Poetry as Art, and Vice Versa

More from the Mark Doty book: he regularly compares painting—and so art, in general—to poetry, in its evocative, metaphorical syntax and usage and the ways it affects us when we experience it.

In still life, it’s the same: these things had a history, a set of personal meanings; they were someone’s. The paintings seem to refer to this life of ownership, and to suggest something of the feeling attached to things, while withholding any narrative. What could we ever know of this cup or platter, the pearl-handled knife? Their associations are long since dead, though something of the personal seems to glow here still, all its particulars distilled into an aura of intimacy.

Mark Doty, Still Life With Oysters and Lemon

Daily Pome

I’ve enjoyed reading poetry ever since I was little. I very occasionally write it, but wasn’t really doing either thing very often until a few months ago.

But the delight of a new poem every morning has been my privilege ever since I subscribed to Matthew Ogle’s Pome. Here’s yesterday’s:

The water is clear all the way down.
Nothing ever polished it. That is the way it is.

Keizan Jōkin
trans. W. S. Merwin

It comes as a daily email—sometimes longer, sometimes brief, always a delight. And a much better way to start the morning than normal typical email or social media.

Poetry is an often-neglected corner of literature, even though it came before. And I can’t see a reason it can’t outlast it, too.

Subscribe to Pome here.