Whistler explained the appeal
Of painting grimy London
Industrial areas
At twilight in terms of haze
And blurry light at that hour
When the evening mist clothes the
Riverside with poetry
As with a veil. So one art
Invokes another, painting
Poetry. Curious role
Poetry is given, too—
Transformer of the ugly
And quotidian, a veil
That beautifies by dimming.
You can feel the poets squirm
At being assigned this role—
Poems as soft-focus filters,
Poetry as covering
Over grim reality
Like a fairy’s magic cloak,
Gentling, enchanting the scene,
What an archaic notion.
And yet, while you may object
To the assumption, you’ll note
How easily parsed Whistler’s
Deployment of the figure
Remains—a riverside clothed
In poetry—you get it.
You don’t imagine the scene
Papered in pages of poems.
To be clothed in poetry—
To be any kind of thing
Or person thus clothed, thus draped—
Is to be wrapped in beauty,
Grace, some higher elegance.
Ask yourself how you know this.
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