I recently came across Paul Muldoon in a September issue of The New Yorker. The poem appearing there actually had end-rhymes, which I wasn't sure was even legal anymore. The poem below, "The Hedgehog", doesn't rhyme. It is very clever, though. The last stanza is both funny and a little troubling.
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The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen to what
You have to say. We want
Your answers to our questions.
The hedgehog gives nothing
Away, keeping itself to itself.
We wonder what a hedgehog
Has to hide, why it so distrusts.
We forget the god
Under this crown of thorns.
We forget that never again
Will a god trust in the world.
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The snail moves like a
Hovercraft, held up by a
Rubber cushion of itself,
Sharing its secret
With the hedgehog. The hedgehog
Shares its secret with no one.
We say, Hedgehog, come out
Of yourself and we will love you.
We mean no harm. We want
Only to listen to what
You have to say. We want
Your answers to our questions.
The hedgehog gives nothing
Away, keeping itself to itself.
We wonder what a hedgehog
Has to hide, why it so distrusts.
We forget the god
Under this crown of thorns.
We forget that never again
Will a god trust in the world.
2 comments:
While I don't go out of my way to read contemporary poetry I can see why this one caught your attention, although that concluding passage is a bit too grim for me. There was another poet who also didn't always follow traditional forms - Rilke. This is one of my favorites of his:
I live my life in widening circle
That reach out across the world.
I may not ever complete the last one,
But I give myself to it.
I circle around God, that primordial tower.
I have been circling for thousands of years,
And I still don't know: am I a falcon,
A storm, or a great song.
I hope all is going well for you. We'll call soon.
The thing about poetry is that a lot of it takes place in a sphere beyond agreeing or disagreeing. It's more a matter of whether the poem can touch something in you. This works for me.
Rilke was a wonderful poet. The passage you chose here hadn't been familiar to me, but it has a brilliant account.
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