I feel like I'm almost breaking my own rules by choosing a poem from Robert Creeley from Postmodern American Poetry to highlight. After all, I already bought the book a few days ago, even though I haven't started reading it yet.
Still there is something about these poems that I like very much, and they seem to fit in with the Morley and Levertov poems I've discussed earlier. both because of style and content.
This particular poem seems a little more symbolic, than those two, but not remarkably so. In a sense, the poem seems to suggest both the reason why we write poems and the futility of writing them:
"I Keep to Myself Such Measures..."
I keep to myself such
measures as I care for,
daily the rocks
There is nothing
but what thinking makes
it less tangible. The mind,
fast as it goes, loses
pace, puts in place of it
like rocks simple markers,
for a way only to
hopefully come back to
where it cannot. All
forgets. My mind sinks.
I hold in both hands such weight
it is my only description.
Despite the fact that we spend much of our life, and some argue rather cogently too much of our life, thinking, particularly about the past, we can never accurately recall those things that are important to us because the mind can only recall "significant" parts of any experience, not the whole.
Our dilemma, of course, is that thinking is the best that we have. Either we rely on thinking or we forget the past. Tragically the mind, limited as it is, is all we have to rely on.