There is a great divide among literary theorists on whether we interpret a piece of literature in view of today's age, or we view it in the view of the past. Some silly ideas were posited that we can read a word in its modern denotation over its archaic denotation. But, I find that has a singular answer, that we ought to read a word within its original context.

But, the idea persists, whether we read a work only as it relates in its historical context, or if we read a text as it relates to the modern age. And I think this is a question we ought to answer. The answer, of course, is that we do both.

No work can properly be communicated unless we read it in view of today's age. Without our modern understanding, the works we read can have no significance whatsoever. Having no recourse to modern wisdom, modern ideas, our current environment, the works of the past mean nothing. As, I was reading Samuel Adam's essay, and I had realized quite immediately that the words resonated today as much as they did then.

Yet, if one pedantically read the work as it was in the time period---they would say, "Well, these times were different." I'd say yes, they were. But, without a doubt, the words resonated with me in today's climate, as a defense of freedom in view of the declining Western Condition. That decline is into classism, tyranny, and a loss of mobility. And Samuel Adam's works resonated so strongly, that exactly what he wrote about then applies to today's age. The circumstances are different, yet the principles translate across time barriers. That, if the English can be understood, then there remains cross parallels between the past and present, which are inherent in communication.

It's not a secret that this is how the Bible communicates its message. A lot of preachers go wrong by trying to study it purely within the historical context---and often they evade the obvious meaning by doing so. I've heard it done many times, people drawing what they think the story meant in the contemporary context, such as Jesus' parables or teachings. Yet, the stories are universally so, that it would be appalling to think that one would need that historical context to understand the Bible. People, for centuries, were without it, and the Bible communicated truth to billions of people independently of its historical age.

With this, I think it's important we understand interpretation doesn't mean pedantic forays into the exact context and meaning, to cut off from it relevant meaning for today. It's imperative, often, that one brings with their interpretation some of their own knowledge, or else the knowledge cannot be assimilated within the modern framework.

Equally, it's important to know and interpret the text exactly as it was read back in its age, as that, too, is itself an important context. That too draws wisdom, and historical insight. Therefore, reading ought to be dualistic, keeping both the past and the present in mind when analyzing a text for its significance. 

Various. The Constitution of the United States of America and Selected Writings of the Founding Fathers. "American Independence", by Samuel Adams, pp. 113 -125. Barnes and Noble, inc, Leather Bound Classics, 2012. Text.

In the 1950's, art was censored just like it is today. Today, however, Bukowski would have no problem getting published. He'd be a hero. He'd be a social media warrior. The world as it is today punishes artists like myself. Ones who hone craft, develop theme, achieve excellence and wisdom, punctuate form. Ones who study the craft, find deep intrinsic meaning. Because the world doesn't want meaning. It wants to look at its own affluence, and say, "I despise this."

Bukowski needed to be a writer. Like I, he could do no other thing but write. Writing was a salvation... a way to mend brokenness. Yet, for me it was the sublime childhood I had, the loving mother and father, contrasted with hedonistic peers, scathing and unforgiving fictive family, teachers who didn't give a damn about me. I had not been abused by my mother or father. I had been abused by peers, by teachers who gave me handicaps and made me a target for everyone else.

I have much in common with Bukowski. A childhood riddled with abuse. Yet, I developed trust. Where he didn't. I don't want to be with broken people---I've known enough of them. I want to be with wise people, who have the straight neck tie, who have the nine to five job. I just want my writing to be my nine to five. I want it to be what gives me sustenance, as that is my American Dream. He had his, being the most flagrant supporter of everything wrong. Yet, today we reward that skepticism. And I am skeptical of him. I've met enough men who claimed there were no morals. And those same men scathed me, stabbed me in the heart, and fought scorched earth warfare against my soul. I do not want those people in my life.

I like people who don't have fire in them. People who don't want to take from me. I've had few friends---a few very good friends. And in my poverty, most all have abandoned me, having taught me all I need to know of the human condition. That it is success which conforms a man to this world. I could write Shakespearean quality works, if not for my outlawed craft, that being the observation of a simple fact. There is right and wrong. And I've seen it my whole life. My favorite shows were the ones which taught and showed healthy people. All of my characters are healthy people, sometimes driven insane by an unhealthy world.

