The Usual Subject - Simon Darragh

One grows used to the loss itself;
it is the details catch, and scourge:
the extra tea-cup on the shelf;
the kitchen table, grown too large.

Not in sorrow for wasted days
of love unspoken,
but by trivia such as these
the heart is broken










I came across this poem courtesy of Conor Kelly, proprietor of the excellent Poem Today Twitter feed, in which he posts tweet sized poems.  It's an excellent daily feed, and a wonderful way to find new poetry.  If you search @poemtoday you will find his Twitter, and he also has a blog, which you can find here.  Conor Kelly is a poet as well, and perhaps with his blessing, I will post some of it here in the future.

This poem from Simon Darragh speaks to the realities of loss in practical terms, much like the excellent Roo Borson poem, "After a Death."  In Darragh's excellent short poem, it is not "sorrow for wasted days" that makes loss so hard.  Rather, it is the details left behind by someone's loss.  As he so expertly puts, it is the "extra tea-cup" or the now too spacious kitchen table.  It is the void left in our practical, material reality that stands out most.  What I appreciate about this poem in comparison with Borson's is that this speaks to a more general sense of loss.  While I do feel that this speaks to death more than anything, it could just as well apply to a traumatic romantic loss.  Reading the poem with both senses in mind causes different images to come to mind.  The "trivia" that breaks the heart is unique to each of us, and that is the power of the poem.  What I picture will be different than what you picture, and I like that Darragh avoided too many specifics, preferring instead to give examples.

Wood - Richard Brautigan

We age in darkness like wood
and watch our phantoms change
     their clothes
of shingles and boards
for a purpose that can only be
     described as wood.










What sort of purpose is wood, exactly?  I can't pretend to know, but I find this short poem from Beat poet Richard Brautigan a fascinating sort of riddle to chew on.  I've been thinking about it for a few days now, and I am happy to report that I am no closer to understanding it than I was when I first read it.  More than any sort of understanding or hidden meaning, I think frustration wrapped in a fascinating image is sort of the point here.  Let's unpack a little and see what we can find.

Being in the first person plural, Brautigan is including us in this poem.  "We" is inclusive, and therefore we ought to think of ourselves as we read and try to make sense of this poem.  The first line, "We age...like wood."  What exactly does that mean?  Well, as wood ages, it can harden, but it can also rot.  It depends on how it's treated.  Nice parallel with people, there, yes? 

What then, are our phantoms?  That's personal, isn't it?  But what's more important is that the wood parallel continues.  Our phantoms, facsimiles of ourselves, perhaps our fears, clothes themselves in shingles and boards, continuously renewing by changing their clothes.  They are like us, but without the full body of substance.  What purpose, then?  Wood.  That's just how we are.  That's my take-away, at least.  I think more than anything, this is just a reflection from Brautigan on our state of being, and how our phantoms take on a form like ours, continually renewing.  There's tantalizingly little solid about this poem, but I hope my brief explication has helped, reader.  If you read it differently, please leave a comment and let me know!  I feel like this is so open a poem that most interpretations are completely valid.

An Inscription - Ambrose Bierce

     For a statue of Napoleon

A conqueror as provident as brave,
He robbed the cradle to supply the grave.
His reign laid quantities of human dust:
He fell upon the just and the unjust.









While Ambrose Bierce's mysterious disappearance and uncertain fate remain a mystery even today, it is no mystery why he is still held in high regard in the world of American literature.  His short stories are held in esteem nearly to Poe's, and his first-hand accounts of the American Civil War.  While other authors wrote movingly about the American Civil War, Bierce fought on the front lines for the Union for the duration of the war, including some of its bloodiest battles.  From all accounts, he acted heroically, rescuing wounded men despite being under heavy gunfire.  He spent the duration of the war in almost continuous combat, and he said of himself, "When I ask of myself what has become of Ambrose Bierce the youth, who fought at Chickamauga, I am bound to answer that he is dead."  His essays detailing his experiences in the War are essential reading for anyone interested in the subject.

