Infarct
A voice came to me saying, “A thousand poems
will be written today, and ideas
for thousands more will come, but none of them,
including yours, will be good.
That conjunction of historical and
ontogenetic vectors which,
according to Lukács, is beauty, will not
occur, anywhere. Neither skill,
brains, empathy, ‘vision,’
gender or ethnic grudges,
cleverness, nationalism, religiosity
or habit will avail. Poets
who grind out something
will only feel a certain nausea,
shared by their admirers, if any.
And whether, ignoring
your own discomfiture, you
rejoice in theirs, or affect
a wistful solidarity
is also a matter of indifference.”
|