In the Forest of Fontainbleu: Camille Corot (1796-1875), c. 1860-65, oil on canvas, 46 x 59 cm (National Gallery of Art, Washington)
Nothing is without place,
in mind, in physical apprehension --
or if "a dagger of the mind" is the purpose,
hold on to it for dear life, or else kill somebody.
Just when I thought I had it made, I lost it.
Just when I knew what to do, I was an old man.
You hear that bird sing in the tree, there,
you know still what a tree is?
Love is a place, not a person, love is
a weather of time, a convenience to absent sorrows.
But talk is the cheapest of all, means what it wants to,
waits up for no one, always goes home alone.
Robert Creeley (1926-2005): Love, from Places, 1990
Landscape: Camille Corot (1796-1875), n. d., oil on canvas 32.4 x 21.6 cm (private collection)
Forest in Fontainbleu: Camille Corot (1796-1875), oil on canvas, 49.35.5 cm (private collection)
Fontainbleu, the Bas Breau Road: Camille Corot (1796-1875), c. 1830-35, oil on canvas (private collection)
An Artist Painting in the Forest of Fontainbleu: Camille Corot (1796-1875), 1850-55, oil on canvas, 28.6 x 24.1 cm (private collection)
Figures in a Forest: Camille Corot (1796-1875), c. 1850-60, fresco (private collection)
Souvenir of Ville d'Avray: Camille Corot (1796-1875), 1872, oil on canvas, 49.35.5 cm (Musée d'Orsay, Paris)
In the Forest of Fontainbleu: Camille Corot (1796-1875), c. 1860-65, oil on canvas, 46 x 59 cm (National Gallery of Art, Washington)
In the Forest of Fontainbleu: Camille Corot (1796-1875), c. 1860-65, oil on canvas, 46 x 59 cm (National Gallery of Art, Washington)
intense poem...interesting contradictions....I love these lines:
ReplyDelete"Love is a place, not a person, love is
a weather of time, a convenience to absent sorrows."
wonderful poem, Tom.
ReplyDeleteWhat if the beloved is a specific person in a particular place at a definite time?
Time, the deer, is in Hallaig Wood.
I'll go to Hallaig,
To the sabbath of the dead,
Down to where each departed generation has gathered
Hallaig is where they survive.
And coming back from Clachan and Suisnish,
their land of the living,
Still lightsome and unheartbroken,
Their stories only beginning.
And their beauty a glaze on my heart.
then as the kyles go dim
And the sun sets behind the Dun Cana
Love's loaded gun will take aim.
It will bring down the lightheaded deer
As he sniffs the grass round the wallsteads
And his eyes will freeze: while I live,
His blood won't be traced in the woods.
-----Hallaig, Sorley Maclean.
Beautiful!!!
ReplyDeleteNothing cheap about this precious poem.
ReplyDeleteThis poem this morning, Tom, think still about that deer from yesterday, then today's poem and the Sorley Maclean poem, so moving... (I'd never heard of him, and only a few days ago someone asked me about modern Scottish poets... and me, a descendent of Robert the Bruce! So my aunt said, in our family tree... but when I mentioned it to a Scottish girl in London, she said, "Oh everybody in Scotland is descended from Robert the Bruce!"
ReplyDelete(I want one of those Corot paintings in my house!)
GRAY FOX
for Tom Clark
A gray fox this time
with black nose
slips almost unnoticed
along the city street
next to the great woods
and most think he’s a
neighborhood cat out for a
serendipitous stroll
a few sardine cans whose
oils may not be completely
ingested
He’s slick in the
full moonlight
as if wearing ermines
the light off his
gray coat shines
and he’s thinking foxy
thoughts pretty
unfathomable to such as
us with our limited but
technologically supported
communication skills
The fox who yips and
barks at night so
neighbors think it’s a
dog fight or a
tomcat commotion
bouncing along
nose choosing from the
menu of odors we can’t
even smell
Stops
pricks up his ears for a
moment
stock still
momentarily majestic
then ambles on
as much in God’s
sight as we are only
O so much more
naturally glamorous!
5/12/15
Tom,
ReplyDeleteI wonder what convenience is for present sorrows. Poetry? G7 summits? Election? Change? Being Woody Allen's producer these days? or saying it all at the oscars? I begin to think, and I think until it inconveniences me. That is why I love love.