The meaning of metaxis is illustrated below, in the text of a poem, -- a poem not forgotten because few people ever saw it. Metaxis is the 'in between' --- strictly speaking it means you do not conclude in your verbal (binary, rational) mind, about something. This leaves actual thinking with a growing edge, sensitive to reality itself. Thoughts can have a comma, rather than a period, at their end, and this is metaxis. The following is not a great example, but I think it qualifies.
We quote our own article in CLA:
T. J. Powys had his poetry published in a volume titled Poems, (1891). Some of the poems were written in the mid 1850s. He was a lawyer and like so many 19th century intellects, capable of complex thought in a manner mainly lost in our ideological times. There is very little documentation available on the web for Powys but I have determined that he is (probably) not connected with the later Welsh family of literary geniuses. 'Powys' may be a pseudonym. A reasonable guess is that he was born in the 1830s. The 'Temple' referred to below is not a religious reference but the place where lawyers resided in London at the time.
T. J. Powys was still alive in the 1890s where I found a review of his book, in a periodical issue dated February 13, 1892. We quote from: The Speaker: A Review of Politics, Letters, Science, and the Arts:
Of Mr. T. J. Powys's belated volume not much need be said. Private applause is usually bad criticism, and the epistolary approbation of Walter Savage Landor, of all men, is no excuse for the publication of mediocre verse. Neither is the encouragement of Mr. Froude a generally accepted sign of poetic merit. Had Mr. Powys's early pieces been published at the time they were written they might have attracted some attention. The later verses are not specially striking. A blank-verse essay on Burns has great literary, but non-poetic, merit.
This criticism I quote is said of the author of a poem I would rank among the greatest poetry extant. The book reviewed is available at Hathitrust for you to make up your own mind. But the poem on which I evaluated this writer is below. You will note that the main body concerns those middle of the night doubts that most of us have experienced. The author though takes a view of man's mind which is still connected with the Greek depths of knowledge. The metaxis, the in-between, is the subject of this verse, which in fact is a lovely evocation of the meaning of this term. "The middle" is in fact a useful term for man's rational mind because it highlights the fact thinking cannot reliably 'conclude' much at all. The rational binary mind is surrounded by oceans of ignorance in all dimensions, were the truth recognized. And then there is the clarity of his lines, and the complexity of his apprehensions. And his theme is -- not evil, not injustice, per se, but why do the guiltless animals have to suffer.
MIDNIGHT; MIDWINTER:
A STRAY CAT MEWING AT MY DOOR IN THE TEMPLE.
I.
The mystic midnight of the world of man,
The dawn still far away, the stars of morn
Still unawaking, sunk in pierceless gloom -
II.
Fain would I find within my wildered thought
Some guiding gleam, relumed [stet] as consciousness
Gains re-possession, in reviving sense
Of that perpetual Presence, which to all
"Who own it as the heart may learn to own,
Is light, and universal light would be
Though all the suns evanished as a spark.
III.
Fain would I staunch the surging doubts that wake
Like midnight fears, and throb against my heart,
That tries to arm it and repel the tide.
Fain would I stem the darkness of the hour,
Thus haunted by the foe, whose hour it is,
Fain rest in loving faith, and wait the light.
IV.
But dark. to me, and darker (nor alone
In this dark, lonely hour of night, but oft
In garish, worldly day, full oft, when I
Have brooded on my sorrows, and on theirs,
The humble, harmless creatures, that endure
Without the strength of reason or of hope
Sustaining, all the ills they never earned.
Cold, hunger, pain, all pains that baser man,
Their " lord," unworthy and unjust, can wreak
Upon their mute, meek helplessness..., to me
In many an hour, both in the world of men
By day, and midst the worlds of God by night.
Darker to mind, and deeper far to heart,
That moral mystery of His work than aught
That tries our reason in the rugged realms
Of Scripture, science, history, whereof
I know the mazes, rocks, and storms, and syrts, [stet]
The depths and shallows, having long and far
Sought strength and light, sought " treasure," which to win
I staked all care and cost and hope, staked all
For truth, and won it, as I still will deem.
V.
" We see in part " — alas ! how much we see
Of suffering and its mystery, which is.
Among so much, a pang the not least keen.
" We know in part " — how little do we know
Of God's great scheme ! how much that mind of man
Can never, never save as evil see !
We cannot, oh ! we cannot understand
How such a world of woes (not ours alone,
IX.
No, puss : I did not leave you at the door,
Out in the cold, while I with blank, blank verse
Echoed your cry, so much more mewsical.
