On Sunday, I reported that the dust jacket for the Library of America's edition of Wallace Stevens's Collected Poetry & Prose stated that his "poems...have remained an inspiration to generations of poets and readers." Dust-jacket hyperbole aside, one might ask what is inspirational to readers in the poem "The Snow Man" (quoted on Sunday), with its final stanza:For the listener, who listens in the snow,It should be obvious that the brilliant play on "nothing" would be an inspiration to poets. But what about readers not looking for verbal brilliance but emotional assurance, consolation, or uplift?
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.
I suppose that most readers would find nothing inspirational in "The Snow Man." They're more likely to find it in words like Robert Browning's
God's in his Heaven -or Maya Angelou's
All's right with the world!
I've learned that no matter what happens, or how bad it seems today, life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.—that is, in comforting lies.
How is a reader to respond to uncomfortable truths? It so happens that I've been wrestling with this on my own behalf for awhile—in the face of my approaching annihilation and there being no God to resurrect me and no heaven to go to. It does make me sad sometimes.
But then, as much of late, I think on what I treasure: my wife, our children, our dog, our home, good writing, good films, good friends, my job. However old the universe, or how huge or cold, and however next-to-nothing and near to dying I am, yet while I have these things, I have something to gladden me. They're even more to treasure for being brief.
Ezra Pound's statement from the Pisan Cantos always thrills me to recite:What thou lovest well remains,But even Pound seems to lie, for what I lov'st shall be reft from me. My wife might precede me in death, though likely not. Siegfried (our dog) might survive us, but Wally (his predecessor) did not. I didn't even mention my health, but it's going to worsen, perhaps to the point where I can't hold a job, or even to where I can't appreciate a book or a film. And it will all be reft from me, in any case, when I die.
the rest is dross
What thou lov'st well shall not be reft from thee
What thou lov'st well is thy true heritage
Poems like "The Snow Man" don't inspire by comforting but by forcing us to deal with it, by recognizing what we love, and loving it while we can.
this is my favorite "inspirational poem." I was handed this in lieu of a diploma when I walked across the stage at ASU's "graduation." We were still taking exams so they couldn't give us our diplomas.
ReplyDeleteTo laugh often and much;
To win the respect of intelligent people
and the affection of children;
To earn the appreciation of honest critics
and endure the betrayal of false friends;
To appreciate beauty;
To find the best in others;
To leave the world a bit better, whether by
a healthy child, a garden patch
or a redeemed social condition;
To know even one life has breathed
easier because you have lived;
This is to have succeeded.
(this has been attributed to Emerson but that is questionable)
Yes! I love that one too. It contains no lies, just focuses on the here and now, which is what we need to do to deal with the reality of life...and death.
ReplyDelete