[Carol Taylor]

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<tr><td>The Limits of Art

Hearing that Pat, my friend of sixteen years,
had a massive tumor the size of a cantaloupe,
over the next two weeks I fought off tears
and tried to scrape together scraps of hope.
Her mother's death from cancer scared us both
as we rode the waves of helplessness and grief.
When her oncologist pronounced the growth
noncancerous, I was legless with relief.

Next day, a brilliant poet in his prime
(greater than Pat or I will ever be)
died of a stroke. His voice, lost for all time,
was passionate, unique. But now I see
where love of verse and love of persons end.
I'd say to Death, "Take Shakespeare. Leave my friend."
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[center]<table bgcolor=white cellpadding=25 border=0><tr><td>This sonnet is unapologetically subjective, direct in its defense of personal feeling and the choices made on the basis of such unabashed feeling. The language is homely, the descriptions highly visual and kinetic; I especially like "legless with relief," a sensation easy to understand but hard to convey. The title is perfect: yes, we all know those limits, whatever we may say in classrooms and on learned panels.

~Rhina

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[Margaret Moore]

What Rhina says. Honest, strong and affecting poem.
Margaret.

[grasshopper]

The sentiment is something with which we can all connect. It would be a more powerful poem, I think, if the author could do what s/he obviously can't, and substitute the name of a living poet for a dead one.....
I enjoyed reading this poem, which I hadn't seen before.
Regards, Maz

[Janet Kenny]

I agree with Rhina. A poem from the heart.
Janet

[Julie Steiner]

Wow, powerful simplicity in that last line. The hyperbole of "Shakespeare" perfectly illustrates the narrator's honest and unapologetic selfishness, which the reader can't help but share: "Yeah, I'd make the same bargain for my friend, too."

All those hard c's in the octet really build the suspense of whether or not the tumor was cancerous, don't they?
cantaloupe
scrape
scraps
cancer
scared
oncologist
noncancerous--whew!
Even the x of "sixteen" and "next" play into that alliteration a bit.

The "legless...relief" after "we rode the waves of helplessness and grief" is just right! It takes a while to find one's land legs again, and the liquid l's are the perfect antidote to the harsh c alliteration we've endured in the previous lines.

Minor, minor nit: I read the gerundive of the first two lines as sort of a Latinate ablative absolute, but I'm not sure the English grammar supports that 100%. But who cares? Lovely work.

Julie Stoner

[This message has been edited by Julie Stoner (edited November 30, 2004).]

[Marion Shore]

This poem really puts things in perspective. When you get to the heart of it, isn't this the choice all of us would make, vita brevis ars longa not withstanding? I echo other critters on the poem's honesty and power and eloquence. There is a delicate and subtle irony here in the contrast between immortal art and mortal humans, which is epitomized in the very notion of a Shakespearean sonnet proclaiming "Take Shakespeare. Leave my friend."

Awesome.

[Maggie Porter]

Hard to say if this is humorous or morose. And in that, both humor and grief are two areas very difficult to critique for me. A joke is a joke, you either get it or you don't. And grief is what it is and no one should take that away from the poet, the subject contained in the poem or the world.

I'm not fond however of the "legless" bit. I think it is very coarse and very unappealing in the context of digressing on cancer. I suppose my nursework leaves me with a particular bias that is impossible to share here.

[Susan McLean]

Maz, I couldn't possibly urge death to take a living poet, since everyone is precious to someone. I felt bad enough implying that I could spare the poet who had died of a stroke, compared to my friend.

Julie, thanks for pointing out patterns in the consonants that I was not fully conscious of as I was writing the poem. That participial phrase would work better if I could make it "After hearing" or "Having heard," but I don't think I can fit either into the line.

Marion, I am so glad to have someone notice that it is a Shakespearean sonnet. That was a little in joke that I wasn't sure readers would catch.

Maggie, it is worthwhile to be reminded that one person's metaphor can be another's painful reality. I had actually borrowed the word "legless" from a poem by Michael Donaghy, where it was an entertaining piece of British slang meaning "drunk." I thought it would work equally well to mean "unable to stand." I was thinking as I wrote it of a moment in Homer's Odyssey in which Penelope hears that the suitors plan to murder her son; she is so stunned that she can't even make it to the nearest chair, but sits right down on the floor. I am not sure what you think is humorous in the poem, since I see it as quite a serious subject. Maybe the tone sounds more flippant to you than I intended.

Thanks to everyone for their responses and to Rhina for giving it such a sympathetic reading.

Susan

[Carol Taylor]

Susan, this is indeed a fine poem. It was risky to post it right after Michael's death, and I feel sure it would have received more commentary on the board if not for the reluctance of other poets to celebrate your friend's good fortune at what may have seemed like Michael's expense. Using the name Shakespeare was another calculated risk, an almost flippant touch and yet an apt personification of "Art." Sadness at Michael's untimely death doesn't make the emotions of this poem any less genuine, and if we are honest, we all share that same guilty feeling of relief that it isn't ourselves or our loved ones.

Carol