2.5.24

I know jukeboxes don’t play poetry, but please allow me a bit of artistic license.

“Happiness writes white” is a phrase written by Henry de Montherlant, a French novelist known for his egocentrism and tendencies toward autocracy. The words suggest that happiness is a blank space. There just aren’t ways to effectively describe it, so it doesn’t show up on the page.

It’s an admittedly romantic notion, which is what Harvey Danger latches onto in their musical adaptation of the phrase. Happiness Writes White comes from the band’s 2006 album, Little By Little.

I’ll be the first to admit that I’m a sucker for the idea that it’s beyond the capacity of my fragile brain to describe the thrill-filled rush of happiness in a way even slightly approaching competence. Where does one begin when trying to capture joy in words? Should we even bother?

On the other hand, as I’ve grown older, a certain degree of romanticism has given way to pragmatism. And sometimes situations just demand words. Otherwise, how can we share the experience of happiness with others? If we only apply words to the negative, what power does the positive possess? Not much really.

Which brings me to Happiness Writes White, a poem by Edward Hirsch. The poem, from his 2008 collection, Special Orders, is a rebuttal of Motherlant’s approach to happiness (and possibly Harvey Danger’s, but I doubt it).

Hirsch does a tremendous job proving Motherlant wrong, and from where I’m standing these days, it’s a damn fine perspective on happiness.

I love the notion of happiness being a thing we’ll never fully understand, but I’m more inclined now to call it out when I see it, share it with others, and give it power by naming it.

Here’s your double dose of Happiness Writes White, a few song lyrics first, followed by the poem, followed by the song itself.

I’ve been in the tall grass all my life

Until you came along; now there’s one less thing wrong

Even though happiness writes white

Happiness Writes White by Edward Hirsch

I am a piece of chalk
scrawling words on an empty blackboard.

I am a banner of smoke
that crosses the blue air and doesn’t dissolve.

I don’t believe that only sorrow
and misery can be written.

Happiness, too, can be precise:

Doctor, there’s a keen throbbing
on the left side of my chest
where my ribs are wrenched by joy.

Wings flutter in my shoulders
and blood courses through my body
like waves cresting on a choppy sea.

Look: the eyes blur with tears
and the tears clear.

My head is like skylight.
My heart is like dawn.