Ars Poetica? by Czeslaw Milosz
A reader commented on a Milosz poem, so I went and found another one. I think that it must be read in conjunction by this one of a similar title by Archibald MacLeish. I might argue that what he has written here is not poetry, though probably not with him! This text is taken from The Poetry Foundation, translated by the author and Lillian Vallee.
Ars Poetica?
By Czeslaw Milosz
I have always aspired to a more spacious form
that would be free from the claims of poetry or prose
and would let us understand each other without exposing
the author or reader to sublime agonies.
In the very essence of poetry there is something indecent:
a thing is brought forth which we didn’t know we had in us,
so we blink our eyes, as if a tiger had sprung out
and stood in the light, lashing his tail.
That’s why poetry is rightly said to be dictated by a daimonion,
though it’s an exaggeration to maintain that he must be an angel.
It’s hard to guess where that pride of poets comes from,
when so often they’re put to shame by the disclosure of their frailty.
What reasonable man would like to be a city of demons,
who behave as if they were at home, speak in many tongues,
and who, not satisfied with stealing his lips or hand,
work at changing his destiny for their convenience?
It’s true that what is morbid is highly valued today,
and so you may think that I am only joking
or that I’ve devised just one more means
of praising Art with the help of irony.
There was a time when only wise books were read,
helping us to bear our pain and misery.
This, after all, is not quite the same
as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics.
And yet the world is different from what it seems to be
and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.
People therefore preserve silent integrity,
thus earning the respect of their relatives and neighbors.
The purpose of poetry is to remind us
how difficult it is to remain just one person,
for our house is open, there are no keys in the doors,
and invisible guests come in and out at will.
What I’m saying here is not, I agree, poetry,
as poems should be written rarely and reluctantly,
under unbearable duress and only with the hope
that good spirits, not evil ones, choose us for their instrument.
That’s a poem. How do I know?
When I was young, maybe seven or eight, I cleverly observed — with no outside help, hints, or coaching — that the biggest problem book authors faced was getting *both* the right side *and* the left side of the page to line up. You know… so that the very last letter of each word would end *exactly* under the last letter of the word above it.
I was amazed. How did they do that, line after line? Page after page! Straight as a ruler! How did they pick out their words so carefully that they always lined up like that? Now *that* was real art. I figured it must take years to learn how to choose words with such care. I tried it myself on a typewritter with no success. I could not get the words to line up no matter how hard I tried. And so my career as an author ended in dispair at a young age.
To this day, I am quite convinced the only difference between poetry and prose is the right margin. Poets have it easy. They can say whatever they like, and it doesn’t matter if it lines up or not.
And had my first book been a book of poetry, my life would have been different.
Oops! I just realized how my wording sounds. I meant I might argue the point in the last stanza that the poem is not poetry. I think it is!
Thanks for sharing your story. It made me smile.
Hello rinabeana,
Are you still on the lookout for wedding poems? I was at a wedding earlier this week - an older couple - and thought this poem was very apt: “A Lovely Love Story” by Edward Monckton.
Am still enjoying your daily poems. Keep spreading joy!
Tricia x