Man Carrying Thing

The title is from Wallace Stevens. So we are talking of human creativity–“mimesis”–the “thing” shall be a man made thing. And we’re talking of Wallace Stevens so the man made thing should be nothing more than a glass jar. It should be an object of limited significance. This is what fits the imagination–glass beads dropped on a table, an eyeliner pencil. Behind these small facts is the neo-Platonic faith that even the smallest things have a large significance. the mullions of a tall window…
The poet is always a half step from totemism. Inside the fallen beads sits the godly idea of beads. And as any poet can tell you, poetry is the architectonic diagram of how to stay sane in the face of this mad situation. The actual form of things is a haunting pursuit.

Scribble, scribble, eh Mr. Pound?

The line above is by Anselm Hollo.

I was walking dully along this morning and I stepped on a Robin’s egg.

The line above is my own.

Stepping on the egg I felt that something supernatural had occurred.

The earth is too wide for this smallish squish to own no significance.

You betcha Johnny Quotidian! That moment had no significance. Mr. Crow dropped the egg. The egg rolled out of the grass in the night wind. Mr. Quo stepped right on it.

You see the problem. The poem has to insist on tiny significances while simultaneously putting them to rest.

I am in mind of these things after a night of hard Iowa winds.

Way better than Oprah, eh Mr. Pound?

S.K.

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