For, in the end, I am healthy. I am a healthy man driven insane by the stress of a world which rejected the things I took for granted. Love, Mercy, Forgiveness, Justice, Peace, Unconditional Friendship. Those I took for granted. And I had found that all else, men do not hold the same values I hold. They, rather, revel in the dysfunction and the laziness of scathing well lived lives. I speak not of Warehouse workers, who truly don't earn enough to live. No, I speak of the postmaster, who having everything in life, still feels unsatisfied. I, with nothing but a few people who love me, the people who truly matter, am already satisfied. I am satisfied with little coupled with love. And, I hope to one day be blessed with a small fortune from my golden wisdom. For, I wish to enrich people to see the thing I have. Be satisfied with the thing you choose. Charles, if wise, is wise for having chosen.

Striking verse. Like I myself had written it. I wonder why I'm not published as yet, when I can strike just as hard. Perhaps it's just I answer the question.

God would not call on you, Adonis. Because you wouldn't heed His word. God is not a fool. I don't believe one could conceive of the thoughts of Noah. They were probably very few. Probably like a bunny rabbit, shivering in the bush during a lightning storm. There was probably love.

If the whole world were destroyed today, it were only because they did look for other gods. And found them, they did with science. Which, shamefacedly destroys liberty as we speak. No, the god you refer to, God,---that's His name---His laws are perfect. Should He have destroyed the world during Noah, I can completely understand. Yet, St. Peter said the world this next time would be destroyed by fire. It never said whose.

You strike with verse. Unashamedly. I strike back. Nobody believes in God anymore, and the world is in utter chaos. There is no peace. There is no joy. There is utter pandemonium because men have forsaken His law. Whose, law, is it that you forsake? Do not covet? Do not murder? Honor the Sabbath? If men honored the Sabbath, Adonis, there wouldn't be an ounce of the political and economic corruption there is today. Because men need rest. Do men rest, Adonis? Didn't Christ say, "The Sabbath was made for man?" Yes, because the Laws of God were not some arbitrary thing He told us to laugh at our suffering. It was because by not following it, there would only be suffering.

Moreover, do you have a problem with God being God? Who else would die for you? Give laws so obvious? Did men, or yourself, ever find a law? Are you Mozi or Confucius, a sage? Able to find the Logos? Are you Aristotle? Able to discover the accidental reasons God's law exist? No. You are but a man who took the name of a demigod. You made yourself a hero, foolishly.

Here is what I say to you: Are the worlds better without Christ today? Because He is gone. Do the masses throng to Him? Oh, yes they do, but powerful men like yourself censure the humble masses for wanting Christ as their LORD. They cry for justice, peace, love, joy---yet, they live in abject poverty. Who, therefore, will compensate them for this suffering? Not you, I assume. You write poetry, get rich---maybe you do charity. What then? Are you God, that you can recompense the poor for their lives of utter and abject suffering?

I ask you this question. Since you are the modern day Nietzsche. I saw you compared to T. S. Eliot. Well, even he found faith because he said, famously, "Let me never turn again." Why is that? Perhaps that line needs to be meditated on, Adonis.

Adonis.  "The New Noah."  Poetry Foundation. https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/49323/the-new-noah. 2/13/22. Web.

I have written epics on American history. In perfect form. I have written epics on English Mythology, doing what Tolkien wished to do---his question was my inspiration. I have written Byronic Heroes who fought the demons of my own soul. I have written a thousand or so short poems of various degrees of quality---some might even say, true poesy. I have written cogently on both subjects of Math and Humanity. I have mastered two philosophies, Platonic Forms and Existentialism. I am mastering a third, Epicureanism. I have found kernels which prove God's existence.

I come to this poem, and humbly I say I haven't written anything so beautiful. At first, I figure a friend would encourage another friend to write poetry---Charles Lamb was a lamb of a man. But, as I read it, unable to penetrate the verse, I start to find poison, Achilles, Hight Castalie---that is to be cast on a lying path. I find a true friend. And I read Charles Lamb's poetry. I see the sort of thing I see in the modern poet. That if I were their friend, I would tell them to stop writing it.

