I’ll trust we all know the Hindu stories involving Saturn and his maleficent gaze. Today, to help earn his favor and ward off any problems, we’ll encourage you to dive into a poem that involves a different Saturn. We bring you The Fall of Hyperion — A Dream by John Keats. From Canto I (and it isn’t very long because he abandoned it):
Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for a sect; the savage too
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not
Trac’d upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
The shadows of melodious utterance.
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable charm
And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say,
‘Thou art no Poet may’st not tell thy dreams?’
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purpos’d to rehearse
Be poet’s or fanatic’s will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.
It ends with these evocative words: “On he flared.”
Would that all our asana practice ended so dramatically.
Posted by Steve