Gilding the Lily

 

Ars Poetica by Archibald Macleish (1892-1982)

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.

 

***

What brought that on? Trying to rewrite some of my poems that don't quite work. Very hard to do, as in its own way, each one seems complete, and dares me to mess with it.

 

***

 

Some kind of plantain? I haven't found it in the Ala. Wildflowers book.

My Son the Thinker

Email from Jed: "Hey Mom! I've been thinking about your TV. There's one more thing we can try to fix the remote control. . . . Remember when your printer was broke, and fixed it by unplugging it for a while? If you tried that with the TV, maybe that would fix the remote control problem...."

Reply by me: "By gosh, you're almost as smart as me. Maybe just a tad smarter. It worked."

Aesthetically Embarrassing Story

Once when I was very young, I fell in love at my doctor. Oh, he was ruggedly handsome, sort of like one of those dark western actors. He was married, of course, so I stifled the emotion all possible. Then one day, in church, I saw him with his wife and little daughter. The wife was rather good-looking, but the child looked exactly like her father. That was the only really plug-ugly child I had ever seen, before or since, and immediately my warmth toward the doctor froze over and dried up.

In addition to all his other qualities, Mr. Cage made beautiful children.

Week In Review

Jed came over Sunday, and we spent the next three days "supervising" the work in the kitchen: new faucets, cooktop and ovens. The dishwasher still sits in its crate, to be installed today, as some repairs had to be made to the floor and wiring under the old washer. Jed went back to Atlanta Wednesday afternoon, but I think he'll be back again this weekend. The new appliances are shiny white and beautiful, accentuating the shabby appearance of everything else in the kitchen. But all that will change eventually.

I slept four or five hours last night, then lay awake for an hour. Finally rose up, made coffee, and finished reading the last hundred pages of Master and Commander. If I could write like Patrick O'Brian, I'd feel as rich as old Jay Gould.

Also, last night Ramey sent her latest work on the sequel to Sweet Music On Moonlight Ridge by email, another good read.

Cesar

I read online that three years ago, Cesar Millan's life hit a bunch of bad snags. His favorite pit bull Daddy died, his wife asked him for a divorce, and his two sons blamed him for breakup of the marriage. Cesar went into a severe depression and tried to take his life by OD-ing on pills. But now he's back and has a new show. I hope he continues to do well.

Old Notes

My dad was the only person who liked to hear me play the piano. He didn't care much for the Moonlight Sonata, Clair de Lune or the Chopin preludes, but he liked the hymns I would play by ear. Many times I have searched the phone directory and the internet, hoping I could rent a piano, but nothing ever comes of it.

I think it's time I forgave my mother for giving away or lending our piano to someone whose house subsequently burned down. Mama probably had reasons that I can't imagine, or don't want to.

The man is coming Monday morning to install the new kitchen appliances. I would give them all for a plain old piano, even one with a couple of dead keys.
*
On the other hand, it would probably be just another way to waste time.

An Old Poem

Winter At the Inn

My merry muse departs, with all her train
of sweet beguilers. Fare you well, O joys
and gentle smiles, brave banisher of pain
stout laughter, all you valiant natural foes
of this old man Despair. Come back in spring,
and I will entertain you with the crumbs
this grimmer guest, who cannot smile or sing,
may overlook; and, when the summer comes,
we'll turn him out, we'll laugh him off the place--
Together we can do it, you and I--
Alone I am no match for him; his face
defies me to evict him. With a sigh,
spreading his bed of spikes, he takes his rest,
as if it were his house, and I the guest.

By JRC

Hero

Gretchen is a pretty little dog of the Jack Russell persuasion. She lives with Ramey and India up on the hill, but she visits here almost every day, and sometimes she spends the night. This morning she took a walk outside, and encountered three trespassers.

A pit bull and two little dogs, looked like curly-haired dachshunds, had wandered into my yard. The big dog was dragging a leash, actually a piece of rubber hose or something similar, about three yards long. Gretchen ran them out of the front yard, and the little dogs hung around the periphery. But the pit bull ran to the back patio and got his leash wrapped around the deck stairs. I had to go and untangle him before he and his two little companions would leave the area, with Gretchen hot on their trail. She made sure they were all off the property.

The old pit bull looked at me and grinned when I got him loose from the stairs, and none of them acted aggressive toward me or Gretchen. Those were three beautiful dogs, and I hope they go home or their owner finds them soon. I'm sort of cautious about dogs I don't know, so I didn't get close enough to look at their tags.

*

Yesterday I finished quilting the border of my leaf quilt. Now all I have to do is trim and bind the edges; hope I get it done sometime this year.

Also yesterday I sent a bunch of poems to Negative Capability Press.