THE ASTERISK

Apart from what is a passing use in some
Prose piece assembled artistically for
You, who have retreated cozily with the
Book to a corner bathed in yellow light
In a mountain-top ski resort, with your
Friends who ski alot more than you, or
Wherever you are presently--apart from
Any use, the use I mean of a word--and
Again I’ve jumped in at the wrong place
In the sentence, and can hardly climb back;
Apart, I say, from the fixed place in a
Printed page that a word (or even a phrase)
Comes unblinkingly to seem to occupy
For the reader, it’s true that the the author
May have stared in the face more a thing
Of multiple associations, maybe chaos,
With several meanings and all meanings
Briefly exhilarating,
Maybe crippling him in a forest of never
Before explored contradictions, and that
No reader can peer below like did the
Author, for all the seedlings.
Well then! With some irony, which may be
Madness, or a genius liking to embrace the
Obscure, I am going to drop all placidity,
And put an asterisk on the word asterisk,
Ah, dig and plunge therein head on
Into the demonstration of what a dullard
Thinks futility. I have a vision--that I
Can find truth and humility, right in
The face of exploding meanings,
And that maybe, if we right now digress with
A footnote dealing with the word asterisk,
As if bogged down greatly just by a title,
Yes, we might overwhelm eventually
Both the scholar who uses
Footnotes in an attempt to clear things up,
And the prose writer, who is usually glib,
Overwhelm all timid employers of the word
With--well, probably--the universe again,
Where artistically there are no
Fuzzy phenomena
But only revelations, overwhelming reason.

So this is for the reader of poetry, and
I shall laud it, the asterisk, gloriously.

Now was this term (a single world, remember!)
Ever employed with full discretion, did
Ever a writer yet work with dictionary at
His elbow? Yes, you say, precisely, with
Care one can differentiate its meanings,
Which have accrued to it from different
Intended uses; surely a word represents
An intended thought--this is common wisdom!
Why it’s the dream of the space-age century
That the aggregate history can be taken
Apart, and the author be accused where he
Spoke; you can pluck the word from his mouth,
And even strip away what looks like mere
Style, to come up with one literal use
For this word . . . or any other. Well, no!

And no again I say to this plebeian science,
I say the word was originally sprung with
All power, with a latent ambiguity, sprung
First unassailable by its first speaker.
Oh yes, half-patient, half-peevish exercises
Said to disentangle the star-cluster of
Notions contained in this artfully simple
Term, this one word asterisk, have
Already notoriously failed!
Were criminally plotted by mean intelligence;
Though they, the researchers, have fattened
The provincial literature most horribly,
And made the kind of searching like that
Because so futile seem almost heroic--and
All the more necessary to a mind bent
On squelching natural paradox, even here,
Like in the language--the poet’s very refuge!

Oh, I suffered education in the academy, I
Nearly went deaf with the piped-in music
In the hallways, and blind in the library;
I saw philosophy turn into linguistics,
Heard all dialogues end with the
Appeal to semantics,
Saw so many pretend not to be awash in
Real confusion, ah, like victimized by beauty!

But I escaped, with my vocabulary intact.
The word asterisk itself does not partake
Of all that degradedly lies before it
From the time of its invention,
Surely. It is enabled in origin to survive,
Like a prophecy, to resound, mockingly--
It has a simplicity that denotes
Nothing less than enormous complexity,
I mean it is directly inexplicable, from
The start, has the ability to protect
Under one umbrella
Some notions too fragile to survive alone,
Notions that have at least incidental
Quite spectacular, life under its cloak,
But quickly fall to being a sub-species
Of some botanist or astrologer,
Academician or novelist,
If left to languish in a private scrutiny--
I mean a scrutiny ignorant of public truth,
And of the words that are a record of
Survival for pale human thoughts, words
Larger by far than what one of us can make
Of them. This is a system of divine origin;
We can speak, when thoughts are perishing.

So, now that we know the word is uttered
In freedom, that to be pontifical and
Cite some mundane origin, for the word,
Is only to indulge in a mean and modern
Scorning, we will ourselves explore, let’s
Say, adjacent uses, corollary miracles
All wrapped in the seeming single glitter
Of the word spelled for our title; then
We’ll see what prophesy lay already
Enshrined in the . . . oracle--
For after a certain point, like after a
Gospel that plays to every audience, the
History of man is a long backward striving,
An even half innocent, but half conniving
Attempt to recall the sound of a choir
Of angels. We better sing, now, and not
Worry about resuscitating the great arts.