Mewsical is not just creative and, charming, The final word resolves the entire poem. The verbosities, the tangles of the rational mind, are smoothed with a sudden convincing perspective. The partiality of the mind's grasp, obvious and agonizing, is assuring and authenticating when we consider that the mind's chatter is after all, about the same as a cat's cry.
We quote our own article in CLA:
T. J. Powys had his poetry published in a volume titled Poems, (1891). Some of the poems were written in the mid 1850s. He was a lawyer and like so many 19th century intellects, capable of complex thought in a manner mainly lost in our ideological times. There is very little documentation available on the web for Powys but I have determined that he is (probably) not connected with the later Welsh family of literary geniuses. 'Powys' may be a pseudonym. A reasonable guess is that he was born in the 1830s. The 'Temple' referred to below is not a religious reference but the place where lawyers resided in London at the time.
T. J. Powys was still alive in the 1890s where I found a review of his book, in a periodical issue dated February 13, 1892. We quote from: The Speaker: A Review of Politics, Letters, Science, and the Arts:
Of Mr. T. J. Powys's belated volume not much need be said. Private applause is usually bad criticism, and the epistolary approbation of Walter Savage Landor, of all men, is no excuse for the publication of mediocre verse. Neither is the encouragement of Mr. Froude a generally accepted sign of poetic merit. Had Mr. Powys's early pieces been published at the time they were written they might have attracted some attention. The later verses are not specially striking. A blank-verse essay on Burns has great literary, but non-poetic, merit.
This criticism I quote is said of the author of a poem I would rank among the greatest poetry extant. The book reviewed is available at Hathitrust for you to make up your own mind. But the poem on which I evaluated this writer is below. You will note that the main body concerns those middle of the night doubts that most of us have experienced. The author though takes a view of man's mind which is still connected with the Greek depths of knowledge. The metaxis, the in-between, is the subject of this verse, which in fact is a lovely evocation of the meaning of this term. "The middle" is in fact a useful term for man's rational mind because it highlights the fact thinking cannot reliably 'conclude' much at all. The rational binary mind is surrounded by oceans of ignorance in all dimensions, were the truth recognized. And then there is the clarity of his lines, and the complexity of his apprehensions. And his theme is -- not evil, not injustice, per se, but why do the guiltless animals have to suffer.
MIDNIGHT; MIDWINTER:
A STRAY CAT MEWING AT MY DOOR IN THE TEMPLE.
I.
The mystic midnight of the world of man,
The dawn still far away, the stars of morn
Still unawaking, sunk in pierceless gloom -
II.
Fain would I find within my wildered thought
Some guiding gleam, relumed [stet] as consciousness
Gains re-possession, in reviving sense
Of that perpetual Presence, which to all
"Who own it as the heart may learn to own,
Is light, and universal light would be
Though all the suns evanished as a spark.
III.
Fain would I staunch the surging doubts that wake
Like midnight fears, and throb against my heart,
That tries to arm it and repel the tide.
Fain would I stem the darkness of the hour,
Thus haunted by the foe, whose hour it is,
Fain rest in loving faith, and wait the light.
IV.
But dark. to me, and darker (nor alone
In this dark, lonely hour of night, but oft
In garish, worldly day, full oft, when I
Have brooded on my sorrows, and on theirs,
The humble, harmless creatures, that endure
Without the strength of reason or of hope
Sustaining, all the ills they never earned.
Cold, hunger, pain, all pains that baser man,
Their " lord," unworthy and unjust, can wreak
Upon their mute, meek helplessness..., to me
In many an hour, both in the world of men
By day, and midst the worlds of God by night.
Darker to mind, and deeper far to heart,
That moral mystery of His work than aught
That tries our reason in the rugged realms
Of Scripture, science, history, whereof
I know the mazes, rocks, and storms, and syrts, [stet]
The depths and shallows, having long and far
Sought strength and light, sought " treasure," which to win
I staked all care and cost and hope, staked all
For truth, and won it, as I still will deem.
V.
" We see in part " — alas ! how much we see
Of suffering and its mystery, which is.
Among so much, a pang the not least keen.
" We know in part " — how little do we know
Of God's great scheme ! how much that mind of man
Can never, never save as evil see !
We cannot, oh ! we cannot understand
How such a world of woes (not ours alone,
Which man, we hear, has merited, but theirs —
"What have they done, these sheep? --the things of life
That live to suffer and to die and go),
How such a world, with ceaseless anguish racked
Through ages unimaginably vast,
Can stand in His bright presence, can in Him
Live, move, and have its being. Well I know
Full many a beauteous system theorized
By seers who of the purpose saw so much
And felt so little of the pain. Full well
I know and loathe them ; and full fain would frame
Some other, which should less perplex the mind.
