John Martin's poem, Landing, is a work which returns the lyre to the Lyric. After several readings my reaction to this lovely artifact of meter, rhyme, and soft-spoken rhetoric remains the same: that ear and voice within my breast can only repeat, "I would have liked to have written that poem." Of course I did not write it. But I can thank and praise Mr. Martin for presenting us with a poem that delights the ear and heart, and does not fail to captivate with the subtlety of its word magic.
What most surprises me is how embarrassed I feel by merely seeing my name on a post, knowing that one of my poems skulks behind it. As if it threatened to expose me naked to everybody's gaze.
Nor can I ride roughshod over such feelings, since all true feelings represent one's poetical capital. (Especially those that are the most surprising.) Do all poets suffer from this continual fear of exposure? Do all writers? And if so how do they cope with it? My own solution would be to write about it. And I daresay I shall soon enough. If I haven't done so already.
Anybody would think I had committed some dreadful crime. And perhaps that's precisely what a poem is.
And yet at the same time the poem acquires a patina of sanctity, as one slowly works on it. So that it begins to become too precious and sacred to expose to the vulgar gaze of the public. So that one is caught up in this perpetual paradox, and one doesn't know where one is. It is at one and the same time a blot on one's conscience and something far too sacred to reveal. And yet one is told not to hide one's light under a bushel. But is it a light or a shadow? A cause for shame or a source of pride? And are shame and pride both far too egotistical anyway?
Shame? Pride? Everyone has a right to their own perspective, how they honestly view this or that subject. And they also have a duty to their conscience to voice their honest and sincere thoughts and judgments--though danger can limit their freespokenness. Montaigne notes that he doesn't say everything he would like, but all that he dare. Fortunately for us, today in the West we can speak our minds with less risk to our lives than in many past eras.
In the case of this your latest contribution here, I am not at all sure many would interpret it the way I do. It's easy for me to imagine it being read as an expression of admiration for Nature's beauty. But there are clear hints it could be something quite other.
You may in your writing appear more naked to yourself than you do to others.
John Martin's poem, Landing, is a work which returns the lyre to the Lyric. After several readings my reaction to this lovely artifact of meter, rhyme, and soft-spoken rhetoric remains the same: that ear and voice within my breast can only repeat, "I would have liked to have written that poem." Of course I did not write it. But I can thank and praise Mr. Martin for presenting us with a poem that delights the ear and heart, and does not fail to captivate with the subtlety of its word magic.
Thanks, Bob.
What most surprises me is how embarrassed I feel by merely seeing my name on a post, knowing that one of my poems skulks behind it. As if it threatened to expose me naked to everybody's gaze.
Nor can I ride roughshod over such feelings, since all true feelings represent one's poetical capital. (Especially those that are the most surprising.) Do all poets suffer from this continual fear of exposure? Do all writers? And if so how do they cope with it? My own solution would be to write about it. And I daresay I shall soon enough. If I haven't done so already.
Anybody would think I had committed some dreadful crime. And perhaps that's precisely what a poem is.
And yet at the same time the poem acquires a patina of sanctity, as one slowly works on it. So that it begins to become too precious and sacred to expose to the vulgar gaze of the public. So that one is caught up in this perpetual paradox, and one doesn't know where one is. It is at one and the same time a blot on one's conscience and something far too sacred to reveal. And yet one is told not to hide one's light under a bushel. But is it a light or a shadow? A cause for shame or a source of pride? And are shame and pride both far too egotistical anyway?
Shame? Pride? Everyone has a right to their own perspective, how they honestly view this or that subject. And they also have a duty to their conscience to voice their honest and sincere thoughts and judgments--though danger can limit their freespokenness. Montaigne notes that he doesn't say everything he would like, but all that he dare. Fortunately for us, today in the West we can speak our minds with less risk to our lives than in many past eras.
In the case of this your latest contribution here, I am not at all sure many would interpret it the way I do. It's easy for me to imagine it being read as an expression of admiration for Nature's beauty. But there are clear hints it could be something quite other.
You may in your writing appear more naked to yourself than you do to others.
Nature does know how to lure the unsuspecting with its striking scenes. Call it the Great Dissembler.