Dear Harry,

A wise and sharp point. One starts using medieval philosophical terms like "esse" for precision and ends up using them for pretension.

But there is a distinction here that needs some vocabulary or another to maintain. The early medieval neoplatonists used "esse" to suggest simply what the word in Latin obviously means: the "to be" of something, its most real being. This is the sense, as I understand it, of the word in Boethius, for example.

But the later medieval Aristotelians would use the word in a more specialized sense to mean "existence," as opposed to "essence" (as in the title of St. Thomas's breakthrough book, "De Esse et Essentia").

Having been speaking of Platonism, I intended "esse" in its looser sense as "really real" being, however one wants to take that. But if we have to draw the finer distinction, then I imagine it would look like this:

If you want to grasp the existence of an apple, go to an apple tree.

If you want to grasp the essence of an apple, go to a poet.

--or so, at least, those who believe that poetry offers deeper and higher insights into reality would say.

JB


[This message has been edited by Joseph Bottum (edited August 14, 2003).]

Hmmm….now lemme’ see if I’ve got it right…


‘esse phrases’ express ‘ekphrasis’?


[scratchin’ head and gwon to bed]

Teejay -

They are more or less, I guess, essentially the essence of ekphrasis. Yes?

This "appleness of apples" discussion reminds me of Wallace Stevens'
"Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird", a poem which brings us all OH so much closer to understanding the blackbirdness of blackbirds. http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/rolleyes.gif

But back to ekphrasis. Does a poem about an apple automatically have more immediacy than a does poem about a painting or photograph of an apple? I think not.

A painter or photographer does not just depict the image of an apple. He or she also makes certain compositional decisions that, in effect, create a self-contained universe for the representation of the apple. A poem based on that work of art is really responding to and commenting on that universe, not just the "subject". So it doesn't really matter that the poem is two degrees removed from the apple, because it is still only one degree removed from that unique universe.

Julie Stoner


[This message has been edited by Julie Stoner (edited August 15, 2003).]

Does a poem about an apple automatically have more immediacy than a does poem about a painting or photograph of an apple? I think not.

I guess it depends what you mean by immediacy. If we want to become immediately in touch with the appleness of an apple, the thing itself, then we wouldn't want to place unnecessary layers of interpretation or cognition between us and the apple. It's bad enough that we have to use words, which are already an intrusion on appleness; how could it possibly help us to place another artist's consciousness between us and the apple? If you do that, you're introducing an entirely new subject, and that can only distract from the apple. A given photographer may enjoy photographing apples through gauze, but the one who doesn't use gauze gets a more immediate and accurate depiction of the apple. But even he is left with a photograph, not an apple.

But a painting of an apple is not "an apple once removed." It's not an apple at all, in any sense, and was never meant to be, so it's not an imitation of anything. It's a real piece of canvas having certain dimensions, covered with real pigment, and probably contained on its sides by a frame of some sort made of real wood or real metal or some other not-imaginary substance. The person who responds to it in a poem is responding to that reality--with all the unseen aspects added to it, such as the perception of the painter's brushstrokes and the evidence of his choices and so on, and his choice of subject. The poem is not responding to the depicted apple, but to the depiction of the apple--the artist's act of depiction and its visible result--which is the work of art.

The artist is a depicter, not a counterfeiter. His work is not intended to replace or be taken for the model. My husband's statues, for instance, sit, lie and stand all over this house, but nobody in his right mind would believe that my husband made them to "imitate" people and fool the viewer somehow! They're too small to compete with real live people; they have metallic or painted or otherwise wholly unskinlike finishes; and they never move! No, he makes them because it gives him pleasure and because he finds the human body endlessly interesting, complete with its wrinkles and bulges and signs of bone under the flesh. Somebody responding to one of his pieces would be moved by my husband's take on his model, the version his eye perceived and what his hands did with it in clay and then in plaster, not by the living model, who is not present in my house, and in any case would have looked different to some other sculptor.

As for the danger of pretentiousness that Chris mentions, alas, there's no getting rid of that, any more than the danger of sentimentality, ineptitude...the list is long. Those are human failings, not dangers inherent in ekphrasis itself. The poet who becomes pretentious writing an ekphrastic poem would probably do so if he limited his subject to a single drop of water. If he's determined to write in such a way as to "impress," he will find a way to do it, however modest his subject, because his true theme--his own magnificence--will out.

