Joseph Smith turns 210

Now, Sir, to cut the matter short, and not daly with your learned ideas, for fashion’s sake, you have here given your opinion, without reserve, that revelation, the knowledge of God, prophetic visions, the truth of eternity can not be solved as a mathematical problem. The first question, then,  is:— what is a mathematical problem? And  the natural answer is, a statement, proposition,  or question, that can be solved ascertained  unfolded or demonstrated, by knowledge, facts, or  figure…. Now, two for the questions: How much are one and one? Two. How much is one from two? one. very well one question, or problem is solved by figures.

No, I think you’re probably a bigger fan of Colin Douglas’s series about you as poet, or Tyler Chadwick’s similar exploration (even if that latter is, in fact, less focused on you).

But so, for your birthday, how about a short poem about you as poet?

According to Leonard Arrington,
“one person,” having met you,
said you possessed “the innate refinement…
one finds in the born poet”—

I don’t know who that person was
(and neither does Google)
nor do I know which innate refinement
one finds in poets

and not in, say, the sheetrock layer
taking pride in his work well done,
but I’m unlikely to bump
into you on the subway

so it’s academic anyway.
Instead, let’s judge you as we judge
any poet: by the words left behind.
While I confess thy writings to be

such as neither man nor muse
can praise too much, certainly
you’ve had your detractors. Even those
among us who count ourselves fans

can appear too enthusiastic—
make our praise appear like unearned praise—
and thus tend to ruin, where we meant
to raise. But still thy works move outward,

proof against our half-baked near-
improvised poetry, shallow remembrance
at best. A remembrance to be remembered,
at best, half a day.

At least Jonson took a chance, praising
Shakespeare long before his 210th,
But stay awhile, Joseph, it takes no prophet now
to see thee in the hemisphere advanced,

a constellation made there of your friends and rememberers
and devotees. So shine forth, thou star of poets,
for though thou hast left this realm, we shall not mourn
in night, thanks to thy volume’s light.