Thorns burn to a consistent ash, like man;
A splendid cleanser for the frying pan:
—Empson, “This Last Pain”
I thought to write a poem in French
to dress some fleeting fancy up.
Why French? Sheer vanity! What if I could?
Who would criticize such messing about?
"En sauvant les apparences," I dubbed it,
and these few lines came tumbling out—
not consciously solicited—from nowhere,
suiting our contumacious times:
La goutte qui fait déborder le vase
est un mal très nécessaire.
Cette goutte n’est pas aussi fou
qu’il en a l’air !*
What is this drop that overflows its jug,
that's thought a necessary ill—
a drop that's not as foolish as it seems?
(Is it the bare seed of which Paul discoursed
by the Peirene spring at Corinth—
of which Sisyphus himself was king?)†
All men who are not wise are mad
the Ancients thought—and, frankly, I agree.
Our language, though, has this staying power:
poetry rises to meet whatever hour.
Of matériel for our madness there's plenty;
one thought curbs it: knowing we must die.
Politicasters—like poetasters,
pissant hacks—pronounce heaven hell.
Their category error omits the leaven.
The drop will spill; the rest'll trundle on.
* "The drop that makes the vase spill over is a very necessary evil.
That drop is not as crazy as it might seem!"
† “And as for what you sow, you do not sow the body that is to be but a bare seed [γυμνὸν κόκκον].”—1 Cor. 15:37. In Greek mythology, Sisyphus was the first king of Corinth, founded around 900 BCE. The Peirene spring there was sacred to the Muses. Poets in ancient times drank from it for inspiration.
Saturday, March 1, 2025
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