Can't resist supplying this very relevant link:

http://www.uwrf.edu/history/prints/magritte-pipe.html

Roger >> But I seem to remember reading an exhortation by Roethke that readers should initially approach all poems with great respect and faith in the poet. (I can't find the exact quote). In other words, one should read all poems as if it were given that they are of the highest quality. If one approaches a poem with skepticism about its quality, it amounts to a self-fulfilling prophecy. <<

Roethke was certainly right, and it turns on a distinction between "appreciation" and "criticism." Appreciation is much more demanding. You have to set aside your own preconceptions and commit yourself to, as it were, living with a poem, until its laws reveal themselves to you. Or not! For appreciation is always capable of failure. Criticism, on the other hand, never fails, since it imposes its own laws on the poem.

In practice, no doubt, what we mean by "criticism" involves an interplay of "appreciation" and "criticism" in these narrower senses, but they are logically divergent activities, and the commonest shortcoming of critics is no doubt underdevelopment of the appreciative faculty.

Rhina >> The artist is a depicter, not a counterfeiter. His work is not intended to replace or be taken for the model. <<

Yes, but then again a good likeness is one of the criteria of success. If so, wouldn't an absolutely indistinguishable likeness be superior to an approximation?

Magritte's relevant painting is a super-conventional, iconic representation of a pipe. The utter banality of the representation is overpowering, in a way. It is an ironically abject submission to the outer, superficial aspect of artistic mimesis. The inner aspect is suggested by a saying attributed to the medieval alchemists: "Art is the imitation of Nature in its mode of operation." Not a slavish copying of appearances, but an occult investigation into how the visible results are arrived at. An audacious attempt to acquire something of Nature's power. Hence perhaps Jody's distinction:

>> If you want to grasp the existence of an apple, go to an apple tree.

If you want to grasp the essence of an apple, go to a poet. <<

"poet" here being understood in the etymological sense of "maker."

Kate, that Magritte was perfect! Kudos!

Sorry, Roger, my statement about "immediacy" was confusing. I didn't mean that the audience of a poem about an apple painting (or photo) should sense that they are interacting with an apple, or even that they are interacting with a painting (or photo).

By "immediacy," I meant the reader's sense that the poetic material is fresh, compelling, and original--that it touches them directly and evokes an emotional response in and of itself, even while it acknowledges some debt to the artist.

So, yes, if we were to view a painting or photograph of an apple--realistic or abstract--our experience of the apple could never be "immediate." That experience would be mediated by the photographer or painter, whether subtly (as in realistic art) or obviously (as in abstract art). Nevertheless, our experience of the photograph or painting itself would be firsthand, direct, unmediated...immediate.

Likewise, if we were to read an ekphrastic poem about that piece of art, our experience of the painting or photograph would be mediated by the poet, but our experience of the poem would be immediate.

"Immediacy" would thus indicate direct interaction with the object at hand. In the case of an ekphrastic poem, the object at hand would be the poet's own work, not the artist's, or even the gardener's. (I think I'm in line with Rhina's sentiment here.)

I brought all this up in an attempt to address the complaint that ekphrastic poetry is, by definition, handicapped by the interposition of an extra layer of mediation between the reader and the "subject". Balderdash. An ekphrastic poem can still be fresh, compelling, and original; it can derive from another work without being "derivative."

Perhaps it would be useful to discuss foreign-language translations as a special case of ekphrasis. Since faithfulness to the letter and spirit of the original is highly valued in translations, this type of ekphrastic poem has much less freedom to vary from the approach taken by the original's creator. Even so, the translator makes significant creative decisions in terms of word choice and emphasis, and we readers interact with the translation differently than we do with the original--even those of us readers who are fluent in both languages.

Whaddya think?

Julie Stoner

Julie, I was also tempted to make an analogy between translation and ekphrastic poetry, but I think it breaks down. After all, the translator is forced by necessity to interpret the source and make creative adjustments, but his goal isn't to provide a gloss on the original, or to use the original as a trigger or starting point for a thoroughly original and personal work of art. In a way, the more he does that, the less he succeeds as a translator. (Though not doing so means he fails as a translator, which is the paradox of translation).

