Many years later, however, I was introduced to a new "poet" of sorts, or at least a master of prose, who wrote in an archetypical style like Isaiah of old, or Melville or Hemmingway in more recent days; an obscure fellow whose words flow from the page timeless, masterful, and thoughtful; a feast for the hungry traveler with little to eat whilst sojourning across the desert of literature that is our day, the sun beating down with its barren words as we thirst like the traveler, who suffers as if he were a prisoner in an age of shackles and dungeons -- the victim of a dark age; of repression -- indeed, the words as I first read them flowed like silk onto a parched tongue, and the words, of course, came from none other Bob Bobberson. Yes, I knew of his masterful narratives and the many levels of meanings they offered, however, I did not know until recently that Bobberson was also a prophet and likely, a seer.
Consider his epic work, The Mopologist also Rises. In part 6, we read of Mopologist Merlyn Young, who had a little time to spend relaxing after a long day:
Recall, this was published in 2014. And now fast-forward to 2023:Bob Bobberson wrote: With this in mind he was in a somewhat celebratory mood, and so he fetched one of his Schott Zwiesel wine glasses. Though he'd never had a taste of alcohol in his entire life, he'd been given these glasses as a gift during a trip to Europe some time back, and he enjoyed using them: he found they added a touch of refinement to whatever he was drinking (in this case, caffeine-free Mr. Pibb), and the shape of the glass helped to focus the bouquet. He lowered his nose down into the glass and took a big whiff: caramel, vanilla, notes of toffee and cinnamon. Bubbles from the carbonation tickled his nose and upper lip. He took a drink and then set the glass down and went to the refrigerator and got the mayonnaise and ketchup, and mixed them in equal parts in a small bowl so that he'd have some fry sauce for his meal. (This makeshift fry sauce was one of the few things he actually knew how to make). He took his plate, his bowl of sauce, and his wine glass of Mr. Pibb off into his study and set them down at his desk.
This had always been his favorite room in the house: masculine yet subdued and furnished with dark wood and leather. There was a decorative globe in a stand in one corner, and all the walls were lined with bookshelves. Atop one of the shelves was a ship in a bottle that his son Nathan had made for him some years back. Next he went to his CD collection to pick out the proper music to accompany his meal: would it be Mahler tonight, perhaps? Or maybe Rimsky-Korsakov? Berlioz? Mahler it is, then. The 3rd, that is, the Leonard Bernstein version. Perfect. Plus, he had been dipping into the Romantic poets. "Tintern Abbey," a piece he'd enjoyed since his undergraduate days at BYU, would be the icing on the cake. He pulled it off the bookshelf, and then he sat down at his desk and pressed "Play" on the stereo remote, and let the sensation wash over him.
It was glorious: he held open his copy of Wordsworth with his left had and read while he dipped his corn dogs and tater tots into his fry sauce with his right hand. And he washed it all down with the redoubtable Mr. Pibb. "Exquisite," he said, licking his lips, and chuckled at himself. It was silly, sure, but enjoyable too. He was enjoying himself: the superb symphony, the crunch of the corn dog, the creaminess of the jello salad, the salted-caramel finish of the soda. What more could a person want? This was living.
https://www.patheos.com/blogs/danpeters ... ality.html
After a long day’s drive via country roads from Edinburgh via Hadrian’s Wall and the small market town of Alston, which has a Latter-day Saint historical connection, we’ve finally arrived at the justly famous Lake District, which known not only for its beauty but for its association with William Wordsworth (1770-1850) and other notable poets and writers associated with English Romanticism.
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You can perhaps understand why I’m in a Wordsworthian mood. I always am when I come here.
So — nobody’s forcing you to read this! — I’m going to share a couple of my favorite passages from him. The first comes from his “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey” (or, to be more full and exact, from his “Lines Composed a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye During a Tour, July 13, 1798”). In this passage, Wordsworth tells how he has moved from a simple youthful veneration of wild nature to a perception that nature somehow points to something vast, perhaps even something divine, that lies beyond itself.
