Nor Is It Written

Kenne Gregoire

Nor Is It Written

Nor is it written that you may not grieve.
There is no rule of joy; long may you dwell
Not smiling yet in that last pain,
On that last supper of the heart.
It is not written that you must take joy
Because not thus again shall you sit down
To ply the mingled banquet
Which the deep larder of illusion shed
Like myth in time grown not astonishing.
Lean to the cloth awhile, and yet awhile,
And even may your eyes caress
Proudly the used abundance.
It is not written in what heart
You may not pass from magic plenty
Into the straitened nowadays.
To each is given secrecy of heart,
To make himself what heart he please
In stirring up from that fond table
To sit him down at this sharp meal.
It shall not here be asked of him
‘What thinks your heart?’
Long may you sorely to yourself upbraid
This truth unwild, this only-bread.
It is not counted what large passions
Your heart in ancient private keeps alive.
To each is given what defeat he will.

Laura Riding

The thing about this poem is its refusal to sugar-coat life. It does me a lot of good, somehow. Naming the bad, looking at it for what it is - a "sharp meal" at the banquet of life. I love that image too, of the circumstances as a meal, as food, a banquet. It implies so many things. That there will be different kinds of meals at different times, that sometimes it will not be good, it will be burnt, or off, or meager, or, in turn, that it might be a feast, abundant, something to savour. The hope at the center of the poem is that you may eat crow for a long time, and you don't have to say its turkey - but in spite of its bad taste, it is feeding you, you are being nourished, and it will change.