Well, I see that Ted has stepped in and given us something, but why not another?

This is from a poet I've just discovered through my host, Alan Williamson. It's from the third collection by Jane Mead, _The Usable Field_ (Alice James Books, 2008). Her other collections are _House of Poured Out Waters_ and _The General Din of the World_, as well as a chapbook, _A Truck Marked Flammable_. She bagged an academic career to manage the family ranch (they grow mainly grapes) in California.

............

THREE CANDLES AND A BOWERBIRD

I do not know why

the three candles must sit

before this oval mirror,

But they must.--

I do not know much

about beauty, though

its consequences

are clearly great--even

to the animals:

to the bowerbird

who steals what is blue,

decorates, paints

his house; to the peacock

who loves the otherwise

useless tail of the peacock--

the tail we love.

The feathers we steal.

Perhaps even to the sunflowers

turning in their Fibonacci

spirals the consequences

are great, or to the mathematical

dunes with ripples

in the equation of all things

windswept. Perhaps

mostly, then, to the wind.

Perhaps mostly to the bowerbird.

I cannot say.

But I light the candles: there is

joy in it. And in the mirror

also, there is joy.

"my host, Alan Williamson"

I've been on vacation since last Thursday, staying in Berkeley with an old friend of mine (he was a senior at my high school when I was a freshman, a senior at my college when I was a freshman, and an assistant professor at my grad school when I started there). That's why I haven't been on the Fray much. Going back Monday evening.

I do not know much
about beauty, though
its consequences
are clearly great – even
to the animals:

……………….Perhaps
mostly, then, to the wind.
Perhaps mostly to the bowerbird.
I cannot say.
But I light the candles: there is
joy in it. And in the mirror
also, there is joy.

In her poem, Mead considers a fascinating topic – the consequences of beauty. Certainly the consequences for the male bowerbirds or peacocks are great – if their nests or tails are not beautiful enough, the males will not be able to attract mates.

And what are the consequences of beauty for humans? When we apprehend beauty in nature, whether it is a bird or the mathematically precise ripples the wind creates in a sand dune or three candles’ flames, do we become better humans, more sensitive humans, more joyous humans? Mead’s last lines seem to suggest that apprehending nature’s beauty can, indeed, make us joyous. But then she goes one step farther. Beauty’s re-creation by a human being – whether in a mirror, in a poem, in a painting, or in a piece of music – can also bring joy.

(If this poem is a PAP, it’s a good one. And any poem that uses the word “Fibonacci” automatically gets an extra ten points.)

Here’s an interview with Jane Mead about her bone collection --

<link>

Well, that link didn't work. So put "Jane Mead" in the PF search box and when you get the results, click on "I have an entire cat skeleton."

Hi, Paul,

I have spent a lot of time contemplating the bowerbird and am delighted to have it appear in a poem. My contemplation has to do with how often human behavior mimics that of animals, and I rationalize my large collection of lapis lazuli, turquoise and sapphires (just kidding) by saying it is no more than a programmed response emanating from my limbic system.

But I suspect this poem is intended more as an attempt to define the elusive quality of beauty than a comment on avian behavior. I particularly like these lines:

...or to the mathematical
dunes with ripples
in the equation of all things
windswept.

Is there anyone who doesn't admire those ripples? (Perhaps the proverbial cowboy crawling horseless toward a distant mirage doesn't appreciate them, but that is, as a psychologist might say, "situational.")

When we take the leap from beauty in nature to manmade beauty, however, I think appreciation becomes much more subjective. Not everyone likes peacock feathers or candles lined before a mirror, but I can understand the author's attraction to the little altar she has built.

Is there a poetic equivalent to a 'chick flick'? Because I think this idea of having an item in the house exactly the way one wants it tends to be a feminine ideal. Perhaps a pegboard with the outline for each tool on it is the male equivalent?

It was hard not to think of Georgia O'Keeffe, who saw beauty in the skulls she found in the desert, when I read about Mead's bone collection. Not everyone would appreciate the stark (and slightly macabre) beauty of a skull.

I do not know why
I like this poem
but I do...


Beauty is not in the object so much as in the consequence of the perception of the object. (Artistic pragmatism?) The reflection is the consequence of placing the candles up to the mirror. The spirals are the consequence of the blowing wind. We make the peacock's feathers beautiful by our theft of them; by desiring them.

