Ars Poetica
A poem should be palpable and mute
As a globed fruit
Dumb
As old medallions to the thumb
Silent as the sleeve-worn stone
Of casement ledges where the moss has grown -
A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds
A poem should be motionless in time
As the moon climbs
Leaving, 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 climbs
A poem should be equal to:
Not true
For all the history of grief
An empty doorway and a maple leaf
For love
The leaning grasses and two lights above the sea -
A poem should not mean
But be
Commentary
Continuing what is fast becoming a joint theme…
In the code language of criticism when a poem is said to be about poetry the word “poetry” is often used to mean: how people construct an intelligibility out of the randomness they experience; how people choose what they love; how people integrate loss and gain; how they distort experience by wish and dream; how they perceive and consolidate flashes of harmony; how they (to end a list otherwise endless) achieve what Keats called a “Soul or Intelligence destined to possess the sense of Identity.”
– Helen Vendler, poetry critic
Rather unsurprisingly, if you think about it, a number of poets have taken a break from mirroring reality, and turned their gaze inwards, whether upon other poets, other poems, the nature and role of the Poet, or, most reflexively, the nature and role of Poetry.
Today’s poem is a beautiful example. Titled Ars Poetica - ‘the Art of Poetry’1 - it attempts to prescribe the nature of poetry, and - in a move Hofstadter would have loved - does so in the form of a poem. Furthermore, it does not seek to sidestep the possible pitfalls and inconsistencies this approach leaves it open to - rather it meets them head on, using words like ‘mute’, ‘dumb’ and ‘wordless’ to set up a paradox culminating in the wonderful last stanza, ‘a poem should not mean / but be’.
En route, the main thread is woven through with several exquisite images, speaking to the reader even as it advocates silence, progressing even as it advocates motionlessness. And yet, at the end, it does resolve itself into a seamless, integrated whole, as perfectly self-contained as the globed fruit, or the timeless, frozen stillness of a winter’s night. The reader is free to pick it apart, to tease meaning from the tapestry of contradictions and images. As for the poem, it simply is.
Links
A nice serial analysis of the poem can be found at http://www.newwinds.com/poethome/stuart06.htm - I don’t agree with every one of his points, but overall he’s done a nice job.
Biography
MacLeish, Archibald
b. May 7, 1892, Glencoe, Ill., U.S.
d. April 20, 1982, Boston
U.S. poet, playwright, teacher, and public official, whose concern for liberal democracy figured in much of his work, although his most memorable lyrics are of a more private nature.
There’s an online biography at http://www.poets.org/lit/poet/amacleis.htm and another at http://www.rothpoem.com/duk_am.html
— Martin
-
and not, as several overingenious students have suggested, ‘poetry my a**e’ <g> ↩
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From the Wondering Minstrels mailing list, 1999–2008.
Peter Rashkin · 13 January 2000
“For all the history of grief”
is one of my favorite all-time lines.
Peter Rashkin
McGillicuddy Colin · 6 February 2001
If this is too lengthy, or too esoteric for your liking, you might try X. J. Kennedy’s “Ars Poetica” ; )
Trish Sutherland · 4 March 2001
Hello, I am only a junior in high school, but that poem is “The End of the World”. Just happen to be doing work on MacLeish and am specifically explicating these 2 poems. Thanks for the input, it is a great help.
Loretta Cobb · 4 October 2006
Just wanted to say I’m so impressed a junior high student is doing work on McLeish. I’m an ancient, retired junior high English teacher. Good for you and your teacher.
David Saliba · 26 March 2007
“The armless ambidextrian”
The poem is titled: “The End of the World”
D.R.Saliba
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Doug · 1 April 2007
hello
Stephen Schoene · 23 October 2007
On the next full moon - go out and watch the moon rise through the branches of a favorite tree - the poem makes us aware of what a magical experience that can be. Tricia
Aviva Rosensweig · 31 October 2007
The macleish poem you are looking for is called The End of the World
The End of the World
Quite unexpectedly, as Vasserot
The armless ambidextrian was lighting
A match between his great and second toe,
And Ralph the lion was engaged in biting
The neck of Madame Sossman while the drum
Pointed, and Teeny was about to cough
In waltz-time swinging Jocko by the thumb
Quite unexpectedly the top blew off:
And there, there overhead, there, there hung over Those thousands of white faces, those dazed eyes, There in the starless dark, the poise, the hover, There with vast wings across the cancelled skies, There in the sudden blackness the black pall
Of nothing, nothing, nothing – nothing at all.
– Archibald MacLeish
<[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/%7Essiyer/minstrels/index_poet_M.html#Macleish>
Michael Scallan · 12 March 2008
I think the poem you are describing is “Constantly Risking Absurdity” by Lawrence Ferhunghetti (my spelling of his name may be off ). He was one of the beat poets, contemporary of Alan Ginsburg and Jack Keroac.
I hope that helped. If it is correct, it is a wonderful poem, if not, well it is still a wonderful poem.
Regards
Mike scallan
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