The Poetry of Paradox

Norse Mythology: The Mead of Poets

‘They came together to negotiate a peace, and once the negotiations were concluded, they marked their truce by each of them, Aesir and Vanir alike, one by one spitting into a vat.  As their spit mingled, so was their agreement binding.’

When the war between the gods of the Vanir and the Aesir finally ended, they sealed their peace agreement by ‘spitting into a vat.’  And from this mingled spit a wise man, named Kvasir, was created:

‘Kvasir, made of the joining of the Aesir and the Vanir, was the wisest of the gods: he combined head and heart.  The gods jostled each other to be the next to ask him questions, and his answers to them were always wise.  He observed keenly, and he interpreted what he saw correctly.’

Kvasir travelled around the world to give knowledge to humankind. One day, he visited the dwarves Fjalar and Galar. They killed him and poured his blood into two vats called Bodn and Son. They mixed his blood with honey, thus creating a Poetic Mead which made anybody who drank it a poet or sage. 

So, out of a truce between two opposing forces, poetic wisdom is distilled.  I love that. 

I think there is something about being able to hold tensions, occupy paradox and resist either/or thinking that opens up a wiser perspective.  This stance may sound very appealing, spacious and lofty, but in reality, it’s not an attractive space to occupy.  And I think the Norse capture the essence of this kind poetic wisdom.  It’s messy.  It’s dirty.  It’s spit and blood.  It’s not pure.  It offends our penchant for moral, political and religious absolutes.  It’s the Priests’ and Politicians’ worst nightmare:  a concoction of compromise, coexistence and contradiction.  I mean, how do you sell complexity?  How do you brand nuance?   How do you market a paradox?  (No wonder the Liberal Democrats struggle!)

This mythical beverage could symbolise what is sometimes called, by inner wisdom traditions, the tertium quid; a third something, also known as a Third Way.  Once we can stand in that third spacious way, neither fighting nor fleeing, we are in the creative space from which genuine newness can come. 

I love how the Norse connect poetry to wisdom.  As a teacher of Religion, Philosophy and Ethics I often encounter a view from my younger students that marries intelligence with the sciences and mathematics.  And although there are many wonderful paradoxes in these languages, I don’t think anything has the magical power for holding tensions like poetry.  Seemingly opposite emotions, ideas and forces can play in a wider new whole.  Questions and answers can dance.  Wisdom can sing.

The mythology of the Poetic Mead is as messy as its material parts.  There is murder, betrayal and deception.  And I think that’s important.  Its wisdom can hold such violations and impurities.  I find that Norse Mythology holds both the tragedy and comedy of life.  Like a good wedding or funeral, suffering and joy are acknowledged.  Profundity and profanity are welcomed guests.  Solemnity and silliness allowed.  And what is often read at these contradictory rites of passage?  Poetry.  Why?  Because it is lived wisdom, the spit and blood, that can hold both the heaven and hell, life and death, light and dark.  Biology and maths just aren’t up for it!  

On the subject of weddings… I think for a relationship to thrive, it is vital to learn the lessons of The Poetic Mead, and hold the seemingly bipolar powers in a messy elixir of spit and blood:  being one and two; inseparable and separate; intimate yet independent; attached but detached.  Not easy.  But it’s holding these tensions that brings an end to the war at the heart of our marriages, friendships and partnerships.  And if these opposites aren’t held, we either grow bitterly apart or resentfully close.  We become strangers or feel strangled.  We become a conflict not a paradox.  An argument not a poem.

The poet Rainer Maria Rilke offered some excellent advice in a letter to the German expressionist painter Paula Modersohn-Becker on managing the tension between the pull of autonomy and togetherness in relationships:

‘I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people: that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other. For, if it lies in the nature of indifference and of the crowd to recognize no solitude, then love and friendship are there for the purpose of continually providing the opportunity for solitude. And only those are the true sharings which rhythmically interrupt periods of deep isolation.’

I will end this week’s blog with a passage that was read at my own wedding (and many others I am sure), from the great Lebanese-American poet, philosopher and painter Kahlil Gibran.  We have these words in a painting by our bed.  There is something contradictory about having such a reading at a wedding, as it asks us to ‘make not a bond of love’, which is precisely what is going on when we exchange vows, rings and legal documents.  But I like that.  It acknowledges the paradox.  Contains the tension.  And it reminds me, that out of holding the seemingly impossible, messy and conflicting forces; something sweet, wise and peaceful is brewed:  The Mead of Poets.

Take it away Kahil Gibran…

‘Then Almitra spoke again and said, And
what of Marriage, master?
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you
shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white
wings of death scatter your days.
Ay, you shall be together even in the
silent memory of God.
But let there be spaces in your togetherness,
And let the winds of the heavens dance
between you.

Love one another, but make not a bond
of love:
Let it rather be a moving sea between
the shores of your souls.
Fill each other’s cup but drink not from
one cup.
Give one another of your bread but eat
not from the same loaf.
Sing and dance together and be joyous,
but let each one of you be alone,
Even as the strings of a lute are alone
though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each
other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain
your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near
together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and the cypress grow
not in each other’s shadow.’