“Changed, when the great
equalizer
Has played its black joke,
To a few pounds of
fertilizer
Or a few puffs of smoke,
“Some ways of such a
passing
Strike you sharp and
clear:
A van on a zebra crossing,
A vein behind the ear.”
A realist reduces thing to
the pertinent facts. He doesn’t revel in them but acknowledges their primacy. That
doesn’t make him always right. You may think the speaker of this poem is one of
those professional cynics who craves the outrage his bluntness attracts. He’s
not.
“Or, with worse scenarios,
A slow melt-down that
bores
And exhausts, till dark’s
victorious,
Not only you, but yours;
“You feel the days
dismantle
The billion-neutron hoard:
Love sputters like a
candle,
Small facts go overboard,
“(The mercy speech by
Portia,
The words to Gershwin
tunes,
The Roman Forts of Yorkshire,
The names of Neptune’s
moons.)”
Precisely the class of memories
that grow threadbare. The other day I performed on myself a sort of Apgar test for the
rapidly aging and found solace in being able to recite (to myself – I
cling to some self-respect) the names of all the presidents. I fumbled,
however, when it came to naming Napoleon’s twenty-six marshals. Perhaps memory
is patriotic.
“Anyhow, brain and body,
Here comes a new recruit
To much-missed ranks already
Long since gone down the
chute.
“What’s helpful. Not much.
Nothing?
But to fill in the time
There’s little harm in clothing
Such nude truths with a
rhyme.”
As good a defense of writing
poetry as I’ve seen in a long time. The poem quoted is Robert Conquest’s “Sooner
or Later,” published in Penultimata in 2009, when Conquest was
ninety-two. You’ll also find it in Collected Poems (Waywiser Press,
2020), which I am reviewing in the October 11 edition of the Los AngelesReview of Books.
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