Thursday, September 20, 2007

Auden's Musee des Beaux Arts

I think this is my favorite poem of all time, but I know I'm prone to hyperbole at times.
Musee des Beaux Arts

W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong,
The old Masters: how well they understood
Its human position: how it takes place
While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along;
How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting
For the miraculous birth, there always must be
Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating
On a pond at the edge of the wood:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel's Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away
Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may
Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry,
But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone
As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green
Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen
Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky,
Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

2 comments:

BYP-Temple Stark said...

It seems like a drunken philosophical conversation at a bar.

Objectively it's right on the edge of inane and insane

Aaman said...

Temple, I draw your attention to the following:
They never forgot
That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course
Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot
Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer's horse
Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.


That could sum up our modern American Idol/Abu Ghraib lives, methinks, quite well, although it were written for a different period

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Time traveler, world traveler, book reader