Yet, I follow his advice, too. Not because I haven't written anything good, but because there is nowhere left to write. And mystically, he predicts me with his allusion to Auld Lang Syne. The mystery of the Prophets. 

I believe I, too, have written so much over the years. I have mastered poetry. I have mastered my thoughts. Now, rather, I wish to tell what others have spoken. What others have written. For I have a knack for telling the hidden secrets of another's verse. Even the things they do not know or see. And in that is the ministry I have. To draw forth the precious out of the worthless, as God said to Jeremiah. For what is all of this poetry even I write?

Where do I improve? Tell me. I have written in perfect verse the critical moment of American History. I have written in beautiful poesy the Mythology of England. I have touched every subject under the sun---I know no other to be explored. What is within me, is completely exhausted. Yet, I have it in me to write. What can I improve upon with my poetry? Written every Tall Tale again, written even a Pseudepigraphal Gospel. Short of writing a verse of scripture, I have no other mountain to climb. And no scripture, I am afraid, shall ever pour forth from my pen if I am to remain an honest man.

There is nowhere left in poetry. Nor is there anywhere left in fiction. I have written worlds deep, rich---Trilogies the caliber of War and Peace, Novellas of literature like Austen or Melville. I've written my first taste of poetry like Eliot---I was told. I was told, "Your production is Godly." Godly, as in praising God... Yet, it is not godlike. It is the fruit of an imagination which was given to me as a child. My whole life, up to about fifteen, was invented worlds. As a grown up, it shifts to poetry. And finally, as a Sage, it ought to end in essay.

What is the sage? Simply, the man who finds God's Word on his own. And with one more leap, I shall be a disciple.

And more importantly, why ought I write anything more? If it is not to discover what others have found?

Coleridge, Samuel Taylor. The Complete Poems. Edited by William Keach. "To a Friend Who Declared His Intention of Writing No More Poetry" (pp. 125 - 126).  Penguin Classics, 2004. Text.

I shall, in one fell swoop, interpret almost every amateur poet.

They are special, and they are offensive. They have great things to say, and go on and on about themselves and how special they are. True narcissists. They talk about their heroism, their failed love---on and on about how misunderstood they are. They get hundreds of followers who want to be special, too.

They have a hubris, which like many professional athletes is reinforced by their success. Maybe they are special? For, their story of how heroic they are---void of imagination, or theme, or crux, or content---tells all the simplistic story of how greatly misunderstood, how greatly wise they are. Nobody likes them... of course. They have great mysteries to tell us of themselves. They tell us the mystery of themselves, and its end is themselves.

There are a few poets whom this is not the case. And I typically will honor them by interpreting their work. They have heroic deeds. They have things to speak. They have observations, nuanced views, making the strange mundane, or making the mundane strange. They can rightly talk about themselves, for they have learned the subtle art of self-denial. The subtle art of self scathing. No true artist can be a poet unless they have that little man in them telling them and the world their failings.

The poets of modern day sing of themes... like a kaleidoscope being twirled around and around. Telling of failed love---making us horny. Is it truly skill? Is it anything worth writing? They garner their followers---for it seems the pack follows what mostly resembles their own craft. "Should that be successful, then so shall I."  Thus, the Instagram Poetry gets popular, sold for millions of dollars.

I don't mean to sneer, but if the whole interpretation of the poem is just a matter of getting some vague notion of you, I don't think that's a poem. Unless you have made an observation about the real world, or some real conundrum or mystery. Those who are true poets will understand this. The frustration of seeing the flocks tell of how special and offensive they are. No... what I write is offensive. Because I have the audacity to speak.

The one thing this poem teaches me, is that literary snobbery is a tradition old. One cannot recognize talent, nor genius. It's always been the case that great works were neglected. There must always be critics. Yet, how can a man criticize The White Doe of Rylstone? Only a man who is jealous of its genius.

