More than any art, lyric poetry is a hit-or-miss affair. Painter, novelist, essayist, chef, composer may resemble themselves, even when they’re off their game, for their effect depends as much on craft as inspiration. A successful poem is magic, a thunderbolt; its impact can’t be forced or replicated. An OK poem is not OK. It is a shrug, a nothing, a shame.

The modernist revolt from regularity in rhyme, rhythm, stanza, upped the casualty rate for poems. A sonnet could be a passable sonnet, even if uninteresting as a poem: its craftsmanship, at least, might be admired. When form is unpredictable, incomparable, the result may sit on the page an inert blob. What is this, why is it, what did it hope to be, we wonder, feeling sorry for its maker.

The ablest poets of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries hit their mark maybe a dozen times. Even my favorites frustrate more frequently than they enthuse. But when they connect, wow, how on earth, I tremble at the incarnation. A lesser maker may be brushed once, if ever, by the divine.

I had high hopes for Louis Simpson (1923-2012), whom I encountered recently in an anthology. Part of the fun of our daily ambles is my obligation to unearth fresh material to gas about. In Henry Adams memorably sardonic sentence, “The habit of expression leads to the search for something to express.”

Tempted by anthologized samples, I ordered Simpson’s fat book. Oh my, what a grouch. Simpson prided himself on facing life as is, not primped or prettied, and for him, life sucked. I’m allergic to whiners. Many poems gripe yet conclude with a glimpse of uplift – humor, grace, a streak of sun. Simpson’s feeling cruddy and that’s that.

But wait. Sometimes a temperament aligns with a topic to make magic. I don’t know whether “The Floor Lamp” is autobiographical, but its timbre’s as taut and tart as a Chekov short story. Has marital fury ever been depicted more succinctly?

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHe threw his belongingsin one of the matching suitcases.And the floor lamp was his.

Our protagonist, who could just kill the wife who’s just wounded him, channels his fury into packing his few getaway belongings. We know his wife’s the culprit because the suitcases are matching. Can’t you inventory the contents of his bag: underwear, toiletries, a clean shirt, sleep clothes, the minimum? Then the floor lamp catches his eye. That “was his,” dammit! He grabs it.

Here commences a comedy. The floor lamp is inconvenient, “awkward to carry./ The shade tilted like a hat.” That hat transforms the object into a person, an unwelcome tagalong. Now our fulminator wishes he could get rid of it. He imagines abandoning it on the station platform. That might be OK, but then

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published when everyone was hurryingIt would fall with a crack.

Ouch. That lamp had become himself – with his hat on. And his rash and ill-considered abandonment – of his marriage – would have precipitated his ruin. Just maybe, his fury cooling, he should think again.

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedHe picked up the floor lamp,and the suitcase, and turned back.

Gives me goosebumps. You? Haven’t we all been there? Absurdly grandiose in the transports of rage, bow-wow-vowing revenge, heroic in our own eyes, then suddenly we see ourselves objectively and, yuk, what an ass! I woke up remembering passages in my life I’d prefer to forget.

Life let Louis Simpson down. His poems reiterate his resentment. His bad feeling makes me feel bad. But this once, rescue from the brink proved possible. Things might yet work out.

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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when publishedThe Floor Lamp

He threw his belongingsin one of the matching suitcases.And the floor lamp was his.

He took a taxi to the station.The lamp was awkward to carry.The shade tilted like a hat.

Suppose he just left it. . . .He could see it on the platform,waiting for him to come back.

The early commuterswould step around it.Later when everyone was hurrying

it would fall with a crack.He picked up the floor lamp,and the suitcase, and turned back.