I guess, in a sense, all art can be viewed as translation (a poem about a sunset "translates" the sunset into verse), but it's a shaky analogy, since, as Rhina points out, a poem isn't really "about" the things it describes but the thoughts and themes that those things evoke from the poet. (At least that's what I think Rhina is saying, though I've oversimplified). What's unique about ekphrastic poetry, perhaps, is that the trigger is another work of art, instead of something in the natural world itself. And, come to think of it, that's not so different from literary translation, except with translation it's a necessary evil, and with ekphrasis it's an available good.

My translation of Sor Juana's "To Her Portrait" perhaps shows the difference. Sor Juana wrote an ekphrastic poem about her own portrait. She was not trying to translate her portrait into a sonnet, but to use her portrait as an occasion to say something that the painter of the portrait presumably never intended or thought about. But I was trying to translate her sonnet into another sonnet that did not have a single original thought in it, choosing instead to be subservient (to the extent possible) to Sor Juana's text. I wasn't trying to comment on her text, or to say anything about the underlying portrait that inspired Sor Juana. It would be impossible to criticize Sor Juana's poem by saying that it wasn't true to the portrait, but it would be very possible to criticize my poem by saying it wasn't true to Sor Juana's sonnet.

So I'm not sure about the translation metaphor here even though, having worked so hard at translation for the last eight months or so, I tend to see translation as a metaphor for just about everything! In a way, all communication and perception is translation, but don't get me started or I'll blather even more incomprehensibly than I've been doing.

No, Roger, incomprehensible blather is MY turf! http://www.ablemuse.com/erato/ubbhtml/smile.gif And I liked your translation arguments very much.

I started repenting of my last post the moment I sent it--especially regarding my statements about the reader or viewer "interacting with" works of poetry or visual art. (Doh! Interaction is a two-way street, and the poem doesn't change in response to the reader except in a workshop setting.) Oh well, I told myself, I guess I've generously provided fodder for further discussion.

Ever the altruist,

Julie Stoner

Roger, what you say about translation and how it both resembles and differs from ekphrasis strikes me as perfect.

I think A.E. Stallings was too modest to tell Mr. Clawson, about a month ago, that the poem he saw in the Atlantic must have been her own. It was a sonnet about an Orthodox icon of the resurrection - illustrated in color, too. Splendid work!

Thanks Gail (and Bob, of course) for the plug. It was certainly an interesting experience having a poem published with an illustration. Icons are genre works, and certain scenes and attributes are reproduced again and again, but with slight variations. My poem was based more on a "composite" of this particular genre than on an individual icon. The art staff was therefore perplexed at not being able to find an icon that perfectly fit with all the details of my description. To me, that was not the point, as I had intended the poem to stand alone, and the icon to be imagined. So it was interesting having to deal with the problems of an actual image.

I do look forward to reading Alicia's poem. By way of apology for my foolish fantasy about the origin of the Fleur Adcock poem (see edited comment above) I offer Edwin Muir's The Annunciation, together with his account of its origin:

'I remember stopping for a long time one day to look at a little plaque on the wall of a house in the Via degli Artisti [Rome], representing the Annunciation. An angel and a young girl, their bodies inclined towards each other, their knees bent as if they were overcome by love, 'tutto tremante', gazed upon each other like Dante's pair; and that representation of a human love so intense that it could not reach farther seemed the perfect earthly symbol of the love that passes understanding.'

The angel and the girl are met,
Earth was the only meeting place,
For the embodied never yet
Travelled beyond the shore of space.
The eternal spirits in freedom go.

See, they have come together, see,
While the destroying minutes flow,
Each reflects the other's face
Till heaven in hers and earth in his
Shine steady there. He's come to her
From far beyond the farthest star,
Feathered through time. Immediacy
of strangest strangeness is the bliss
That from their limbs all movement takes.
Yet the increasing rapture brings
So great a wonder that it makes
Each feather tremble on his wings.

Outside the window footsteps fall
Into the ordinary day
And with the sun along the wall
Pursue their unreturning way
That was ordained in eternity.
Sound's perpetual roundabout
Rolls its numbered octaves out
And hoarsely grinds its battered tune.

But through the endless afternoon
These neither speak nor movement make,
But stare into their deepening trance
As if their gaze woul never break.

Whatever truth-value one attaches to the story from Christian scriptures, this is (I think) a powerful and affecting piece - which owes much to its strong first line.

Margaret

Alicia,

Here is one of my favorites:

Sonnet of Model Romanticist 2055

You stand, robe billowing, by a leafless tree
As barren as the soul of which I'm told
Does not exist; is void and stony cold.
Such nothingness! And thus was their decree.
Still! What feeds this mind they fashioned me!
Orange skies and a day I'll ever hold
Inside my programmed brain that they did mold.
They played God, but they did not foresee . . .

