maurice denis. taches de soleil sur la terrasse, 1890. at musée d'orsay, paris.
Of the terrible doubt of appearances,
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable
only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be
these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and
the real something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me
and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows,
aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they
indeed but seem) as from my present point of view, and
might prove (as of course they would) nought of what
they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed
points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by
my lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while
holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and
reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am
silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of
identity beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
-walt whitman
i got my hands and eyes on this poem today, courtesy of the writer's almanac. i would guess that most people i know receive twa emails as well, and they are probably more diligent than me about reading them. i have this problem with subscriptions--paper and online. i sign up for everything under the sun, because i feel like there is just so much out there to learn and i don't want to miss anything. but then everything starts flowing in and overflowing everywhere, on the floor of my apartment or my 4 in-boxes, and i wind up only reading a few things, here and there.
i used to read the writer's almanac every day (a poem a day! what a great idea! how hard is it to commit to that?!) but like i said, too much in the in-box. so it's become a completely random exercise. the nice thing about the randomness is there are some days when it feels utterly like fate. days like today, when after not having read a poem in weeks, i click and there it is, something so moving, or so reflective of me or my mood, it just makes the rest of the day seem good and full.
hope you like this good poem (and the photo, which i took at the musee d'orsay last year).
and as they say on the twa, "be well, do good work, and keep in touch."
Of the uncertainty after all, that we may be deluded,
That may-be reliance and hope are but speculations after all,
That may-be identity beyond the grave is a beautiful fable
only,
May-be the things I perceive, the animals, plants, men, hills,
shining and flowing waters,
The skies of day and night, colors, densities, forms, may-be
these are (as doubtless they are) only apparitions, and
the real something has yet to be known,
(How often they dart out of themselves as if to confound me
and mock me!
How often I think neither I know, nor any man knows,
aught of them,)
May-be seeming to me what they are (as doubtless they
indeed but seem) as from my present point of view, and
might prove (as of course they would) nought of what
they appear, or nought anyhow, from entirely changed
points of view;
To me these and the like of these are curiously answer'd by
my lovers, my dear friends,
When he whom I love travels with me or sits a long while
holding me by the hand,
When the subtle air, the impalpable, the sense that words and
reason hold not, surround us and pervade us,
Then I am charged with untold and untellable wisdom, I am
silent, I require nothing further,
I cannot answer the question of appearances or that of
identity beyond the grave,
But I walk or sit indifferent, I am satisfied,
He ahold of my hand has completely satisfied me.
-walt whitman
i got my hands and eyes on this poem today, courtesy of the writer's almanac. i would guess that most people i know receive twa emails as well, and they are probably more diligent than me about reading them. i have this problem with subscriptions--paper and online. i sign up for everything under the sun, because i feel like there is just so much out there to learn and i don't want to miss anything. but then everything starts flowing in and overflowing everywhere, on the floor of my apartment or my 4 in-boxes, and i wind up only reading a few things, here and there.
i used to read the writer's almanac every day (a poem a day! what a great idea! how hard is it to commit to that?!) but like i said, too much in the in-box. so it's become a completely random exercise. the nice thing about the randomness is there are some days when it feels utterly like fate. days like today, when after not having read a poem in weeks, i click and there it is, something so moving, or so reflective of me or my mood, it just makes the rest of the day seem good and full.
hope you like this good poem (and the photo, which i took at the musee d'orsay last year).
and as they say on the twa, "be well, do good work, and keep in touch."
