Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show,
Of touch or marble; nor canst boast a row
Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold;
Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told,
Or stair, or courts; but stand’st an ancient pile,
And, these grudged at, art reverenced the while.
Thou joy’st in better marks, of soil, of air,
Of wood, of water; therein thou art fair.
Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport;
Thy mount, to which the dryads do resort,
Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made,
Beneath the broad beech and the chestnut shade;
That taller tree, which of a nut was set
At his great birth where all the Muses met.
There in the writhed bark are cut the names
Of many a sylvan, taken with his flames;
And thence the ruddy satyrs oft provoke
The lighter fauns to reach thy Lady’s Oak.
Thy copse too, named of Gamage, thou hast there,
That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer
When thou wouldst feast or exercise thy friends.
The lower land, that to the river bends,
Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed;
The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed.
Each bank doth yield thee conies; and the tops,
Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sidney’s copse,
To crown thy open table, doth provide
The purpled pheasant with the speckled side;
The painted partridge lies in every field,
And for thy mess is willing to be killed.
And if the high-swollen Medway fail thy dish,
Thou hast thy ponds, that pay thee tribute fish,
Fat aged carps that run into thy net,
And pikes, now weary their own kind to eat,
As loath the second draught or cast to stay,
Officiously at first themselves betray;
Bright eels that emulate them, and leap on land
Before the fisher, or into his hand.
Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers,
Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours.
The early cherry, with the later plum,
Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come;
The blushing apricot and woolly peach
Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach.
And though thy walls be of the country stone,
They’re reared with no man’s ruin, no man’s groan;
There’s none that dwell about them wish them down;
But all come in, the farmer and the clown,
And no one empty-handed, to salute
Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit.
Some bring a capon, some a rural cake,
Some nuts, some apples; some that think they make
The better cheeses bring them, or else send
By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend
This way to husbands, and whose baskets bear
An emblem of themselves in plum or pear.
But what can this (more than express their love)
Add to thy free provisions, far above
The need of such? whose liberal board doth flow
With all that hospitality doth know;
Where comes no guest but is allowed to eat,
Without his fear, and of thy lord’s own meat;
Where the same beer and bread, and selfsame wine,
This is his lordship’s shall be also mine,
And I not fain to sit (as some this day
At great men’s tables), and yet dine away.
Here no man tells my cups; nor, standing by,
A waiter doth my gluttony envy,
But gives me what I call, and lets me eat;
He knows below he shall find plenty of meat.
The tables hoard not up for the next day;
Nor, when I take my lodging, need I pray
For fire, or lights, or livery; all is there,
As if thou then wert mine, or I reigned here:
There’s nothing I can wish, for which I stay.
That found King James when, hunting late this way
With his brave son, the prince, they saw thy fires
Shine bright on every hearth, as the desires
Of thy Penates had been set on flame
To entertain them; or the country came
With all their zeal to warm their welcome here.
What (great I will not say, but) sudden cheer
Didst thou then make ’em! and what praise was heaped
On thy good lady then, who therein reaped
The just reward of her high housewifery;
To have her linen, plate, and all things nigh,
When she was far; and not a room but dressed
As if it had expected such a guest!
These, Penshurst, are thy praise, and yet not all.
Thy lady’s noble, fruitful, chaste withal.
His children thy great lord may call his own,
A fortune in this age but rarely known.
They are, and have been, taught religion; thence
Their gentler spirits have sucked innocence.
Each morn and even they are taught to pray,
With the whole household, and may, every day,
Read in their virtuous parents’ noble parts
The mysteries of manners, arms, and arts.
Now, Penshurst, they that will proportion thee
With other edifices, when they see
Those proud, ambitious heaps, and nothing else,
May say their lords have built, but thy lord dwells.
—Ben Jonson (1572-1637), "To Penshurst" from The Forest, from The Works of Benjamin Jonson, 1616. This poem is so virtuosic in a way that only Jonson can ever really sell. Like, I love it for all the usual reasons, but I think it really repays some rigorous close reading and a healthy dose of contextual skepticism. The class politics alone are kind of amazing, not to even mention the whole thing where the rabbits are like "please eat us!" I LOVE COUNTRY HOUSE POEMS.
