Meter

Today's Thomas Hardy's birthday, so I thought of this poem by Charles Wright. A proper celebration to be certain.

First off, here's what Wright said to introduce this poem when I heard him read a few years ago in Portland. It's pretty damn funny, and very "Charles Wright.":

This is called "In Praise of Thomas Hardy," the great English novelist and poet, the wonderful metricist. It of course has nothing to do with Thomas Hardy. But he liked, he said, "I refuse to give up using the word 'smalled' as a verb," and I thought, This is my kind of guy. I never thought about using it as a verb, but what the hell, I mean if you refuse to do it, I'm with you. So this is for you, Tom. Or Mr. Hardy, as we say in my house.

In Praise of Thomas Hardy

Each second the earth is struck hard

by four and a half pounds of sunlight.

Each second.
Try to imagine that.
No wonder deep shade is what the soul longs for,
And not, as we always thought, the light.
No wonder the inner life is dark.
Sounding, and sicced on like a dog,

they all go down and devolve,

Vowel-dancing, heart-sick,
Hoping for realignment and a space that won't shine.

Unlike the October moon, Apached and blade-dazzled, smalled
Down the western sky

into Ovidian intersect

With time and its ghostly renderings.
Unlike the leaves of the ash tree, moon-treated and hanging on
For one day longer or so.
Unlike our shrunk selves, dripping like washing on the line.

Charles Wright
from A Short History of the Shadow