This poem, written in 1910, three years before his disappearance,  shows the world weariness and cynicism that marked much of his writing.  Speaking on Napoleon, he casts harsh indictment upon the strife and violence he brought to the world.  "He robbed the cradle to supply the grave" is as damning a line as I can imagine.  Napoleon is spoken of here almost as a plague, laying down "quantities of human dust" upon the just and unjust alike.  I am not certain, but I imagine that this is in reference to Napoleon Bonaparte, not Napoleon III, though it seems fitting for both men.

I admire short form poetry that manages to have such a strong impact in so few lines.  Bierce may be best known for his essays and short stories, but his poetry remains modern and worthwhile, and I encourage you to look up more of it if you had your interested piqued by this little poem, or the brief biographical information I provided.

Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3 1802 - William Wordsworth

Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!










Is there anything more magical than a huge city completely silent?  That's what Wordsworth, in his breathlessly excited account of London in early morning, as viewed from Westminster Bridge, captures so perfectly.  I have actually seen this scenario myself, though about 212 years after this poem.  I have to agree, in that early dawn hour, it does seem as though "the very houses seem asleep."  I can only wonder what Wordsworth would think of things like the London Eye if he marvels so at "ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples" that line the river Thames.

There really isn't much to this poem, but given the title, I like to imagine that Wordsworth was passing by and was so taken by the beauty of the scenery that he had no choice but to compose a poem right then and there.  It's a very Romantic idea, and Wordsworth is one of the architects of Romantic poetry.  Read the poem slowly and luxuriate in its illuminating imagery and language.

A Dream - Edgar Allan Poe

In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed -
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted.

Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?

That holy dream - that holy dream,
While all the world were chiding,
Hath cheered me as a lovely beam
A lonely spirit guiding.

What though that light, thro' storm and night,
So trembled from afar-
What could there be more purely bright
In Truth's day-star?










Edgar Allan Poe is one of the most revered American poets and short story writers, and it occurs to me that I've engaged with very little of his work here.  Let's change that!  His poetry and short stories continue to exert a strong influence on American culture and literature, and is still very much worth reading today.

This poem in particular reminds me of a sonnet from John Milton, his Sonnet 23, specifically.  In that sonnet, Milton, who had gone blind during the course of his life, dreamed that he saw his departed wife, and as she came to embrace him, he woke, "and day brought back [his] night." Upon waking, he was again blind, and alone.  The overall sentiment of Poe's poem is similar, I find.  Indeed, the first stanza contains much of the narrative action of Milton's poem.  In this first stanza, the narrator finds his "joy departed" only "In visions of the dark night."  Waking leaves him broken-hearted.  It is much the same as in Milton's poem.  But whereas Milton stops at his waking, Poe goes on to ponder what such dreams are and what they mean to us, and our relationship with them.

In the second stanza, Poe asks what a dream is.  It is not a general question, but rather, what is a dream to someone "whose eyes are cast / on things around him with a ray / Turned back upon the past?"  Essentially, what is a dream to someone who looks at all things through the lens of the past?  The narrator of this poem is fixated on their "joy departed" which I have trouble not interpreting romantically, given the strong parallels with Milton's poem and the overall content of Poe's poetic work.  It could just mean thinking back to a happier time, but my interpretation is that this is a lover in question, especially given that upon waking from the dream, Poe's narrator is "broken-hearted."

The final two stanzas present Poe's answer to that question.  The dream cheers Poe, like a "lovely beam" that guides his lonely spirit.  He calls it even "a holy dream" and repeats that phrase twice, cementing its importance and impact.  Even though the world chides, the dream, the holy dream of his joy departed guides his spirit.  Poe is aware that he is engaging with a fantasy, however.  In the final stanza, he admits as much, albeit in a roundabout manner. 

Though the "light" of this dream's "lovely beam" can tremble from afar, it is brighter to Poe's narrator than "Truth's day-star."  It is brighter than reality itself, brighter than Truth.  The Truth here is that this joy is in fact departed, is no more.  But through storm and night, Poe clings to it, more purely bright than truth to a man whose eyes are cast on things around him with a ray turned back upon the past.  It's truly amazing how Poe manages to fit such depth of emotional content into a simple four stanza poem made of simple sing-song ABAB rhymes.  It's a testament to his skill and to the power of the content matter that it can resonate so strongly even now.

