To the Lovely Dark and the Lovely White

John Keats:

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He star'd at the Pacific — and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise —
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

      I can only read Fagles myself… The Wikipedia entry for Darien, at this time 4/17/19 anyways, suggests Darien is a province in Panama from where you can apparently see the Valley of Mexico but not the Pacific, and that Keats conflates Cortes’s viewing of the valley with Balboa’s finding of the Pacific.  Maybe then, just as he is mistaken in the poem, he is mistaken in his reading of Chapman? If he reads Chapman as carefully as he reads William Robertson’s History of America, we may well offer a different interpretation.
      So like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes he stared at the Pacific (he never did) and all his men looked at each other with a wild surmise (perhaps bewildered at what Cortez thought he saw) silent upon a peak in Darien.  So… delirious, on a mountaintop.   Reading Chapman’s Homer is like hallucinating, while your followers look at you in shock, on a peak overlooking Mexico City.

New words: ken

SONNET: KEEN, FITFUL GUSTS ARE WHISP'RING.

KEEN, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
    Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
    The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
    Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
    Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
    That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
    And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
    And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.

     So many false trails online (if only a respectable corporation with a search engine algorithm could find a way to bring the best information to the top...) Look here, for a brilliant resource on Keats, Adilegian by James Howell, who explains Lycid drowned, go look there if you’re interested, and Laura in her light green dress, who interests me more than dead college roommates, led me down a path I didn’t want to explore, which is apparently what she does; because having read the line “as beautifully as she who robs me of my will,” I found my loose will restrained by Petrarch language, I want to stop reading #29, but humbly, can not.
      Laura is an uncommon dominatrix, not a boring leather-clad pretender whipping others for payment, she is a real tyrant. Petrarch “cannot even tolerate a lighter yoke,” only her cruelty will do, she makes “all disdain sweet,” and “humiliates” him.  He’s bleeding, with arrow tips piercing his chest, but he won’t cry because it would show he regrets his submission, so his soul sighs, he contemplates suicide but doesn’t want freedom.  He remains shackled, she remains chaste.
      Laurels are an uncommon reward. Petrarch “cannot even tolerate a lighter yoke,” only the ultimate (will to) power of language will do, language makes “all disdain sweet,” and “humiliates” him. He’s bleeding with arrow tips piercing his heart, but he won’t cry because it would show he regrets his submission, so his soul sighs, he contemplates suicide but doesn’t want freedom. He continues writing, writing remains unconquered.