POETRY AND TH E SAC Il..E J)
83
what's there. It's in moments of what the w isdom traditi ons and perennial
philosophy have referred to as " true seeing" or " real seeing" that you get
these glimpses and " unveilings" o f Mil osz. The poet has had these glimpses,
and he is compell ed to share them. I think thi s is at the heart of what great
poetry tri es to grappl e w ith . I would defin e the sacred by turning Milosz's
work in a different directi on than it's been turned so far-as the experi ence
of the eternal, the transcendent, the unveil ed reali ty, the moments when
things fa ll away. We seem to see more cl ea rly. Things are bathed in lumi–
nosity, one of hi s favo ri te words. Space opens up. We hear more cl early. We
have the sense of conn ectedness with something large r than our ordinary
life, and yet paradoxica lly it is our ordinary life that itself is " the large thing."
So the first of the three faces of th e sacred I call , "The Face of Glori ous
Being," and "Blacksmi th Shop" refers to an experi ence Milosz had as a
child growing up in Lithuani a.
I li ked th e bellows opera ted by rope.
A hand o r foot peda l- l do n't remember whi ch .
But that blowing, and th e blazing of th e fi re
l
j. . .
1
I stare and sta re. It sccms I was called fo r thi s:
To glo ri fy things j ust beca use th ey arc.
There's so mu ch o f th e elemental in that poem: fire, wa ter, ea rth , air-all
the things that we live in and that constitute our physical life. How mar–
velous to be arres ted fo r that moment as a child and to get one's vocati o n
from that experi ence, one's calling to glori fy being itself. I don't think
we-as humans, as arti sts-can glo ri fy unl ess we use words, or some o ther
form o f imagery. Th e thin gs themsel ves don't need to be glorifi ed, but we
need to do the glorifyin g.
The next poem, a very interes ting and cryptic one, in a way , exempli–
fi es "The Face of Mys teri ous C reati on, " " Secretari es": " I am no more than
a secretary of the invisibl e thing / That is di ctated to me and a few others.
[. . .j"
Peopl e have asked over the years where a poem comes from, w here
images and language come from. Mil osz says at the end , " It is not up to us
to inquire, we won't read it anyway." Hi s equating a secretary wi th a poet
suddenly strips th e poet o f hi s or her ego. Thi s leaves nothing to boas t
about, to feel grandiose about. A poet may be just someone taking notes.
In a recent poem, "A Meadow," composed after Milosz's return to
Lithuania, he seeks a meadow, first in hi s memory and then in actuality. Milosz