The critics of this poem are unworthy as critics. I'm a distant observer of this feud between the Romantic Poets. And I say no era had produced more genius than it. And why there were critics of one and not the other, it seems to be a place where the wicked and the righteous were dividing. As they are always dividing during and before times of great turmoil. Which, this turns up around the French Revolution, where there was undoubtedly a fracture between the good and evil. Napoleon had little effect on Republicanism in Europe, and actually deterred it if anything. However, like any period where there are a surplus of wickedness, there is great conflict. And the French Revolution---which I categorize the Napoleonic Wars into this time period---was a period where this was apparent.

I'm three sections in, having read the prelude and two cantos. Aside from the obvious appeals to English Nationalism---which is likely the reason the poem was criticized---I don't see this in it at all. Rather, a sympathy is drawn to the characters, of the fatalistic move toward war. An appropriate song for right now.

Una is the Doe, waiting on Emily. The purity, the beauty. What's there to say? That men gather mystical interpretations for events; they invent magical reasons for strange things. And, the poem rather gives an accidental reason for the White Doe visiting the grave. The story goes back, and tells a tale of the true, unmystified reason for the doe to visit the grave. The Doe visits Emily's stone. And that because it is her pet.

What it symbolizes, or what it means is simply the overreaching theme of Wordsworth's, which is the abandonment of superstitious beliefs, and to see the true cause behind them. Peter Bell had the same theme. Rather, to defeat magical thinking with good reason. To explain the doe's arrival at the tomb because it was the pet of the deceased. Not because it was some form of magic, or the doe were a magical totem. Rather, it is to discover the meaning behind the events. The passivity of the characters are reminiscent of Martin Luther King or Gandhi. Nonresistance, and protest. Though it doesn't stop the war---it effects nothing; still, Francis' resistance displays the foreknowledge of the just cause, whom according to the poem's schema the Catholics cannot be in the right. And the end is disastrous. Emily is alone, with only the White Doe as a friend.

And on the third canto, I come to the crux. It's amazing how on the very day I find this artefact from history---the mysterious sign in 1561---this very day, I read the White Doe of Rylstone, where it describes the meaning of the vision. The conflict between North and South, the conflict between Prod and Pape---Wordsworth even in line 258 quotes the very sign I saw, "A spot of shame to the sun's bright eye. " and can be recorded. The mystery of The Great Song is revealed. The vanity of the war between Papal Authority and Protestant Authority. The great destruction it reaps, and the great doubt, where good men fight good men in vain combat.

I find there is no better proof for God than the timing of this little miracle. One of the finest, and I'm glad I can record it today. 1/21/22, I had found this little wonder and researched it. The sign in Nuremburg in 1561. And that is what this poem is about. Exactly what I extracted from the sign. Wordsworth says, " They that deny a God, destroy Man's nobility :" and this little miracle is proof of God's existence. I had not planned this; yet, there it is in history. A one in a quintillion chance. 

And the Fourth Canto expertly tells one of the great futilities of war. Men are given to a cause, rallied, but few are given to the cause; thus, the greater army prevails. In a way, Wordsworth is affirming the Fatalistic view that the right side wins its conflicts. I'm a little more leery of believing that. I don't think enthusiasm for a cause necessarily makes the cause noble. It is very possible for there to be so much enthusiasm for something outright evil, and it then prevails and creates mischief. And men, being given to the idea, to think it noble, bring themselves into tyranny's bond. Wordsworth obviously believes the Catholic Army of Seven Hundred is fated to lose their battle; because obviously they are in the wrong. I've seen other truths unfortunately. The changing of times, from bad times to worse times by the consent of individuals who think the worse is nobler than the previous. What's the worst is seeing something good, and knowing it is good, and watching all enthusiasm for it wane. It's like that moment in child's play where the kids get bored of the game, and migrate to some other place on the playground. War is no different. A time's zeitgeist is no different. There are those who wish to resist, for living is worse than dying. 

I reflect on that particular thought, with regard to Patrick Henry and Thomas Paine. I have no doubt that if Patrick Henry were alive today, he would be as adamant as me for retaining liberty. However, Thomas Paine would be a recluse, fearing for his life. Thus, Common Sense wouldn't be written today; for Thomas Paine the tyranny would be his rebellion, for fear of a slight chance of getting sick. There was a time period where even the most ignoble man had nobility because God's law reigned on every man's heart, even those who rebelled against Him. I do hope I'm wrong.