One moment could transcend the laws of man.
That day I came upon you facing west,
There swelled in me such feeling they would ban-
Unplanned and rising up inside my chest.
My quest-to find the vision-lovely Anne.
And the searching for my soul-the final test!

by Andrea Dietrich

About the Painting “Dreaming Machine” by Magda Vasters
(You can click on the bottom right corner of the painting to make it much larger) http://www.raptor8.hpg.ig.com.br/jjbinks/mvasters/pages/magdavasters12_dreaming_mac hine.jpg




[This message has been edited by Thomas Newton2 (edited September 04, 2003).]

I'm intrigued you favour this one, Thomas.
I think there are serious flaws which would be quickly identified if it were posted on any competent workshop; no way does it justify a Mastery posting.
Who's Andrea Dietrich? Is she famous?
Best regards,
David

David,

You are correct. Andrea Dietrich is not a Master Poet. She is not as famous as the New Jersey Poet Laureate, Amiri Baraka, but much more famous than the sculptor that produced Venus de Milo.

Perhaps, I was overly influenced by Literature and Science by Aldous Huxley; “Rockets and Carts” by Yevgeny Yevtsushenko, The Two Cultures and the Scientific Revolution (1959 Rede Lecture at Cambridge University) by C. P. Snow; Two Cultures? The Significance of C. P. Snow (1962 Richmond Lecture at Downing College, Cambridge) by F. R. Leavis; I, Robot, by Isaac Asimov; 2001: A Space Odyssey by Arthur C. Clarke; and the magnificent digital art titled “Dreaming Machine” by the Polish/German artist Magda Vasters.
Respectfully,
Thomas Newton

What an interesting thread. Poems like this should be put into a collection. I did several pieces about sculpture and art for my new book, one of them, on Titian's "Penitent Mary Magdalene."

I'm loving this thread but, in answer to a question further up the thread, I would like to be the devil's advocate about most verbal responses to visual art.

I am married to someone who has, in the past, exhibited seriously as an abstract painter, and also was an art critic.

We both developed an aversion to verbal attempts to "describe" or "explain" paintings. Eavesdropping on literary conversations in galleries was actually a source of entertainment. They so often missed the power of the simple visual statement as they delved for hidden motives, metaphors, and religious meanings.

The sad thing is that journalists and academics often asked painters to speak about their work. Painters (with some notable exceptions) are people who paint, not speak. They usually responded to the expectations of the questioner with a hideous pastiche of the questioner's own platitudes and so the web became more tangled. Painters then started spouting the stuff spontaneously and the promotion industry fastened on their naive words with a terrible rapacity.

But back to the poems. Anything on the earth that moves a poet is fair game in my opinion. And the poems here show that the innocence of a poem transcends all the babble of theorists. Wonderful stuff. Thank you for posting these poems.
Janet

"A wonderful thread. Here is a poem of mine due to appear in the Sewanee Review."

Dear Arioch,
This isn't the place to post your own work.
Post it to one of the critical forums, if you want feedback, or to Accomplished Members, if you want to have a bit of a brag.
Best regards,
David


Dear David,

I have no need to brag. I posted this because it deals with
a type of art work neglected in this thread. And I notice that while you removed my posting, you left the others that
also posted their own work intact. I guess I don't belong to the in crowd which is necessary in order to have one's transgressions overlooked. I can take a hint, and have.
arioch


[This message has been edited by arioch (edited September 09, 2003).]

Whoops!
Tracking back through the thread, I've just realised you're not the only perp. Apologies; I didn't mean to pick on you.
I'm surprised at the number of people who ought to know better, who've had the temerity to post their poems here as examples of Mastery.
Regards,
David

Hans Magnus Enzensberger’s fine sequence of poems “The Sinking of the Titanic” (1977) contains several sections which are ekphrastic in character, with titles such as “Apocalypse. Umbrian master , about 1490” and “The Rape of Suleika. Dutch, late 19th Century”.

His own very effective translation is available new from Carcanet Press (Manchester UK) and second-hand.

Clive Watkins

I noticed a classified ad in the July/August issue of Poets & Writers (page 97) for a magazine devoted to ekphrastic poetry. Their website: www.hometown.aol.com/ekphrasis1 . I haven't seen a copy of Ekphrasis, but it seemed worth a mention on this thread.

