On this morning when Louise Gluck has just been awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature and in light of last night’s vice-presidential candidates’ debate, I am thinking two things.
1—I once heard Louise Gluck say that she didn’t describe herself as a poet, but, rather, as someone who has written poetry in the past and may write poetry again in the future.
She was, at that point, the author of several books and was a past Poet Laureate of the United States and the possessor of many other credentials attesting to her stature as a, yes, poet. And I thought, oh no, isn’t that depressing? If SHE can’t consider herself a poet, who can? Certainly I, who place myself in the category of less than minor poet, have no standing.
But at about 11 pm on November 8, 2016, I began a long silence as a writer of anything, including poetry. And in that silence, Gluck’s words began to seem hopeful. I HAD written poetry in the past. And as for the future, how can anyone ever know? Maybe.
As it turned out, my silence did end, finally, but I still consider it freeing to think that what I have done in the past and may do in the future is not a given in the present, but a gift. Poetry may come to me, maybe even easily from time to time. Or maybe—and more likely–only after long, hard work. but it may come. How can anyone ever know?
2—The fly. Was there ever a more famous fly in history than the one that sat atop Mike Pence’s head for a full two minutes and three seconds (someone—not I–timed it!) while he talked first about racism and then about the administration’s respect for the military? As if beckoned, it landed just as he said the word “minorities.” Memes and comments ensued, of course. The Biden campaign, within minutes, debuted its new fly swatter; I have no doubt that, had the fly landed on Biden’s snowy peak, they could have have easily turned that into a win., too.
But the fly got me thinking about still life painting, which I love. All those luscious ripe fruits, the abundant meats and cheeses, flowers at the peak of their bloom. All presented ready for savoring. And there, almost unnoticed, is the fly. The small insistent reminder that the things of this world, no matter how golden, are waiting for their inevitable ending.