william blake

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forest of the night
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Something Loon said during the trek up Mt Stong has been buzzing like a pesky fly in my head.

Out of the blue he sang verses from The Tyger.

I don't know what on earth sparked him off (most prob the heat got into the brains lah). Under normal circumstances I'd have found that a neat talking point.

But NOT when you're desperately trying not to die from the heat and weight and strain and catch your thinning breath and give an intelligent reply ALL at the same time. I just grumbled and willed him to shut up.

By giving it a silly lala tune, scouts and guides have routinely neutered The Tyger. I could never for the life of me understand why they chose this piece out of Blake's others (or any other). Could be the Christian overtones and wonder of Creationism in the poem. WHATever.

Anyway.

When I first read it (in JC I think) I had the benefit of not studying it for O level Lit so I was freed of all that Cliffs Notes rote religious crap and could interpret it on my own terms.

I reacted to it on a very human level. I associated it with Frankenstein.

And in a further sense the wonderment and - at the same time - delicate trepidation of the power of science and the uncertainty of choice that comes with creating.

Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Good poem, but not my favourite. I could appreciate it as any former PC student would (it is still Blake's defining poetic achievement) but the rhyme didn't work for me and the hook wasn't there. It didn't feel complete or revelatory. I was not impressed.

My fave Blake is a lot simpler. One that impressed me and spoke to me on a deeper, more feral and primordial yet profound level which I could associated with in terms of people and events:

I was angry with my friend:
I told my wrath, my wrath did end.
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I water'd it in fears,
Night and morning with my tears;
And I sunned it with my smiles
And with soft deceitful wiles.

And it grew both day and night,
Till it bore an apple bright;
And my foe beheld it shine,
And he knew that it was mine,

And into my garden stole
When the night had veil'd the pole:
In the morning glad I see
My foe outstretch'd beneath the tree

I discovered The Poison Tree by accident. Someone had left a printout on my table (unintentionally, I hope!) when I first started work in my first company as a lowly paid writer. I still have that prinout; I've recently binded it with some other nifty stuff I collected.

The company is... still around. Barely.

I grin with glee every time I recall the connection.