Sword Blades and Poppy Seed
by Amy Lowell
~"Face invisible! je t'ai grave/e en me/dailles
D'argent doux comme l'aube pa^le,
D'or ardent comme le soleil,
D'airain sombre comme la nuit;
Il y en a de tout me/tal,
Qui tintent clair comme la joie,
Qui sonnent lourd comme la gloire,
Comme l'amour, comme la mort;
Et j'ai fait les plus belles de belle argile
Seche et fragile.
"Une a une, vous les comptiez en souriant,
Et vous disiez: Il est habile;
Et vous passiez en souriant.
"Aucun de vous n'a donc vu
Que mes mains tremblaient de tendresse,
Que tout le grand songe terrestre
Vivait en moi pour vivre en eux
Que je gravais aux me/taux pieux,
Mes Dieux."~
Henri de Re/gnier, "Les Me/dailles d'Argile".
Preface
No one expects a man to make a chair without first learning how,
but there is a popular impression that the poet is born, not made,
and that his verses burst from his overflowing heart of themselves.
As a matter of fact, the poet must learn his trade in the same manner,
and with the same painstaking care, as the cabinet-maker.
His heart may overflow with high thoughts and sparkling fancies,
but if he cannot convey them to his reader by means of the written word
he has no claim to be considered a poet. A workman may be pardoned,
therefore, for spending a few moments to explain and describe
the technique of his trade. A work of beauty which cannot stand
an intimate examination is a poor and jerry-built thing.
In the first place, I wish to state my firm belief that poetry should not
try to teach, that it should exist simply because it is a created beauty,
even if sometimes the beauty ...
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