I have the knowledge (like a vision!) of
The asterisk that was, or will be, a
Little star-shaped instrument
Put above the chalice to keep the veil--
In a familiar religious ceremony--from
Contact with the elements prematurely--
These represented by a fiery painted dome;
Well even this, one archaic meaning, can
Be referenced in a thick dictionary. But
Then, like to make the task tremendous and
Explicit, we must attach the notice that
More asterisks (the modern use) are
Immediately here needed--
Needed to keep us in close contact with
Every word in the ancient definition! What is a
Chalice? What is a veil? What is
A religious ceremony,
And what are these figures in the fiery
Dome? What is this asterisk? No more
Than a technical term? Or is the
Star-shaped instrument a symbol,
The making tangible of the mystery of the
Word? I mean, chalice contains the cup,
And the cup the wine, turned from water
Which even the hands can hold. And the
Wheel, in the dome, is a figure born
By circular motion of the moon. And the
Universe may have begun with a scene
Like this, with some few elements or things,
Radically incomplete,
A scene half painted and put now in relief.
The edge of a sofa, the curtains half drawn,
The sound of hoofs, a rider in the sky . . .
You see, all these words may contain what is
Gone, and beyond us still--
What we have to take up in thought;
When all we have to start with is a little star,
Roughly shaped at that, or--to produce it
Right now--a pinpoint of light made by a
Closed fist held up to the lamp. But this can
Demonstrate the shape of what can barely
Be seen, make a point of reference to
What might be the rule of God,
As we kneel here in this vale of tears.

Then again, and here we go into the
Fabulous region
Conjured up by the word in our hands, the
Asterisk as it comes to us is not so
Sharply defined as a star, a bright star--
No I will not be led away to worship a
Bright star; but the asterisk, as a star,
Has more vagary and makes blunt rejection
Of the long gaze of the too serious eye,
Like real stars that refute the
Contemplation
Of where they really are, or what they are
Made up of. The word asterisk serves better
As a regular cluster of stars, I see
That is an ancient association too; stars
In a vague group never yet set asunder,
And producing necessary confusion to that
Eye, receding finally in a nebular haze--
Like just the signpost or dashed marking
For an area (like the night) that one
Always has more checking on to do. And
Thus, nearly magically, this symbol can
Be made with any handy writing tool,
And can relinquish its religious status
Altogether for a time, or its part in
The creation, and become a playful part
In a game of dots invoking
Classical constellations!
Yea, and serve the flight of imagination.

Now with all that, no one will be shocked
To find asterisk, well-travelled anciently,
Secondly in association with the flower.
We can praise the actual light; the light that
Shows in the dew on the grass has still
The strength of the sun. Ah yes, and the
Stars that fell littered more than
The apron of a saint
Lit more than the taper of the monk in a
Cell. And the flower aster, or the exotic
China Aster, retains the shape, why of the
Star! bringing all the kingdom of heaven
Into temporary focus for the stroller
In the autumn of the world.
We don’t know everything, we don’t know much,
And we may never know in a lifetime, it
Might be wise to say, whether this aster
Plant, or that aster star, and all that
Proliferates in various other notions
Of asteroids and aster pods, and astronauts,
Yea all borderlands for thought,
Whether this one or that
Was once preeminent and therefore is now
The ruler, like in a delirium
Of chance perception.
Truly, to learn anything is to swoon with
The sense of what a perfect mystery life is.

And now the modern, ironic value of the term
Asterisk, thus come to us in a wild frenzy,
Is, per se, like some fitful entertainment,
A new meaning that seems nearly separate
And is merely dutiful to a use, set in
Concrete, a symbol pretty shapeless, nearly
Ugly in fact, a typographer’s tool, or
Anybody’s fast marking method with a pen,
With nothing at all behind it--just to
Indicate a little addition to the regular
Text, or a supra-explanation, or a
Reserve for a place for a vaulting piece
Of rationalization, or credit to a mentor,
Or shameless apology for lack of logic
Above, or whatever . . . all optional
Instructions to a half attentive,
Half frightened general reader.
Good Lord, we know this is no diminution
Of the asterisk, but the humblest use yet
Devised for its immemorial sacred freedom.

This literary asterisk is still more than
What is used by editors galloping in on
The text; the text full of words still drew
Us by the magical act of persuasion, and
Is everywhere enjoining true ambiguity;
We should not automatically think that
The reference to the margin is always a
Bad effect, or has broken up the dream of
A seamless text, or is only a housekeeping
Measure, or--in other words-- we should
Not resent it, the asterisk, for various
Ways that it aids in the organization
Of books, which are all in process;
But now cautioned by
The word itself, from our own pausing
Over it to hear the word behind the
Symbol, see the complex face behind the
Deliberating mask, and always react
With delight like it were a runaway star
Or the first in a trail of new flowers,
Ah yes, inviting comparison to our own
Readerly marginal notes, gazing up at
The ceiling, glances out the window, all
Suspiration for what aids being alive.
The use of asterisks should denote . . .
Some search.
There is a tension between thought
And after-thought
Threatening to swallow first impressions
Altogether by unloosening a flood tide
Of neighboring associations. Well, yes,
Like revelations are expressions that
Enable the reader to leave the page; it is
The word bearing witness to thought,
Thought that has a trail of glory
That once seemed to it ineffable, even
Seemed to it like it should quit, relax
In a deep silence. But then the never spoken
Is the essence of what the spoken word gives.

