Prudence in Hell 008
The Empty Glass / The Agamemnons
Today we start early.
I have an evening appointment with Louise Glück, who is not a poet I inveterately understand —as a synaesthete, my register tilts naturally towards the psychoacoustic, which is why I respond as I do to the likes of Vallejo and Rimbaud, all goosebumps and tongueties and capillary erections— but Glück has one poem, “The Empty Glass” (from 2001’s The Seven Ages) that resonates too clearly with my present moment, in a way few poems ever have. No small feat! Here it is:
The Empty Glass
I asked for much; I received much. I asked for much; I received little, I received next to nothing. And between? A few umbrellas opened indoors. A pair of shoes by mistake on the kitchen table. O wrong, wrong—it was my nature. I was hard-hearted, remote. I was selfish, rigid to the point of tyranny. But I was always that person, even in early childhood. Small, dark-haired, dreaded by the other children. I never changed. Inside the glass, the abstract tide of fortune turned from high to low overnight. Was it the sea? Responding, maybe, to celestial force? To be safe, I prayed. I tried to be a better person. Soon it seemed to me that what began as terror and matured into moral narcissism might have become in fact actual human growth. Maybe this is what my friends meant, taking my hand, telling me they understood the abuse, the incredible shit I accepted, implying (so I once thought) I was a little sick to give so much for so little. Whereas they meant I was good (clasping my hand intensely)— a good friend and person, not a creature of pathos. I was not pathetic! I was writ large, like a queen or a saint. Well, it all makes for interesting conjecture. And it occurs to me that what is crucial is to believe in effort, to believe some good will come of simply trying, a good completely untainted by the corrupt initiating impulse to persuade or seduce— What are we without this? Whirling in the dark universe, alone, afraid, unable to influence fate— What do we have really? Sad tricks with ladders and shoes, tricks with salt, impurely motivated recurring attempts to build character. What do we have to appease the great forces? And I think in the end this was the question that destroyed Agamemnon, there on the beach, the Greek ships at the ready, the sea invisible beyond the serene harbor, the future lethal, unstable: he was a fool, thinking it could be controlled. He should have said I have nothing, I am at your mercy.
Not understanding a poet is always a grace, especially when the poet has already understood you.
The bit on Agamemnon hit especially hard, as a couple of nights ago it became entirely apparent to me this was my male antitype: the sybarite Saturn who devours only his daughters.
I thank you for clasping my hand intensely and reminding me of my place, my purpose, and stature; a queen —or a saint— is not a free agent, but a confederate of amor fati.
I am nothing, if not at your mercy.
(A variation.)
Corrado Guiaquinto. The Sacrifice of Iphigenia. 1759-60. Oil on canvas. 75 cm x 123 cm. Museo Nacional del Prado, Madrid.