"The Gods of Olympus" by Giulio Romano, 1528. ‘In Defense of the Aesthetic Sense’ and Other Poetry by Gil Hackel The Society July 21, 2016 Beauty, Poetry 2 Comments In Defense of the Aesthetic Sense When lovely melodies arouse and wake My dormant bliss, or true words do the same, Dark, dour-visaged men intrude to claim My bliss is false, awakened by mistake. To those who fear sweet strains might make us deaf Or landscapes pierce our eyes until we’re blind, I say, “The sense of beauty lives in mind, Not on the staves beside the treble clef.” What’s more, beyond the mind, well past the throat That chants its tune, mellifluous in tone, Another Entity sits on His throne: The only Source of ear and mind and note. When wise men—as they’re called—can vainly preach That we may loathe this world, and even should, Although the Lord Himself declared it Good What can I do but find them in the breach? Their hate of beauty strikes me as unkind To Him, who made five senses and mind’s sense, And hate is such a piffling, weak defense When sound and bliss seem purposely aligned. Let’s seek to beautify our streets and souls, Let’s see and see through harp and pipe and drum, Recalling where they trace their Origin from, And love both painted elms and elm tree boles. And when each of our senses has been tried, And when we know the sense of bliss inside, Our mind’s fine sense will be so rarified That we’ll acknowledge Heaven when we’ve died. Today the World Gave Me News Today the world gave me news That giving gives without demand, Though hearts may beckon and command, Love heeds no expectation. When souls of men are bruised and bent, When beards are grown and clothes are rent, Within the depths of discontentment, And pure perturbation, An ancient stillness, hidden and unknown Resides, much as a ball of yarn unwinds, And though its form unravels Its basic strand comes known. I sat alone, in crushing self-defeat Too empty and too tired to want, When like a raindrop, mercy fell on me, Unlikely as a midnight dawn to me; And long I marveled, open mouthed, Although it was no mystery; My brain (by pain) had been distilled Like sour grapes make sparkling wines, I lost, and sought not to be filled, And my emptiness became divine. For Love loves those who lack desire And gives to those in time She deigns Humble silence is what She admires, Both in highest pleasures and in numbing pains. Gil Hackel began writing poetry at age 8, and along with several classmates was included in the Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans for three years running. His university education spans two continents: as an undergraduate student in Creative Writing at San Francisco State University, and as an MA student at Bar Ilan University in Israel. He currently resides in Tel Aviv and plans to begin doctoral studies in Literature this fall. This is his first publication since grade school. Related Post ‘Sing Me Not’ by Oliver Mort Goddess, sing me not, that barbaric yawp of man’s puny sorrows. He wants to swap his countless ills, not go down to Hades. The dogs and vultures wa... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 2 Responses james sale July 22, 2016 I really like these poems: the discursive and philosophical nature is extremely well handled in a verse form that could easily descend to bathos, but doesn’t; this is extremely promising poetry. Reply Michael Curtis July 22, 2016 Well done. Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email.