Tuesday, April 29, 2014
Monday, April 28, 2014
not dream of islands
I'm on the train back to New York City from Montreal, where the internet
is once again spotty but the scenery is stunning. Here is a poem by one
of my favorite poets ever in the whole history of poetry. It's also a
sestina. Because, like, why not? Sestinas are so hard to write, you guys. But maybe not quite as much for Wystan, with his ridiculous poetic competence.
Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys,
Seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
Round corners coming suddenly on water,
Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands,
We honour founders of these starving cities
Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,
Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow
That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys;
Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities
They reined their violent horses on the mountains,
Those fields like ships to castaways on islands,
Visions of green to them who craved for water.
They built by rivers and at night the water
Running past windows comforted their sorrow;
Each in his little bed conceived of islands
Where every day was dancing in the valleys
And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains
Where love was innocent, being far from cities.
But dawn came back and they were still in cities;
No marvellous creature rose up from the water;
There was still gold and silver in the mountains
But hunger was a more immediate sorrow,
Although to moping villagers in valleys
Some waving pilgrims were describing islands ...
"The gods," they promised, "visit us from islands,
Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities;
Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys
And sail with them across the lime-green water,
Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow,
The shadow cast across your lives by mountains."
So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains,
Climbing up crags to get a view of islands,
So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow
Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities,
So many, careless, dived and drowned in water,
So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.
It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Ah, water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.
—W.H. Auden (1907-1973), Paysage Moralisé, May 1933.
Hearing of harvests rotting in the valleys,
Seeing at end of street the barren mountains,
Round corners coming suddenly on water,
Knowing them shipwrecked who were launched for islands,
We honour founders of these starving cities
Whose honour is the image of our sorrow,
Which cannot see its likeness in their sorrow
That brought them desperate to the brink of valleys;
Dreaming of evening walks through learned cities
They reined their violent horses on the mountains,
Those fields like ships to castaways on islands,
Visions of green to them who craved for water.
They built by rivers and at night the water
Running past windows comforted their sorrow;
Each in his little bed conceived of islands
Where every day was dancing in the valleys
And all the green trees blossomed on the mountains
Where love was innocent, being far from cities.
But dawn came back and they were still in cities;
No marvellous creature rose up from the water;
There was still gold and silver in the mountains
But hunger was a more immediate sorrow,
Although to moping villagers in valleys
Some waving pilgrims were describing islands ...
"The gods," they promised, "visit us from islands,
Are stalking, head-up, lovely, through our cities;
Now is the time to leave your wretched valleys
And sail with them across the lime-green water,
Sitting at their white sides, forget your sorrow,
The shadow cast across your lives by mountains."
So many, doubtful, perished in the mountains,
Climbing up crags to get a view of islands,
So many, fearful, took with them their sorrow
Which stayed them when they reached unhappy cities,
So many, careless, dived and drowned in water,
So many, wretched, would not leave their valleys.
It is our sorrow. Shall it melt? Ah, water
Would gush, flush, green these mountains and these valleys,
And we rebuild our cities, not dream of islands.
—W.H. Auden (1907-1973), Paysage Moralisé, May 1933.
Sunday, April 27, 2014
sometimes there are complications
My friend Polaris once described this poem as "an amazing punch in the gut," and I think that is very apt. This is also a poem I've had in my "to post" folder for a while; but to be honest, it's pretty much always relevant.
All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.
The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.
If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man
then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white
that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps
at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.
If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.
Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. They should destroy the lives
of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust
at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.
Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.
There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.
Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian
then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed
and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.
If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.
An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,
everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.
For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.
In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.
—Sherman Alexie (b. 1966), "How To Write The Great American Indian Novel" from The Summer of Black Widows (Hanging Loose Press, 1996).
All of the Indians must have tragic features: tragic noses, eyes, and arms.
Their hands and fingers must be tragic when they reach for tragic food.
The hero must be a half-breed, half white and half Indian, preferably
from a horse culture. He should often weep alone. That is mandatory.
If the hero is an Indian woman, she is beautiful. She must be slender
and in love with a white man. But if she loves an Indian man
then he must be a half-breed, preferably from a horse culture.
