one spark of the planet's early fires
trapped forever in its net of ice,
it's not love's later heat that poetry holds,
but the atom of the love that drew it forth
from the silence: so if the bright coal of his love
begins to smoulder, the poet hears his voice
suddenly forced, like a bar-room singer's -- boastful
with his own huge feeling, or drowned by violins;
but if it yields a steadier light, he knows
the pure verse, when it finally comes, will sound
like a mountain spring, anonymous and serene.
Beneath the blue oblivious sky, the water
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.
sings of nothing, not your name, not mine.
You cannot force greatness.
ReplyDeleteThe last part reminds me of the preacher in Ecclesiastes: All is vanity under the sun. Maybe this is the cynic in me, but nature doesn't care about our bright coals or steadier light.
With that all said, the pure verse, according to the narrator, will be perfect. I read poems like that often. Those are the hardest ones analyze because they just work. I'll think this poem rocks, but I don't know or can't say why. They just have that serenity.