Rose

William Carlos Williams

 The rose is obsolete
 but each petal ends in
 an edge, the double facet
 cementing the grooved
 columns of air--The edge
 cuts without cutting
 meets--nothing--renews
 itself in metal or porcelain--

 whither? It ends--

 But if it ends
 the start is begun
 so that to engage roses
 becomes a geometry--

 Sharper, neater, more cutting
 figured in majolica--
 the broken plate
 glazed with a rose

 Somewhere the sense
 makes copper roses
 steel roses--

 The rose carried weight of love
 but love is at an end--of roses

 It is at the edge of the
 petal that love waits

 Crisp, worked to defeat
 laboredness--fragile
 plucked, moist, half-raised
 cold, precise, touching

 What

 The place between the petal's
 edge and the

 From the petal's edge a line starts
 that being of steel
 infinitely fine, infinitely
 rigid penetrates
 the Milky Way
 without contact--lifting
 from it--neither hanging
 nor pushing--

 The fragility of the flower
 unbruised
 penetrates space

Commentary

Another guest poem inspired by Poem #1224 - Aseem writes:

Reading the Gluck poem reminded me of this exquisite Williams poem that I can’t resist sharing:

A poem that demands not so much to be read as to be fingered.

— Aseem

Martin adds

I’m not, in general, a big fan of Williams, but this was an amazing poem. Right from the blatantly provocative opening line, the images kept me enthralled with their careful dissonances and their almost mathematical beauty. As Aseem says, there’s something very tactile about the poem, a promise of precise, crystalline delicacy that demands to be fingered as much as read - an “infinitely fine, infinitely rigid” rendering of the rose that despite its inanimate imagery is not in the least bit sterile.

Note the strong undercurrent of Platonic philosophy -

 to engage roses
 becomes a geometry--

speaks of the Platonic ideal of a Rose, and the senses’ heavy “copper roses, steel roses” gradually refine themselves until we’re back to the “infinitely fine, infinitely rigid”, the ethereal nature remanifesting itself. And then the word ‘unbruised’ at the end simultaneously reminds us that the rose is indeed capable of being bruised (back to imperfect matter), and is nonetheless unbruised and “penetrating space”, uniting the twin threads of matter and geometry. Exquisite indeed.

— Martin


The Wondering Minstrels, poem #1235 · 24 April 2003

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul

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