for J, after a conference in which she was discouraged from teaching "useless knowledge"
If your useful abolishes poetry, I call for the end of utility.
How long can we live without dreaming?
Could you think if you couldn't drift?
What about a patch of colour on winter's blankest day?
Tell me you don't need to anticipate spring:
how long would you last without hope?
Is there anything in your house but white walls?
Does your coat have a check, a fanciful button, a bit of flair
And what about your shoes?
Off with anything not your most stringent need:
sackcloth, rubber boots, the plainest of hats.
Do you like to look from your window or follow the arc of a bird in flight?
Drop your eyes now; stare at the square of your desk:
this is your world entire.
All else is uselessness.
Take the salt from your table.
Seek no new flavours, palate teasers, surprises, adventures.
Who needs food or fetes or dinner meetings? Focus on the task.
As for the rest? Try Ensure.
Now empty your shelves,
your music library.
Strip the paintings from your walls.
Give away your television, your rings and baubles, your photographs,
the bottle of porto at the back of the cupboard,
your mother's favourite coffee cup,
every extra jacket.
Leather? Utterly impractical. Toss that too.
Strive for flatness in all that you do.
No cappuccino; no sweet thing in the morning or after a meal:
these are clearly useless,
If necessity is your rule, go ahead, I dare you:
live by it!
Forget singing. Turn your radio
off. The shower is for cleaning,
Scrub, don't showboat.
Keep each gesture to strict economy.
Destroy your gardens.
Eat no cake.
The wine at dinner, your crystal decanter, who needs it?
Paint your car grey.
Pitch anything that resembles colour or pleasure or play.
Renounce eloquence and all of her sisters,
rhetoric, rhythm, persuasion, storytelling:
rhizomes rooted in poetry, these tropes are not for you to use.
Bureaucratic rationality carries us only so far--
you who purge and pleat betray other obsessions
(what is the sound of a heart past broken?)
Foolishness plots to leach the world of its lovely, to exile
exuberance, omit intensity, destroy
Sure, there's use in such reductiveness
--use, your name is murder--
but nowhere, life.
Usefulness, step aside:
my currency is fancy, and all
profit is in it.
I took the photos in West Quoddy, Nova Scotia, in the fall several years ago. The flowers were from our garden; I cut them before a hurricane blew them down.
The quotation in italics is from Claudia Rankine's Citizen: An American Lyric (2014).