[This message has been edited by Mark Blaeuer (edited September 08, 2003).]

David and others concerned, here's a sentence from Alicia's intitial post:

I'm interested in what favorite ekphrastic poems folks here may have. Or any ekphrastic poems of your own? Any thoughts on this topic?

Cheers,

------------------
Ralph

Sorry folks. I sneaked off for the weekend and wasn't here for this misunderstanding.

As this is a topic rather than a poet I don't mind--and explicitly invited--folks to post their own poems, particularly if they have any insight into the process or had any difficulties/concerns to share. Sorry about any confusion.

As for the title "Musing on Mastery," I find it limiting and potentially troublesome, as I think I've mentioned before. I see this principally (with occasional exceptions) as discussion of "third party" poetry, as opposed to a workshop forum. To limit this to universally-acknowledged masters (or mistresses) would potentially devolve into unfruitful discussions of who could or could not be included. What works--or what DOESN'T work--these are of equal interest to me. So the title "Musing on Mastery" is perhaps misleading.

Anyway, am continuing to enjoy these.

In response to Mark's mention of "Ekphrasis," yes, it's a fine magazine. The editors are Laverne and Carol Frith, and the address is 161236, Sacramento, CA 95816-1236. I've had poems in it several times, and have always been glad of the company in there with me.

Just in case anyone didn't realize, some of us are also posting our own apprenticely ekphrastic attempts in the current thread in the fun-excise section and I'm sure would be interested in comments on what works or doesn't among them.

I'd intended, when I could find the time, to talk about Henri Coulette on this thread. He was, to my mind, one of the four or five best poets of his time; hell, come to that, he's one of the four or five best of our time. Here's an ekphrastic poem of his, a very early one:


INTAGLIO

I have a picture in my room in which
Four gawky children strike a pose and stare
Out at the world without a worldly care.
Three girls and a boy in a paper hat:
The one too much a mouse to be a bitch,
The bitch, the actress, and the acrobat.

The roles I give them, half suggested by
The poses that they took, are meaningless,
For they are playing games. It is recess
Or summer--we have interrupted them.
They pose for us, with Agile romping by
And dark-eyed Pensive plucking at her hem.

This is my family. I dust them now
And then, and they return the courtesy
By never growing up. Thus, irony
Becomes a kind of family likeness, treasured
Not for the casual sameness of a brow
But for the attitudes one's mind has measured.

I knew an Agile once. To prove himself
The nimbler one, he pushed his books aside,
And crossed to Europe and the war, and died,
And his agility, which I believed a power
Then, then was gone, and his books on my shelf
Harvest the sunlit dust, hour after hour.

And there was Pensive, too, and everything
She touched was touched with fear. She married well,
Her people said, but marriage proves a hell
For those who marry but the flesh alone.
Who would have known a turn of mind could bring
Such knowledge to a girl? Who would have known?

I think of her, the child with heavy heart,
Heavy with child, and, Child, I think of you
And all the follies you will journey through;
I know them as an author knows his book.
Action and thought are nothing if apart.
Love in a gesture, wisdom in a book--

These are the real births for which we die.
Outside, the neighbor children startle me,
Calling, Allee, alleeoutsinfree.
They cut for home. I hear a whirring skate
Fading through the darkness like a sigh.
I dust the frame and set the picture straight.

I think, despite a few small flaws, that this is very fine.
And speaking of ekphrastic poems, I've written a couple myself that are not altogether without virtue, "Evening Wind" and "Tea Dance at the Nautilus Hotel."

What a wonderful poem, this one by Henri Coulette! Everything about it works--the wry regret, the "family history," the sudden arousal from memory by the sound of living children. A beauty! Thank you for posting it.

A message here to David Anthony has been deleted as private and not suitable to this public forum. Arioch, you are welcome to reinstate your poem, sans any personal remarks.

--Alicia

Arioch/Oswald, David promptly and publicly apologized for deleting your poem before he realized that others had also posted their own ekphrastic poems.

On September 8, David posted the following words: "Whoops! Tracking back through the thread, I've just realised you're not the only perp. Apologies; I didn't mean to pick on you." What more do you want?

But congratulations on having your poem translated into eight different langauges even before it has been published in English. Sounds to me like you're part of the "in" crowd yourself! Well done.



