poetry
Poetry editor energy showing in high school
According to Ms. Meador (who was other than being a name-misspeller totally pleasant and did not deserve a student like me in her class, much as I enjoyed it & found it fruitful):
“[Wes] needs to develop a more positive attitude toward classroom objectives and decrease harshness toward fellow students. Very talented art student!”
I haven’t stopped laughing since I read this.
Dated 12/13/1985, this was the end of Fall Semester of my senior year at boarding school (Christchurch School in Christchurch, Middlesex Co., Virginia). I was 17.
Archibald MacLeish – Ars Poetica
MacLeish’s expatriate years brought him into contact with Ernest Hemingway and the generación perdue literary community in Paris in the early 20s. Hemingway –not known for kindness to old friends– was unable to land any meaningful punches on the affable, erudite MacLeish.
In this MacLeish implicitly besought poets to transmit whole the very experiences & visualizations that inspired them, not to represent that inspiration somehow. Let the love you feel upon beholding a singularly captivating river stone be the poem, not a retelling of the moment the poet fell in love with the stone. The former brings the reader into the poet’s eye; the latter irrelevant minutia.
Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruitDumb
As old medallions to the thumbSilent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown –A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birdsA poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbsLeaving, 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 climbsA poem should be equal to:
Not trueFor all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leafFor love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea –A poem should not mean
But be-Archibald MacLeish, 1925
David Whyte reading at Town Hall Seattle this Friday
David Whyte is coming to Town Hall Seattle this Friday. The flower of his work grows in a thicket of attachments. The artist in me asks “What’s the problem?” The still, silent voice says nothing, knows otherwise.
I won’t be going to see David Whyte this Friday, but you should; especially you.