Is there a poetic equivalent to a 'chick flick'? Because I think this idea of having an item in the house exactly the way one wants it tends to be a feminine ideal. Perhaps a pegboard with the outline for each tool on it is the male equivalent?

Or one of them. A similar satisfaction is gained by those computer programmers (males to be sure, but no doubt also females) who value elegance: every phrase in just the right spot. For me, that elegance is expressed in putting every musical note in its right place in the Finale program (for example), and the nicest part is that I can hear the results right away. Or in having every program icon on my computer monitor right where I want it. Or in this, or in that.

A poetic equivalent of a "chick flick"? Depends on how you define "chick flick", I guess. (This is a sign of how tired I am, that I can't even think past my own banality. Good night.)

wr ()()

Beauty is not in the object so much as in the consequence of the perception of the object. (Artistic pragmatism?) The reflection is the consequence of placing the candles up to the mirror. The spirals are the consequence of the blowing wind. We make the peacock's feathers beautiful by our theft of them; by desiring them.

Good comment, PV. It’s the female bowerbird or peacock who decides which is the most beautiful nest or tail. And it’s humans who see a Fibonacci spiral in sunflowers or mathematical ripples in sand dunes. So yes, it is the perceiver who creates beauty (which, I think, is more than just “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder”).

Hope you have interesting bunches of kids this year.

MA

Two poets who live in California, but I doubt both would call a place where you grow grapes a ranch.
the mathematical
dunes with ripples
in the equation of all things
windswept.
Oh please. Well, I skipped Sex in the City.
This poem is very nice. It's nice to be nice, it certainly is. If I were listening to Garrison Keillor and he read this poem I would imagine people around this great land of ours nodding and remarking "Gee, isn't that nice." And that part about the equation of all things windswept, perfect comic relief. "And so easy to understand. I like poems that are easy to understand. Except-what's a fibbo-fibbo- what are those things? Something erudite, no doubt. Let's google it." "It's lovely when the privileged use their leisure time to appreciate beauty, don't you think?" "Now you know dear, the President himself told us there are no social classes in this great land of ours. You're starting to sound like that awful Gary Soto." "Well, maybe it's different in California."

"It's lovely when the privileged use their leisure time to appreciate beauty, don't you think?"

I dunno, falcon, maybe you're all maxed out on political conventions.....

Do all of us have to refrain from looking for beauty wherever we can find it just because some people don't have the time to do so?

MA

The back of _The Usable Field_ describes the place as a "family ranch," and Alan says they grow mostly grapes. I had a graduate student from California once whose family grew almonds--he referred to their land as an "almond ranch," which sounded strange to me.

Jane Mead gave up a safe, tenurable job to run the ranch, knowing nothing at the time about how to manage it--she took a risk of financial failure. (This I have just learned from Alan).

Her book is haunted by the death of a family member, to which the poem I've chosen is perhaps obliquely relevant. Beauty is a consolation in the face of loss, not something contemplated in a pain-free bubble.

I don't have any family estate (or much of an inheritance of any kind) and have worked for a living all my adult life. But I don't see any point in resenting people who have been more fortunate, as long as they don't vote Republican and do something useful with their free time.

And I have found that "beauty," though the term is faintly embarrassing in our ironic, post-modern time, is something that ordinary working people do care about.

It's strange how resentment works: we envy what others have, then mock them for having it, or for not being more like ourselves who don't have it. If we could prove they were all fools or monsters, it would turn out we're not missing anything after all.

As a former teacher, I just want to add that I did not confine my teaching of beautiful poems to the Advanced Placement classes. I think all people/kids can benefit from the contemplation of beauty. Whether it's for the cultivation of one's soul or as consolation for other parts of one's life, I do think beauty is worth experiencing by all people.

ALLEY IN WINTER by Mike White

Let the work
of art be

beautiful
as the fire

escape is
beautiful

dazzled in ice
after the fire.

But I light the candles: there is

joy in it. And in the mirror

also, there is joy

...and the joy is 'in" the mirror, both the reflection and the mirror itself as an object.

It's strange how resentment works:

I think there's a difference between politics and psychology, crazy as I am. Your last paragraph veers into ad hominum ad absurdum. And, you know, stuff like that. It's cleverly constructed, but not a response to anything I said. Unless I'm mistaken and in this rare case I'm not. So you got a little carried away. No harm done. Cheers.