And coming back to this story fresh, the battle is set, and Francis' entire family goes to war for the comforts of their faith. For the comforts of their old regime. And they stand on the hill, and fight. Emily, the White Doe of Rylestone, searches for her fallen brothers, and receives word that Francis still lives. Yet, it is only a fable. Francis, wishing to keep himself out of the war, even protesting the conflict, took up his ensign of his father's house, and was stricken down.

There is no better poetic ending for a man. It gives me great pleasure that Francis had not struck down a man in combat, but did take up the flag of his father. I feel like no better fate could a man have, to die for his country, for his freedom, for his beliefs, yet not have to partake in the bloodshed. To take up the flag, bear the standard, and rush into battle with your loved ones, your family, your friends, your ideals---as the social order falls around you. As the insanity of the world breeds confusion and chaos. To take up at once the cry for battle, the cry to defend oneself, yet to do it peacefully. There is no better way for a pacifist to die. It is the way Ghandi died. And Martin Luther King Jr.. And the way many other peaceful men died; with the banner in their hand, standing unafraid for their ideals, and to die serving the ones they wish to protect. Other great men of peace died in old age, warning of the social upheavals which would inevitably come after they had perished. Though Tolstoy and Dostoevsky were not martyrs, Tolstoy died vexed, trying to flee the world he saw changing too much. And no better way for a pacifist and poet to die, than to die with the standard grasped in his "Palsied hand". To refused to shed blood, but to allow one's own blood shed for the freedom of others. Yet, the sad moment we realize the battle Francis fought was futile. Henry VIII was going to be king, Protestantism was going to change the landscape of Britain, and in some ways cause frightful tyranny. Where, in other countries, Catholicism caused frightful tyrannies. In Wordsworth's day, it was the very cause of liberty that created a frightful tyranny. The ideals of America swept over Europe, infatuated by Voltaire and Rousseau, by the United States' democracy, they launched into bloody Tyranny, and when all failed, elected a King who led them on to more bloody infamy. Yet, the residual of that conflict had lasting impacts which freed me to write this essay, and be heard in Europe and now even in countries which censor speech. I am heard around the world. And if war came to my country, I would die like Francis. Yet, as I recently wrote, the blood merely washes down the stream where I feed, and here there is peace. War's tide affects me very little, except to amble down the waterways. I am glad to be blessed by peace.

And finally, we succumb to the ruins of Rylestone. There, where Francis lay, is the grave which holds him. The ideals are dead, and Emily is given a friend to console her. It is the White Doe. The white doe consoles her, and gives its love. It is an "Inferior Creature", that is, a meek kind of animal, thus gentle, and able to love a human. It is loved by Emily, and is her blessing through the heartache of losing her family to their ideals. The war took all her brethren, her father, and she was consoled by the miraculous friendship of a doe. Such a thing gives such promise to life. Such meaning. Such a rarity does console. Where something rare happens, where something unexpected, it gives the soul a comfort. And, the doe visits Emily's grave, as it was her friend. There, Emily is buried next to her mother, and the Doe visits the dilapidated grave sight. It is not a totem---it is a physical manifestation of a miracle. The doe, alive, befriended of Emily, visits her. It is not magical. It is not ethereal. It is physical, yet underlies what is a realistic miracle. One subtle, miraculous, yet believable. It is not something fanciful, something impossible;---it is real.

Wordsworth, William. The Collected Poems of William Wordsworth. Wordsworth Editions Unlimited, 1994. Text.

One day I intend to do a line by line analysis of the poem. Since everyone ought to study one epic poem in their life---study it intensely, knowing each nuance, each line, each rhythm---The Shakespearean sonnets will be my subject.

However, upon reading them, I was fully immersed in the notion that Shakespeare was singing about a gay lover. I had begun reading the first 126 lines with that in mind. However, I don't think that's an appropriate reading, and I'd like to explain some of my reasons why.