A Poet's Epitaph - John Black

When comes the last long silence to this lute,
And by its plea no more the calm is broken,
In charity, O world, let it be spoken:
No human sorrow found this player mute!










I came across this small poem by accident.  I had been reading a James Joyce poem, "She Weeps Over Rahoon" which was published in the November 1917 issue of Poetry Magazine.  Since I was reading a scan of that page, I saw the poem that accompanied it, a short ABBA quatrain epitaph by John Black.  It caught my eye, and its straightforward earnestness caught me off guard.  I have been unable to find any biographical info on the poet John Black, and would welcome any readers who know anything more.

What stands out most to me about this short poem is its interpretation of what poetry is.  The narrator, presumably Black himself, as this is "A Poet's Epitaph," wishes to be remembered for a refusal to be silent in the face of human sorrow.  It's a brave role, and aspirational.  Black isn't dead yet, but "When comes the last long silence to this lute" he wishes to be remembered for never being "mute."  The publishing date also stands out to me.  In 1917, the western world was in the midst of World War I, then known as The Great War.  There were countless poet-soldiers, many of whose work I've looked at here.  Is this a war poem?  I'm having difficulty finding concrete info on this poem apart from the actual page on which it was published.  Still, I feel like this epitaph is a reminder of what a poet can be.  Poetry can be an enduring testament to the human spirit and righteousness in the face of evil, and indeed, oftentimes it is.  While Black's lute may be silent, as I can find almost no info about him, his epitaph endures as a reminder of our highest hopes, aspirations, and anxieties about how the world will remember us (if indeed it does) after we're gone.

Of Dying Beauty - Louis Zukofsky

"Spare us of dying beauty," cries out Youth,
"Of marble gods that moulder into dust-
Wide-eyed and pensive with an ancient truth
That even gods will go as old things must."
Where fading splendor grays to powdered earth,
And time's slow movement darkens quiet skies,
Youth weeps the old, yet gives new beauty birth
And molds again, though the old beauty dies.
Time plays an ancient dirge amid old places
Where ruins are a sign of passing strength,
As is the weariness of aged faces
A token of a beauty gone at length.
Yet youth will always come self-willed and gay-
A sun-god in a temple of decay.









This wonderful sonnet comes to us from the 20th century American poet Louis Zukofsky.  Born to Russian Jewish immigrants in the Lower East Side of Manhattan in 1904, Zukofsky came to literature first through Yiddish, then through English, interweaving multiple literary traditions.  This poem was written when he was only 20 years old, and while it is not so ambitious or well-honed as his later works, I feel it's notable for the way it uses its form to play both with and against its subject matter.

The central conflict of the sonnet is between Youth and entropy.  Entropy is the thermodynamic principle that all things eventually break down towards disorder.  That's a gross oversimplification, but the essence is that things fall apart over time.  It is the gradual movement from order to disorder.  What we see in this poem is the cycle of creation and entropy, in perpetuity.  "Youth weeps the old, yet gives new beauty birth / And molds again, though the old beauty dies."  Youth asks to be spared this cycle in the first quatrain of the poem.  Despite asking to be exempt, to be spared the "marble gods" of the past, it goes on and creates its own doomed monuments, its own ruins that signify passing strength.

For all this, "youth will always come self-willed and gay- / A sun-god in a temple of decay."  No matter how the old gods have "mouldered" Youth will always be there, constant amid the entropy.  This is where I find the formal choices Zukofsky made to be significant.  He wrote a traditional, straightforward sonnet, a form hundreds of years old.  It's as if in doing so, Zukofsky is honoring the traditions that Youth, in the poem, asked to be spared, despite being a young man himself.  I think it elevates the poem from just being a routine sonnet to something a touch more thoughtful, and it is certainly beautiful.  It's easy to imagine a beaming sun-god, standing proud and tall, though all things must eventually come to dust.  Such is power of Youth, and Zukofsky obviously realized that.