Those blessèd structures, plot and rhyme--
why are they no help to me now
I want to make
something imagined, not recalled?
I hear the noise of my own voice:
The painter's vision is not a lens,
it trembles to caress the light.
But sometimes everything I write
with the threadbare art of my eye
seems a snapshot,
lurid, rapid, garish, grouped,
heightened from life,
yet paralyzed by fact.
Yet why not say what happened?
Pray for the grace of accuracy
Vermeer gave to the sun's illumination
stealing like the tide across a map
to his girl solid with yearning.
We are poor passing facts,
warned by that to give
each figure in the photograph
his living name.
Robert Lowell's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Epilogue by Robert Lowell )
- The Transcendental At Worthington Lake, Harry Freeman
- Lonely Is Me, Lilly Emery
- Sometimes I Cry, Lilly Emery
- MEDUSA, Lilly Emery
- The Exile, Rishi Kaul
- Bitter Sweet, Lilly Emery
- Strip unfinnished, lee fones
- Will You Love Me When I'm Old, Lilly Emery
- You Won't Let Me, Heather Burns
- Love Is The Flame, Lilly Emery