If the Indian woman loves a white man, then he has to be so white
that we can see the blue veins running through his skin like rivers.
When the Indian woman steps out of her dress, the white man gasps
at the endless beauty of her brown skin. She should be compared to nature:
brown hills, mountains, fertile valleys, dewy grass, wind, and clear water.
If she is compared to murky water, however, then she must have a secret.
Indians always have secrets, which are carefully and slowly revealed.
Yet Indian secrets can be disclosed suddenly, like a storm.
Indian men, of course, are storms. They should destroy the lives
of any white women who choose to love them. All white women love
Indian men. That is always the case. White women feign disgust
at the savage in blue jeans and T-shirt, but secretly lust after him.
White women dream about half-breed Indian men from horse cultures.
Indian men are horses, smelling wild and gamey. When the Indian man
unbuttons his pants, the white woman should think of topsoil.
There must be one murder, one suicide, one attempted rape.
Alcohol should be consumed. Cars must be driven at high speeds.
Indians must see visions. White people can have the same visions
if they are in love with Indians. If a white person loves an Indian
then the white person is Indian by proximity. White people must carry
an Indian deep inside themselves. Those interior Indians are half-breed
and obviously from horse cultures. If the interior Indian is male
then he must be a warrior, especially if he is inside a white man.
If the interior Indian is female, then she must be a healer, especially if she is inside
a white woman. Sometimes there are complications.
An Indian man can be hidden inside a white woman. An Indian woman
can be hidden inside a white man. In these rare instances,
everybody is a half-breed struggling to learn more about his or her horse culture.
There must be redemption, of course, and sins must be forgiven.
For this, we need children. A white child and an Indian child, gender
not important, should express deep affection in a childlike way.
In the Great American Indian novel, when it is finally written,
all of the white people will be Indians and all of the Indians will be ghosts.
—Sherman Alexie (b. 1966), "How To Write The Great American Indian Novel" from The Summer of Black Widows (Hanging Loose Press, 1996).
Friday, April 25, 2014
ride out of worlds we shall not see again
As it turns out, being on a 10-hour train trip mostly without internet (no internet for people traveling to Canada, because Canada hates me) is sort of great, but also super frustrating. At the moment I am hiding out in the cafe car with a cup of terrible coffee and semi-functional internet, so here is today's poem:
Riding the black express from heaven to hell
He bit his fingers, watched the countryside,
Vernal and crystalline, forever slide
Beyond his gaze: the long cascades that fell
Ribboned in sunshine from their sparkling height,
The fishers fastened to their pools of green
By silver lines; the birds in sudden flight—
All things the diabolic eye had seen
Since heaven's cockcrow. Imperceptibly
That landscape altered: now in paler air
Tree, hill and rock stood out resigned, severe,
Beside the strangled field, the stream run dry.
Lucifer, we are yours you stiff and mute
Ride out of worlds we shall not see again,
And watch from widows of a smoking train
The ashen prairies of the absolute.
Once out of heaven, to an angel's eye
Where is the bush or cloud without a flaw?
What bird but feeds upon mortality,
Flies to its young with carrion in its claws?
O foundered angel, first and loneliest
To this bitter sand beneath your hoe,
Teach us, the newly-landed, what you know;
After our weary transit, find us rest.
—Adrienne Rich (1929-2012), "Lucifer in the Train," originally published (possibly -- I only sort of trust the research I did to find this out) in The Atlantic Monthly, September 1952.
I think maybe my favorite thing about Adrienne Rich's poetry is how seamlessly she manages to integrate the intensely horrible and the intensely beautiful. I find this poem sort of shockingly optimistic, given that it's technically a poem about hell.
Riding the black express from heaven to hell
He bit his fingers, watched the countryside,
Vernal and crystalline, forever slide
Beyond his gaze: the long cascades that fell
Ribboned in sunshine from their sparkling height,
The fishers fastened to their pools of green
By silver lines; the birds in sudden flight—
All things the diabolic eye had seen
Since heaven's cockcrow. Imperceptibly
That landscape altered: now in paler air
Tree, hill and rock stood out resigned, severe,
Beside the strangled field, the stream run dry.
