“But this poor microscopic item now!”

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I recommend to everyone–not just to a recent commenter–Robert Frost’s poem “A Considerable Speck,” which begins:

A speck that would have been beneath my sight
On any but a paper sheet so white
Set off across what I had written there.
And I had idly poised my pen in air
To stop it with a period of ink
When something strange about it made me think,
This was no dust speck by my breathing blown,
But unmistakably a living mite
With inclinations it could call its own.

The poem continues onward–I would quote it but for copyright worries–and then ends (I’m pushing my luck even with this):

I have a mind myself and recognize
Mind where I meet with it in any guise.
No one can know how glad I am to find
On any sheet the least display of mind.

Oh, but read it in full. The middle is fantastic. “But this poor microscopic item now!” He could have said “creature,” but “item” makes you think; who ever says “poor item”? Isn’t “item” beyond the usual line of empathy, and isn’t that part of the point?

Also, in observing the mite’s “mind,” Frost rejects the silly proposition that the “item” might be recoiling at the content of the words on the page. No such thing:

It seemed too tiny to have room for feet
Yet must have had a set of them complete
To express how much it didn’t want to die.

The mite is concerned with life and death–what else?–and runs, and pauses, and falters, and surrenders. Observing it, Frost thinks, too, in pauses and asides, which, though not fueled by terror, perhaps also have something to do with life and death (and wit).

But enough! I must be off.

 

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