Lullaby

Lay your sleeping head, my love, 

Human on my faithless arm;
Time and fevers burn away
Individual beauty from
Thoughtful children, and the grave
Proves the child ephemeral:
But in my arms 'til break of day
Let the living creature lie,
Mortal, guilty, but to me
The entirely beautiful. 

Soul and body have no bounds:
To lovers as they lie upon
Her tolerant, enchanted slope
In their ordinary swoon,
Grave the vision Venus sends
Of supernatural sympathy, 
Universal love and hope;
While an abstract insight wakes
Among the glaciers and the rocks
The hermit's carnal ecstasy. 

Certainty, fidelity, 
On the stroke of midnight pass
Like vibrations of a bell,
And fashionable madmen 
Raise their pedantic, boring cry: 
Every farthing of the cost, 
All the dreaded cards foretell,
Shall be paid, but from this night
Not a whisper, not a thought,
Not a kiss nor look be lost. 

Beauty, midnight, vision dies:
Let the winds of dawn that blow
Softly 'round your dreaming head
Such a day of welcome show
Eye and knocking heart may bless,
Find the mortal world enough;
Noons of dryness find you fed 
By the involuntary powers,
Nights of insult let you pass
Watched by every human love.  

-W.H. Auden

 

"Lullaby" is a constant mystery to me: How the hell does it work? It's incredible, transcenfuckingdentally joy-inducing on every level; but it goes against so many principles of "good" writing that I've been taught and try to write by. Abstractions and vagueness abound, but I don't think this poem's success is merely an argument in favor of misty intangibles; I suspect that it's the combination of abstract and concrete (if non-specific) bits in combination with the truly surprising (and radically mundane!) word choices in a slightly off-kilter order that make this work (though, of course, that's not all of it). And what's up with that punctuation?! Hello, one colon per stanza and non-standard comma use. Even the meter is a mystery: is it (slightly irregular) trochaic tetrameter with most of the last syllables cut off? Is it trochaic trimeter with a hypermetrical syllable? NO ONE KNOWS. 

Hi, guys.

In the intro to Singing School, Robert Pinsky says, "'Who decides what is magnificent? Who was what is a monument? Who chooses?' . . . you do: the aspirant, the true student, the passionate reader inspired to write, chooses. No curriculum or or official canon will suffice: the examples must proceed from what thrills each person. . . . Create your own anthology by typing out the writing that inspires you." So here, I'll engage in what Pinsky calls "the double labor of deciding for yourself what thrills you and studying it." One poem per week. Or more of I get excited.