Anodyne
Thursday, July 08, 2004
 
These Poems, She Said

I used to keep a photocopy of this Robert Bringhurst poem on the wall of my study carrall in Buchanan Tower at UBC. Found it again today, in Doris Shadbolt's copy of Bringhurst's first collection of selected poetry, The Beauty of the Weapons. The empathy I felt in my early twenties for the speaker hasn't diminished a bit, though the critique down toward the end beginning, "Self love...", which made no sense at the time, makes more and more sense now as time keeps fugit-ing on.

These poems she said
by Robert Bringhurst

These poems, these poems,
these poems, she said, are poems
with no love in them. These are the poems of a man
who would leave his wife and child because
they made noise in his study. These are the poems
of a man who would murder his mother to claim
the inheritance. These are the poems of a man
like Plato, she said, meaning something I did not
comprehend but which nevertheless
offended me. These are the poems of a man
who would rather sleep with himself than with women,
she said. These are the poems of a man
with eyes like a drawknife, with hands like a pickpocket's
hands, woven of water and logic
and hunger, with no strand of love in them. These
poems are as heartless as birdsong, as unmeant
as elm leaves, which if they love love only
the wide blue sky and the air and the idea
of elm leaves. Self-love is an ending, she said,
and not a beginning. Love means love
of the thing sung, not of the song or the singing.
These poems, she said. . . .
You are, he said,
beautiful.
That is not love, she said rightly.

- posted by cjb @ 9:33 PM


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