Posted by lex, on August 17, 2006
The poet said,
“A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment’s thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.”
That’s a familiar thought to those who write, even those who mostly consign themselves to prose.
The poet said these words to her, who in the poem replied in turn:
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There’s many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, “To be born woman is to know –
Although they do not talk of it at school –
That we must labour to be beautiful.’
The talk moves accidentally on to love. For these two, this unintended segue is perhaps a mistake:
We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time’s waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.
The moment is past, the opportunity, like the shell eroded. The idea itself is now anachronistic: It will never be.
We all of us have our own Maud Gonne.
We now return you to your regularly scheduled blogging.