Less vex the heart.
---" Shall see it, but not now."
Thou art so near, and yet so far away.
VI.
The Muslim worships The Most Merciful ;
The bard of Judah sang — and echoing hearts
Rise resonant — His mercy over all.
"What have they done, these sheep? --the things of life
That live to suffer and to die and go),
How such a world, with ceaseless anguish racked
Through ages unimaginably vast,
Can stand in His bright presence, can in Him
Live, move, and have its being. Well I know
Full many a beauteous system theorized
By seers who of the purpose saw so much
And felt so little of the pain. Full well
I know and loathe them ; and full fain would frame
Some other, which should less perplex the mind.
Less vex the heart.
---" Shall see it, but not now."
Thou art so near, and yet so far away.
VI.
The Muslim worships The Most Merciful ;
The bard of Judah sang — and echoing hearts
Rise resonant — His mercy over all.
But this mid-winter midnight and the woes
That cry where none but kindred wretches hear,
And none can succour, this the present world,
That lies, this Yule, in midnight black and frore [stet]
Where *' little ones," God's creatures, harmless things
That never sinned, lie perishing — What word
Of comfort comes ? — " How long? oh, Lord! how long '?"
VII.
To whom, then, shall we turn, unless to Thee ?
And can we but cry, " I believe : help Thou
Mine unbelief?'' Thou knowest. What Thou doest
We know not now ; but Thou Thyself hast said
That we shall know hereafter. So I gaze
Through the black midnight and the starless gloom,
And seek some source of light, light uncreate,
Far, far beyond the sun, the light of love
That yet may kindle faith ; though still, oh ! still,
I find so much in this wide howling waste
Too hard for reason, all too hard for heart —
Almost for faith ; but faith, whose name is trust.
Trust loving, generous, brave, could find no scope
If reason, bargaining for solid proof,
Saw certitude. We strain dimmed, weary eyes
Tow'rds where, 'tis told, all tears are wiped away.
There must they rest ; or where ? Where, save in love ?
Love trusts in Love ; and trust is Faith, and Faith
Holds all our hope ; and hope may bear with life,
And rise remanded to Redress above.
VIII
And Love Divine has walked the world of man,
And smiled upon " these little ones," and said
That what we do for one " the least of these "
Is done for Him ; that not a sparrow falls
Unmarked of God ; that unto Him live all.
That cry where none but kindred wretches hear,
And none can succour, this the present world,
That lies, this Yule, in midnight black and frore [stet]
Where *' little ones," God's creatures, harmless things
That never sinned, lie perishing — What word
Of comfort comes ? — " How long? oh, Lord! how long '?"
VII.
To whom, then, shall we turn, unless to Thee ?
And can we but cry, " I believe : help Thou
Mine unbelief?'' Thou knowest. What Thou doest
We know not now ; but Thou Thyself hast said
That we shall know hereafter. So I gaze
Through the black midnight and the starless gloom,
And seek some source of light, light uncreate,
Far, far beyond the sun, the light of love
That yet may kindle faith ; though still, oh ! still,
I find so much in this wide howling waste
Too hard for reason, all too hard for heart —
Almost for faith ; but faith, whose name is trust.
Trust loving, generous, brave, could find no scope
If reason, bargaining for solid proof,
Saw certitude. We strain dimmed, weary eyes
Tow'rds where, 'tis told, all tears are wiped away.
There must they rest ; or where ? Where, save in love ?
Love trusts in Love ; and trust is Faith, and Faith
Holds all our hope ; and hope may bear with life,
And rise remanded to Redress above.
VIII
And Love Divine has walked the world of man,
And smiled upon " these little ones," and said
That what we do for one " the least of these "
Is done for Him ; that not a sparrow falls
Unmarked of God ; that unto Him live all.
IX.
No, puss : I did not leave you at the door,
Out in the cold, while I with blank, blank verse
Echoed your cry, so much more mewsical.
Christian tropes? Of course, it's the 19th century. Christianity was just a temporary map after all. The poem above documents that the map worked some of the time. Verbose?, yes, I will grant you verbose. The guy's a lawyer.
But I place this poem in the ranks of the best Victorian literature because not just of the philosophical sophistication but because of the complexity of the final pun.
Mewsical is not just creative and, charming, The final word resolves the entire poem. The verbosities, the tangles of the rational mind, are smoothed with a sudden convincing perspective. The partiality of the mind's grasp, obvious and agonizing, is assuring and authenticating when we consider that the mind's chatter is after all, about the same as a cat's cry.
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