For one thing, the beginning of the poem seems to insinuate that the subject being carried up was something like a son to Shakespeare, and that this individual had died, or was wounded, while courting a woman. With this in view, it makes a lot of the passages more clear, rather than more opaque. And further, if we account the latter portion of the Sonnets to the subject's mother---the Black Lady---we begin to bring a tapestry of what the poems are about. Hamnet. Whom, probably, was Shakespeare's son to a Concubine, and being encouraged to find a wife and bear a son, he had gotten himself into trouble like Romeo. There's one sonnet in particular where Hamnet is described as Shakespeare's muse in all of his work. And if it's a gay lover, I don't think one can find Romeo and Juliet from that, but rather the plot structure of the first few Sonnets seem to tell a Romeo type story of failed courtship which was fatal.

Further on, there's some references to Shakespeare being a "Slave" to the subject of the poem. Some requite this as gay love, but I find it more probable that Shakespeare is using a device of irony to say that he was his Concubine's Son's slave. Which is more in line, that the adoration---and reference to Hamnet's fair skin and Cheeks---seem to be references to his availability for courtship and the wrong committed against him.

There are some twenty passages I've found that directly relate to death, that the subject has died, and then the poem begins to fracture into two distinct characters. Love and then the Character of Hamnet who becomes a symbol of love. The character, Love, is possibly a reference to the fame of his poem. If Love should die, then nobody would read the Epitaph of Hamnet's. If Love keeps men reading the poems, then love lives even after Shakespeare's death. Then Hamnet, in turn, lives on through Shakespeare's poem. As there are two distinct individuals being talked about in the poem. Separated. There is Hamnet who died. And then the figure of Love, whom Hamnet becomes a symbol for. And the reading of the poem is what preserves the love.

There's several hints that Shakespeare believes the poem will be skewed by the "Sluttishness of Time"; that is, somehow he could foresee the Logos being skewed, and then maybe this faulty interpretation becoming canon. I believe Shakespeare had some inclination that the poem was going to be interpreted as erotic, when he never intended it to be erotic. As the poem's subject is Love. The character in the poem whose cheeks are often referred to is dead or near death, while Love lives on and is continued to be enjoyed for as long as his poem is read, and the epitaph is read. As, the poem several times calls itself an epitaph for the individual in the poem. It is a love poem of a Father's devotion to his Son who died unfairly, when courting a woman. There can be no other interpretation, for the poem is cognizant of its being skewed toward eroticism---several times the poem is self aware that it could be misrepresented or misunderstood. And it might even seem inappropriate for a father to write such a thing about his deceased son. And Shakespeare is cognizant that Love itself could be misrepresented by the poem. It seems embarrassing, as a writer at that time was not prone to using such emotionality. 

However, let us look at the possibility of Shakespeare singing a homoerotic song. Then why refer to the subject having died so often? In the sonnets are some thirty references to death having already happened. Anywhere there is a slight hint of the poem becoming erotic, the next sonnet will bring one to bear with the truth that the poem is actually about Hamnet. Perhaps the "Slutishness of time" was precisely the erotic reading of the poem, that Shakespeare was subtly aware of being a possible rendering. It might have been indecent for a father to sing about his son that way, or the boy might have been commonly known to be of African descent. In either case, the poem is speaking of a Father's love, and his epitaph to his son who became the embodiment of love, having pursued a woman whom he was unequal with for the time's standard.

It is my imagination that Shakespeare was a good man, who loved his son, and when his son wanted to court the woman whom he chose, Shakespeare encouraged it, and this led to the unfortunate circumstance of a wound. Perhaps the sonnets were being written at the time of Hamnet's deathbed, which could be a heart-wrenching song of a father not knowing if his son will survive.

I've written copious amounts of work over the course of a day or two. It's not unlikely that Shakespeare had composed this entire piece in less than four or five days. So, it could have been written while Hamnet was on his deathbed, recovering from a wound he acquired from a failed romance. As the subject is the muse of all of Shakespeare's writing. I leave this off, as it is the interpretation that seems most in line with the subject. A father in the bargaining phase of grief, writing what is the world's best piece of literature.

Shakespeare, William. The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, Illustrated. Crown Publishers, inc., 1975. Text.