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Melodies XLIX; He Hoped He Was A Poet, But He Feared Mount Blanc
[a poetic treatment of an episode of literary history; Chamonix Valley, 1816]
He hoped he was a poet, and he feared Mount Blanc,
that massive pile of ancient, unyielding stone,
covered with layer upon layer of unbroken ice;
the slope's height seemed greater than any human tower,
and its girth seemed to be endowed with cosmic power.
Standing apart and staring, he felt utterly alone;
unwanted among his peers, and incapable---
in its presence---of any verbal artistry.
The mountain's presence had driven it from his soul.
In the vastness of history, his life was a moment, a trice;
and he was merely a chemical conglomeration
an upchuck of a gob of snot and phlegm
that never was privileged enough to matter.
Some day dead, and by most persons forgotten,
he who could compose no verse, would slowly decompose---
a carcass of worm-feed, odorous and rotten,
even his constituent elements, like his verses, doomed to scatter;
and the terror of that had caused his aplomb to shatter.
Mount Blanc reminded him of all this,
as it seemed to smile in avid mockery,
as it drew around its angular, jagged face
a pedal-like sheer, translucent mist,
unsnagged, uninterrupted by flaws, and in fullness replete
(he though of the silk that encheathed his lady's unshod feet).
His horror of Mount Blanc compelled him to strange thoughts, amiss;
in silent shock, he repetitiously clenched his fist
as he realized his sad attempts to write real poetry
can never amount to that, but must hover toward nervous prose
that literate readers will rapidly condemn
as a grimacing rank, ambitious pose,
full of noise and performed vapidity,
a discontent of pouting vacancy,
a broken goblet containing vinegar whine,
a shallow hole that no one would care to mine;
scribbles of the lowest and last rank,
by a scribbler given only to emotional whim.
Such was the witness borne against him---
to his ceaseless and overwhelming frustration---
by the lofty, soaring, imposing grandeur of Mount Blanc.
Starward
Was it in reference to
romanticism and nature? Shelley would often go into a mockery of Woodsworths poetry. Although, this made me think of Tintern Abbey - where Woodsworth could not remember from his youth the beauty of it until with the help of his sister Dorothy, he could experience once more through her eyes the delight of it. I could be way off the mark though, but atleast I got to delve in the past of brilliant literature. - I enjoyed this, thank you for sharing. <3
"We are, Each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." -Luciano De Crescenzo
Coming from such an
Coming from such an accomplished Poet, your comment is a high compliment, and I am very grateful for it. So as not to tip my hand, this early, I will send you a PM with the solution to the riddle, and you can choose to read it or not. Thanks again for the excellent comment.
J-9th94
I would
be honored by such secrecy.
"We are, Each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." -Luciano De Crescenzo
I like your attitude!
I like your attitude!
J-9th94