'Forget feelings; just write the poem'

 

“The job of the poet is to render the world - to see it and report it without loss, without perversion.  No poet ever talks about feelings. Only sentimental people do.” – Mark Van Doren

 

I wrote on Thursday about Van Doren, born on June 13.  A writer (in many genres), teacher, editor and critic, he considered himself a poet first and won the 1940 Pulitzer Prize in poetry, joining older brother Carl (in 1939) as one of the few sibling combinations to win the award.  For Saturday’s Poem, here is Van Doren’s,

 

                               Morning Worship

I wake and hearing it raining.

Were I dead, what would I give

Lazily to lie here,

Like this, and live?

 

Or better yet: birdsong,

Brightening and spreading --

How far would I come then

To be at the world's wedding?

 

Now that I lie, though,

Listening, living,

(Oh, but not forever,

Oh, end arriving)

 

How shall I praise them:

All the sweet beings

Eternally that outlive

Me and my dying?

 

Mountains, I mean; wind, water, air;

Grass, and huge trees; clouds, flowers,

And thunder, and night.

 

Turtles, I mean, and toads; hawks, herons, owls;

Graveyards, and towns, and trout; roads, gardens,

Red berries, and deer.

 

Lightning, I mean, and eagles; fences; snow;

Sunrise, and ferns; waterfalls, serpents,

Green islands, and sleep.

 

Horses, I mean; butterflies, whales;

Mosses, and stars and gravelly

Rivers, and fruit.

 

Oceans, I mean; black valleys; corn;

Brambles, and cliffs; rock, dirt, dust, ice;

And warnings of flood.

 

How shall I name them?

And in what order?

Each would be first.

Omission is murder.

 

Maidens, I mean, and apples; needles; leaves;

Worms, and planers, and clover; whirlwinds; dew;

Bulls; geese --

 

Stop. Lie still.

You will never be done.

Leave them all there.

Old lover. Live on.