Hey, Hiramites. One of the profs who occasionally works out of my office is good friends with David Anderson (and, incidentally, does a dead ringer of a David Anderson impersonation. Only better one I've ever heard was Paul's.) So she gave me a copy of a couple of pages out of Ohio Writer that were devoted to Hale Chatfield. Had comments on Hale by Carol Donley, and an essay by Joyce Dyer, which was rich in Joyceness. Nothing particularly startling, but they did print a copy of one of Hale's poems called "Elegy on the Elegy." I can't say I was ever a Hale poetry fan, but this one's pretty damn good, I think. Or maybe it's just the context. In any event ...
But you are dead.
Where is this place and age
do myrtles grow or laurels?
And if I found some would I dare
to scatter on your grave
the paraphernalia of
mythology?
What divinity
can I invoke and not invite my readers
to mistrust my lines? There is no muse
these days to help us poets write these
poems on death, and even sorrow,
even grief does not assist,
but much more often intervenes
between our pages and our minds.
But you are dead;
and the sea's the same,
un-Neptuned, violent or serene
as circumstances bid, and does not roar
especially, or thrash or seethe
uncommonly; and the sky is blue,
as frequently it was before you died;
and the wind's itself and makes
a windy noise (I hardly think it seems
to call your name, or wail: it blows
all for itself and seems to sink away);
and there are no young shepherds
on the hill to sing sad foolish songs;
and that's the pity of it all,
the sorrow;
and that's the pity and the sorrow.
posted by Kate at 2:03 PM link/comments
