
Occasionally a poem is so frictionless it stabs without hurting. My second reading of “Telescope” by Louise Glück was to someone far away over FaceTime. You’ve gotta hear this! I chirped.
There is a moment after you move your eye away / when you forget where you are / because you’ve been living, it seems, /somewhere else, in the silence of the night sky.
The speaker describes how you lose yourself in contemplation of the indifferent.
You’ve stopped being here in the world./ You’re in a different place, / a place where human life has no meaning. // You’re not a creature in a body. / You exist as the stars exist, / participating in their stillness, their immensity.
I read the poem slowly to my distant friend. The slowness is counterintuitive, because Glück favors workaday diction in her poems, as opposed to words like “incarnadine”; she has said so in an essay. Her contractions convey casualness. She chisels her lines with scrupulous attention to capitals and punctuation. The marked rests, as in music, let the verses and the reader breathe.
Then you’re in the world again. / At night, on a cold hill, / taking the telescope apart.
Here, suddenly, I wept, taken apart myself. The terrible beauty of simple words about emptiness and distance, the lack of distortion, made unbearable sense. I’ve looked at the sky through a scope on dark nights, haven’t I? — feeling closer to the constellations than to any person.
You realize afterward, / not that the image is false, / but the relation is false. // You see again how far away / each thing is from every other thing.
The ending has a weightless purity that makes you cry. Glück is never sappy, and doesn’t try to be uplifting — thank God! The speaker in “Telescope” trains a gaze cold as interstellar space on glittering delusions of nearness, consigning facile pieties to stardust.
(c) 2022 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved















‘It’s This Old, Fatal Love for the Landscape’
The quotation in my title is from nature writer Robert Macfarlane. His book The Old Ways featured British war artist Eric Ravilious, killed in a plane crash in 1942. In the book, Macfarlane “points to the way the artist would frame bucolic watercolours of the rolling southern English countryside with strands of barbed wire.” Chinese artist Ai Weiwei states that, although Ravilious’ paintings “seem like an understatement, they are profound, rigorous and meticulous.” (All these citations are from the Guardian article echoed here.)
Words that are powerful with understatement were written by Ravilious’ widow Tirzah Garwood, herself an artist, in her autobiography, Long Live Great Bardfield. Marooned in a dank Essex farmhouse with her three young children in the hell of war, she typed out her book after putting them to bed, and bequeathed it to posterity “should it have survived”:
Ravilious’s work and Garwood’s words evoke for me the art of two blogs that I admire:
Sue Grey-Smith (https://suegreysmithartist.wordpress.com) and Outside Authority (https://outsideauthor.wordpress.com)
(c) 2022 JMN — EthicalDative. All rights reserved