I think probably an image, lately had
By a generation grievous of their sources,
Of a masterwork piece of art all seamless
In its construction, like a genius man were
God representative, like an icon of the
Modern age were to be flashed before them
On the screen of a neurotic awareness,
All surface symbols and submerged structures,
All very deep in its metaphors, like
Diagnostic of the wary brain that cannot
Find reference to truth in ordinary things--
That this image was raised like an awful standard
To rule out with its hogging of the page
The other grander, most humble; more common
Method of straight telling, with stops--
Straight telling always has these stops--
For wayside ruminations, in wonderful
Recognition of the fire of language in
The trying author’s hand. For the author
Was never a god, but only trying his hand.
It was something like that, colossal
Mistrust of the process of life, that made
The asterisk grow even plainer in the sight,
Plainer and plainer, until nowadays,
The asterisk is, well, kicked aside,
Like stars and flowers,
As archaic, historical, a thing understood--
Without being looked at. I mean the asterisk
Proper, the great risk of a digression
Over matters embarked upon with some cause,
The rope thrown to a visible craggy tree
On the mountain slope while climbing,
Not the asterisk; more mechanical
And idiotic, ambitious progeny!, the footnote
Plainly reactionary, dear God. A real
Asterisk only lunges within reach of the
Page it’s on, which allows the reader to
Leave the room anytime, of course. The
Mere footnote is a device developed by the
Academy, to keep forever employed the
Dull-witted professor, false brother to
The artist of the sublime.

But then if these be asterisks, stripped of
All reference finally to God, which all
Things once had (we know from our reading),
These footnotes we see fairly littering
The outcropping of a certain type of book,
Like so many clovers (another image alright!),
No longer representing actual leap of thought
But mere downright admission of dependence
On sources only politically bound up with
The corruption of a new thesis trying to
Remake the world--well then, obviously,
These footnotes can be lifted, or harvested,
Easily, they have not root in any soil
Anyway, are just filed at the back, and
Known by the number, they can march off to
Hell in quite regular order, or be the
Never looked at confession of little sins
Provided by the author even--from within
His prison. It is funny; no it is sad, to
Watch these fakers counting their indebtedness
And usually to one another, like a group,
To see them open wide the gaping scene of
The omission in the patched together
Review of common, so common, wisdom, as
They develop in their careers--or later
Under the lash of a publisher, ah yes!, who
Must know the warden in the hall of lies,
Yea better, personally and closer, than the
Man just in the dust jacket, the man in the
Photo, though he, the victim of the illusory
Death of the asterisk, the sucker sold out
To the idea that this is progress, be
Cursed with fame and fortune forever.

I say we better prize what we have,
Without benefit of that system. I want to bring
On the real masters of the friendly old
Asterisk--my old masters, like DeQuincey,
Who only descended to the infinite margin
When he thought to talk within the
Apparent great outline
Of the article under his command, (while
Knowing by inspiration that could lead him
Anywhere) when it was a question of
Delineating something truly fascinating
To the mind engaged in the actual topic
Of life before and beyond the consciousness,
Like (and he would!) digressing on the twilight,
The twilight seen in experience, known
Therefore as a composite truth to be further
Learned, or on the mysterious dualities
Themselves at work in an actual word-
Employed at risk,
Like we have tried to do right here, in
The asterisk on the word asterisk,
All the while perambulating, like
From Bridgewater to Grassmere.

The rule of the asterisk, the honoring of
The history, the gesture containing love
Of subject and recognition of the reader,
The humility in the face of all meanings,
Is like the law that governs aviation of
Any type. Do not try to float without
Keeping the ground somewhere in
Sight. It’s only a fear of life, and the
Illusion of the spage-age century, that
There is another zone inhabiting the
World marked off by . . . stars and flowers.
The rule of the asterisk is that all
Asterisks should be kept in reach
Of the world that flung them into being.

Edward Williams

from "STORMING THE ACADEMY"

Comments

[Todd Colby]

Lovely.

[Norm Davis]

Vintage Williams. Still
classic. Still enchanting!

[SeleCassy]

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