[This message has been edited by Roger Slater (edited September 18, 2003).]

Thread reopened to civil discourse...

And civil I shall be. I just wanted to add my appreciation to Robert Mezey for posting the Henri Coulette -- a superb poem.

Frank

A couple more first-rate ekphrastic poems. This one by Donald Justice, that uses Ogden Nash's comic form for a serious poem.
Justice has a number of terrrific ekphrastic poems.

ANONYMOUS DRAWING

A delicate young Negro stands
With the reins of a horse clutched loosely in his hands;
So delicate, indeed, that we wonder if he can hold the
* * * spirited creature beside him
Until the master shall arrive to ride him.
Already the animal's nostrils widen with rage or fear.
But if we imagine him snorting, about to rear,
This boy, who should know about such things better than we,
Only stands smiling, passive and ornamental, in a
* * * fantastic livery
Of ruffles and puffed breeches,
Watching the artist, apparently, as he sketches.
Meanwhile the petty lord who must have paid
For the artist's trip from Perugia, for the horse, for the
* * boy, for everything here, in fact, has been delayed,
Kept too long by his stewart, perhaps, discussing
Some business concerning the estate, or fussing
Over the details of his impeccable toilet
With a manservant whose opinion is that any alteration
* * * at all would spoil it.
However fast he should come hurrying now
Over this vast greensward, mopping his brow
Clear of the sweat of the fine Renaissance morning, it
* * * would be too late:
The artist will have had his revenge for being made to wait,
A revenge not only necessary but right and clever---
Simply to leave him out of the scene forever.


Miller Williams, a wonderful and severely undervalued poet,
has several fine ekphrastic, or all but ekphrastic, poems, including "Pity and Fear", "The Aging Actress Sees Herself
a Starlet on the Late Show", "The Curator" and so on.

And for those who don't know it, here's my poem, "Tea Dance at the Nautilus Hotel (1925)" --after a painting by Donald Justice:



The gleam of eyes under the striped umbrellas---
We see them still, after so many years,
(Or think we do)---the young men and their dears,
Bandying forward glances as through masks
In the curled bluish haze of panatellas,
And taking nips from little silver flasks.

They sit at tables as the sun is going,
Bent over cigarettes and lukewarm tea,
Talking small talk, gossip and gallantry,
Some of them single, some husbands and wives,
Laughing and telling stories, all unknowing
They sit here in the heyday of their lives.

And some then dance off in the late sunlight,
Lips brushing cheeks, hands growing warm in hands,
Feet gliding at the lightest of commands,
All summer on their caught or sighing breath
As they whirl on toward the oncoming night,
And nothing further from their thoughts than death.

But they danced here sixty-five years ago!---
Almost all of them must be underground.
Who could be left to smile at the sound
Of the oldfangled dance tunes and each pair
Of youthful lovers swaying to and fro?
Only a dreamer, who was never there.

Here's something based on one of the most intense, gorgeous, tough films (film noir genre) ever made:

Film noir: Out of the Past

Jane: faithful as a rattler,
worthy as a pimp;
in desperate straits, a tattler—
cornered, Lady Simp.

She'd kill as soon as con him,
(no need to bat a lash)—
just turn around and shoot him,
then take him out as trash.

Mitchum takes her as he finds her,
tailed in Mexico:
corpses never snitch or stir,
even quid pro quo.

Terese

P.S. to Robert M: I was rapt when I heard you read that aloud at the Roerich Museum! That was a rare treat.

Bump!
 

As usual, when we start a new discussion on something at Mastery, it's something we've done before. This behemoth is not the only thread on Ekphrasis in the Archives, either. There's another one in Mastery and one in Drills & Amusements, Ekphrastic Gymnastics...

Chris

Thanks for searching this out, Chris. What can I say but that it was before my time? I should have checked, of course.

I see that Alicia chose exactly the same poem to open the thread. Well, as she said, she was starting things rolling "with the obvious"...

Now I'll read through the whole thing and see if there is anything to add to it.

(And I now see that Maryann has already found something new to add.)

Thanks Chris, this is nice for reading through. But it shouldn't stop participation in Greg's new thread.

This thread is history, and wise in the ways of the world (read Sphere) I know that is what usually happens. So I am donning my snazzy moderator hat (the one without chocolate smeared on it) and locking this thread, directing new members and old to Greg's open house at Musing on (Ekephrastic) Mastery.