am under the direction of Messengers from Heaven Daily &
Nightly.
Sounds exhausting!
I am really drunk with intellectual vision whenever I take a pencil or graver into my hand, even I used
to be in my youth.
I love thinking of you making art in Eternity, dancing with Catherine, and picking fights.
There is not one touch in those Drawings & Pictures but what came from my Head & my Heart in
Unison.
If I could lasso a crowd and show you a multitude singing “Jerusalem” in unison, rapt,
scattering red rose petals as they trilled.
Gratitude is Heaven itself.
Before you go, tell me: How should I go about my poetry?
See Visions, Dream Dreams, & prophecy & speak Parables unobserv’d & at liberty from the Doubts of
other Mortals.
Please give Catherine my love. Bring her with you next time.
My wife is like a flame of many colours of precious jewels. My wife joins me in love to you.
Please don’t leave just yet! I have so much more to ask you.
The Ruins of Time builds Mansions in Eternity. Pray remember me with kind Love.
And maybe next time we could share a little dance.
Geoffrey Babbitt’s first book—a verse-essay, cross-genre project entitled Appendices Pulled from a Study on Light—was published in 2018. His poems and essays have appeared in North American Review, Pleiades, Colorado Review, DIAGRAM, Notre Dame Review, Washington Square, Cincinnati Review, and elsewhere. He holds a Ph.D. from the University of Utah and is currently an Associate Professor of English & Creative Writing at Hobart & William Smith Colleges, where he also serves as Editor-in-Chief of Seneca Review.