By William Markiewicz
Musing on poetry can be as inspiring as poetry itself. Jean Cocteau in his film "Orpheus" said that "to be a poet means to write without being a writer." It is a good definition; poetry is the antithesis of all other forms of writing. The writer, like the scientist or lawyer has to be clear, accurate, logical. Poetry escapes those criteria, chokes within them. Poetry penetrates us organically, attacks the emotions, acts psychosomatically. Like art it's anti-intellectual; like a drug, it intoxicates rather than enlightens. Of course there still exists intellectual poetry and art, denying the denial, which only adds to their mysterious nature and makes it inaccessible to analysis. Whatever is too intime is inaccessible to analysis because, in order to observe there must be distance between the subject and the object (Niels Bohr). Love, poetry, art, mystical trance will remain forever a mystery to their subjects. Still it shouldn't impede us from examining anecdotally -- if I can call it so -- all topics including poetry. Here I'll quote two examples of the mysterious ways of poetry that remain in my memory:
In my childhood I read some praise of Bonaparte in a schoolbook. There is a Polish traditional cult of Napoleon even if historically he didn't really deserve it. It's strange that even as child I could feel that it was not poetry, sufficiently bad to be unforgettable! But many years later, in Madrid, this souvenir was surprisingly useful; friends were discussing which nations have the bravest soldiers (it's well known that Spaniards are particularly proud of their bravery). I suggested that the soldiers' attitude depends most on their leaders' attitude. I remembered and spontaneously translated my Polish verse:
"Chusma,
Sin valor
Hasta que los mire
El Emperador."
I'm not sure how grammatically correct it is, but it was enough for those present to exclaim "what poets the Poles have!" Of course there is great Polish poetry, but not this one. I didn't tell them this -- why spoil the moment?! For me the most interesting point was why something bad may become good in a new linguistic robe.
Another demonstration of poetry's complex ways: Here the poet uses the method of the "fighter" who diverts us and dulls our attention, then suddenly and unexpectedly strike us with the club of poetry. The author is the French-Catholic poet Francis Jammes, and the poem's title is: "J'aime l'ane" (I Like a Donkey). I quote from memory:
"J'aime l'ane si doux
Marchant le long des houx
Il a peur des abeilles
Et il bouge ses oreilles
Other simple childlike lines follow. Then the poet declares:
Mon amie le croit bete
Parce qu'il est poete.
It's not so "childish" anymore. The poet makes us aware that he has something to tell us.
Il reflechit toujours
Ses yeux sont de velours.
Jeune fille au doux coeur
Tu n'as pas sa douceur.
Car il est devant Dieu
L'ane doux du ciel bleu.
Here we're already in the whirpool of full poetic frenzy, sublime metaphor. How far away from "childish" rhymes!
"Et il reste a l'etable
Fatigue, miserable,
Ayant bien fatigue
Ses pauvres petits pieds.
Il a tant travaille
Que ca nous fait pitie."
Above, the poet comes back to the childlike lines. Then it changes again:
Va trouver le vieil ane
Et dis lui que mon ame
Est sur le grand chemin
Comme lui le matin.
Demande lui cherie
Si je pleure ou je ris.
Je doute qu'il repond
Il marchera a l'ombre
Creve par la douceur
Sur le chemin en fleur."
I think that here the poet was inspired by The Annunciation: "The Holy Spirit will flow over you and the grace of the All Powerful will cover you with Its shadow." I don't know if this poem has been particularly analysed in French literature, anyway the poet went far from the childlike style, and illustrates for us the mysterious unattainable face of poetry.
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William Markiewicz