Joy
comes toppling from the crest:
it starts at the full, and by the time you realize,
it is different, dispersing, differentiating,
falling. It is not the more
or the less real for that.
If we are careful
we will not confuse
recollection with collection,
but we need not be persnickety.
It is by design that most of love
is caught in the nets of memory,
shaped, formed, reformed
by the pressure of the mesh.
Don't fuss too much.
Don't insist on priority
or authenticity. It's all real:
just real in different ways
at different times
for different purposes.
3 comments:
So, this is what happened when I re-read your "An Essay on Love" - I thought of Bachelard, who was thinking of Milosz.
"When Milosz, 'who prides himself on writing with the should of words,' writes the word love,' he knows that this word contains 'the eternal divine-feminine of Alighieri and Goethe, the angelic sentimentality and sensuality, the virginal maternity where, as in a burning crucible, Swedenborg's adramandonic, Hodelrlin's hesperic and Schiller's elyssian are melted together…"
:-) well that's wonderful!
*writing with the soul of words
But my typo is a little funnier.
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