Prepare for the worse.
About the cup, there was nothing in it for me. It took the poem. Wiped away a tear. Never said a word. Very French. I drove away wondering if it would notice how moved it would be when it rained.
Nah, I figured, it was all about agriculture, grain crops, fertility and motherly relationships. She (there, I admit it) was ... done with my lips, holding her, done with black pickups.
Our morning snacking was over. I'd looked into her ... and felt an emptiness only Wednesday could reflect back.
About that, I had to finally come to terms with something nobody should have to face in the hours before noon, namely, I'd had no cereal, just coffee and -- (donut ask me to go on) -- this town is in my rear view.You never know when poetry will distinguish or disappoint. Yves Bonnefoy's poem about Ceres, especially the final stanza, does not disappoint.
Apparently, this is Ben Lerner’s problem too. In his new book, The Hatred of Poetry, the poet, novelist, and MacArthur “genius” argues that if you love poetry’s promise of transcendence, you must also hate poems for their failure to keep up their end of the bargain. “Poetry,” Lerner writes, “arises from the desire to get beyond the finite and the historical—the human world of violence and difference—and to reach the transcendent or divine.” The only problem? Poems are ultimately human rather than divine in character. “As soon as you move from that impulse to the actual poem,” he continues, “the song of the infinite is compromised by the finitude of its terms. In a dream your verses can defeat time… but when you wake… you’re back in the human world with its inflexible laws and logic.”
(--from, What's the Matter With Poetry?, by Ken Chen, The New Republic, 23June2016)It is hard to tell anymore where words come from or go; whether they create what we call reality or merely try to describe what we'd like to think of as a factual verifiable world.