ARS POETICA (by Archibold MacLeish)

A poem should not mean
But be

A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit,

Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb,

Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown –

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

*

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs,

Leaving, as the moon releases
Twig by twig the night-entangled trees,

Leaving, as the moon behind the winter leaves,
Memory by memory the mind –

A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs.

*

A poem should be equal to:
Not true.

For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf.

For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea –

A poem should not mean
But be.

Roger McGough on Haiku

The only problem
with Haiku is that you just
get started and then

Perfect. And here are two more unforgettable tongue-in-cheek ones I came across.

I see you driving
Round town with the girl I love
And I’m like haiku.

Five syllables here,
Seven more syllables there
are you happy now?

BURNING BRIGHT by Tracy Chevalier (Book Review)

If, like me, you have always been fascinated and thrilled by the poems and pictures of William Blake, you will be delighted with this book, for it is set in his London and he plays quite a major role in it. His London, yes.

(This and several other poems crop up quite naturally in the course of the story.)

I wander through each chartered street
Near where the chartered Thames does flow

And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man
In every infant’s cry of fear
In every voice, in every ban
The mind-forged manacles I hear.

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every blackening church appals
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace walls.

But most through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear
And blights with plagues the marriage hearse.

And what is more, he is credibly depicted – an outspoken radical (he was a friend of Tom Paine’s) at a time when a breath of socialism or support for the revolution in France could cost one one’s life; eccentric to the point of “madness” – in constant communication with his dead brother, and living in fact on two levels, in two worlds, simultaneously; and very, very kind in a society where kindness seems to have been in extremely short supply.

A poor family emigrate from a Devonshire village to London, and the story is of the two village children, Jem and his beautiful but totally naive and innocent sister, Maisie (a source of inspiration to Blake!) and her adorable streetwise counterpart, Maggie, the local London girl who befriends Jem and tries to protect Maisie.

It is perfectly written, as one would expect of the author of Girl with a Pearl Earring, and succeeds on every level. I will never be able to read William Blake again without thinking of him facing a mob who are demanding that he sign an oath of allegiance to the king, and refusing outright; and Jem and Maisie’s father, the local from the Devonshire village, following suit, not because he knows or cares anything about politics but because he objects to being forced to do something by a violent mob.

And the depiction of the two girls, Maisie and Maggie, as they grow up, become women, is completely unforgettable.

A must for all Blake-lovers as well, of course, as all lovers of top quality Historical Fiction.

SO YOU WANT TO BE A WRITER (by Charles Bukowski)

if it doesn’t come bursting out of you
in spite of everything,
don’t do it.
unless it comes unasked out of your
heart and your mind and your mouth
and your gut,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit for hours
staring at your computer screen
or hunched over your
typewriter
searching for words,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it for money or
fame,
don’t do it.
if you’re doing it because you want
women in your bed,
don’t do it.
if you have to sit there and
rewrite it again and again,
don’t do it.
if it’s hard work just thinking about doing it,
don’t do it.
if you’re trying to write like somebody
else,
forget about it.
if you have to wait for it to roar out of
you,
then wait patiently.
if it never does roar out of you,
do something else.

if you first have to read it to your wife
or your girlfriend or your boyfriend
or your parents or to anybody at all,
you’re not ready.

don’t be like so many writers,
don’t be like so many thousands of
people who call themselves writers,
don’t be dull and boring and
pretentious, don’t be consumed with self-
love.
the libraries of the world have
yawned themselves to
sleep
over your kind.
don’t add to that.
don’t do it.
unless it comes out of
your soul like a rocket,
unless being still would
drive you to madness or
suicide or murder,
don’t do it.
unless the sun inside you is
burning your gut,
don’t do it.

when it is truly time,
and if you have been chosen,
it will do it by
itself and it will keep on doing it
until you die or it dies in you.

there is no other way.

and there never was.

A Glance at the Poetry of EMILY DICKINSON

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us – don’t tell!
They’d banish us, you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

This “nobody”, this voluntary recluse, who chose loneliness (perhaps after her one love, a married protestant minister, moved thousands of miles away, to San Francisco), preferred to avoid people who “talk of hallowed things aloud, and embarrass my dog“.

It might be lonelier
Without the loneliness …

It probably would. Though perhaps at times she regretted it:

This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me …

In Hunger, she speaks of “persons at the windows“, seeing herself as an outsider, hungry, looking in – but preferring hunger, although sometimes she may dream of going back:

My business? Just a life I led …

But who can go back? Mostly now she looks beyond the present. In an early poem, she writes:

Who has not found the heaven below
Will fail of it above …

Did she find heaven below? Perhaps not in her immediate surroundings, but she shows the mystical, pantheistic tendencies (we find the same in Blake, for instance, and Wordsworth) of one who does indeed find heaven here in this universe.

My river runs to thee:
Blue sea, wilt welcome me?

But when I think of Emily Dickinson, the first thing that comes to my mind is the odd, outstanding, perfect line, the sort of line that truly does make one sigh and say “That is poetry”. Lines such as:

I like a look of agony,
Because I know it’s true …

Or this two-line description of a man:

A face devoid of love or grace,
A hateful, hard, successful face …

Or this, on the scientific doubting Thomas:

Split the lark, and you’ll find the music …

Or these, on Death:

I heard a fly buzz when I died

The blond assassin passes on,
The sun proceeds unmoved

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me …

Or this, from the poem Charlotte Bronte’s Grave:

Oh, what an afternoon for heaven,
When ‘Bronte’ entered there! …

Oh, what an afternoon for heaven when ‘Dickinson’ entered there!

 

LINES FROM NO-MAN’S-LAND by Michael Daugherty (Book Review)

This collection of fifty or so poems is actually made up of three smaller collections. The first, “Once Upon a Time Please”, contains only three poems I would want to return to again and again. “Berlin 29/1/33”, “Both Sides”, and this one:

ANYONE’S

In one room of a damned metropolis
a lonely madman works on a plan.

In an all-night corner coffee bar
a statistic prays for one last fix.

Under frozen branches in black park
pale fingers fumble with elastic.

Twelve inches away from the late-night news
a myopic spinster weeps in colour.

Someone somewhere begins a letter
to anyone’s silent son or daughter.

The third collection, “Lines from No Man’s Land”, seems to be about a failed marriage. It is simply a poet whingeing, therapeutic writing, and probably better left unpublished.

However – and I do hope you are still with me, for this is a big however – the second collection, “Love Should Be”, is a series of gems in which the poet sees and feels and notes in perfectly crafted lines what others see but lack the imagination to feel or the will, or the skill, to note. As I say, they are all gems, but I must draw attention to “Do You Need Love?”, and to “Escape”

ESCAPE

They found him eventually, of course:
face down in a stinking ditch, hidden by
bracken and gorse and bramble. After more

than thirty barred and bolted years, a dim
number became a public name, four terse
lines in the local paper conceding

him existence posthumously. I’m glad
he died outside, pleased he at least clawed back
that week to himself, that one lousy week

in an antiseptic lifetime, defied
those grim samaritans with needles full
of reason, eluded their muscular

compassion, electric understanding.
Yes, they found him in the end, the sick one,
the freak, the mad thief who stole one whole week

and spent it all. I see sane eyes above
neat uniforms beside that rotting ditch,
hear thoughts in trained minds click like rusted locks. 

And finally, my own personal favourite from this whole collection, a six-star poem if ever there was one, Wheat Field With Crows (for Vincent and too many others)” – the Vincent being, of course, Vincent van Gogh. It is perfect.