Lucifer, we are yours you stiff and mute
Ride out of worlds we shall not see again,
And watch from widows of a smoking train
The ashen prairies of the absolute.
Once out of heaven, to an angel's eye
Where is the bush or cloud without a flaw?
What bird but feeds upon mortality,
Flies to its young with carrion in its claws?
O foundered angel, first and loneliest
To this bitter sand beneath your hoe,
Teach us, the newly-landed, what you know;
After our weary transit, find us rest.
—Adrienne Rich (1929-2012), "Lucifer in the Train," originally published (possibly -- I only sort of trust the research I did to find this out) in The Atlantic Monthly, September 1952.
I think maybe my favorite thing about Adrienne Rich's poetry is how seamlessly she manages to integrate the intensely horrible and the intensely beautiful. I find this poem sort of shockingly optimistic, given that it's technically a poem about hell.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
the lives of the heart
Are ligneous, muscular, chemical.
Wear birch-colored feathers,
green tunnels of horse-tail reed.
Wear calcified spirals, Fibonaccian spheres.
Are edible; are glassy; are clay; blue schist.
Can be burned as tallow, as coal,
can be skinned for garnets, for shoes.
Cast shadows or light;
shuffle; snort; cry out in passion.
Are salt, are bitter,
tear sweet grass with their teeth.
Step silently into blue needle-fall at dawn.
Thrash in the net until hit.
Rise up as cities, as serpentined magma, as maples,
hiss lava-red into the sea.
Leave the strange kiss of their bodies
in Burgess Shale. Can be found, can be lost,
can be carried, broken, sung.
Lie dormant until they are opened by ice,
by drought. Go blind in the service of lace.
Are starving, are sated, indifferent, curious, mad.
Are stamped out in plastic, in tin.
Are stubborn, are careful, are slipshod,
are strung on the blue backs of flies
on the black backs of cows.
Wander the vacant whale-roads, the white thickets
heavy with slaughter.
Wander the fragrant carpets of alpine flowers.
Not one is not held in the arms of the rest, to blossom.
Not one is not given to ecstasy's lions.
Not one does not grieve.
Each of them opens and closes, closes and opens
the heavy gate—violent, serene, consenting, suffering it all.
—Jane Hirshfield (b. 1953), "The Lives of the Heart" from The Lives of the Heart, 1997.
Wear birch-colored feathers,
green tunnels of horse-tail reed.
Wear calcified spirals, Fibonaccian spheres.
Are edible; are glassy; are clay; blue schist.
Can be burned as tallow, as coal,
can be skinned for garnets, for shoes.
Cast shadows or light;
shuffle; snort; cry out in passion.
Are salt, are bitter,
tear sweet grass with their teeth.
Step silently into blue needle-fall at dawn.
Thrash in the net until hit.
Rise up as cities, as serpentined magma, as maples,
hiss lava-red into the sea.
Leave the strange kiss of their bodies
in Burgess Shale. Can be found, can be lost,
can be carried, broken, sung.
Lie dormant until they are opened by ice,
by drought. Go blind in the service of lace.
Are starving, are sated, indifferent, curious, mad.
Are stamped out in plastic, in tin.
Are stubborn, are careful, are slipshod,
are strung on the blue backs of flies
on the black backs of cows.
Wander the vacant whale-roads, the white thickets
heavy with slaughter.
Wander the fragrant carpets of alpine flowers.
Not one is not held in the arms of the rest, to blossom.
Not one is not given to ecstasy's lions.
Not one does not grieve.
Each of them opens and closes, closes and opens
the heavy gate—violent, serene, consenting, suffering it all.
—Jane Hirshfield (b. 1953), "The Lives of the Heart" from The Lives of the Heart, 1997.
Wednesday, April 23, 2014
nor boundless sea
It's Shakespeare's alleged birthday, which is among the things I try to celebrate in National Poetry Month, since, let's be honest, I owe a lot of my life to that dude. I've celebrated Shakespeare in a lot of different ways, but in the last couple of years I've taken to posting two poems: a sonnet, and a poem that is also, in some way, in debt to Shakespeare.
It was not difficult to persuade the captain
to sail a little off course and leave him
at the island. With his boxes on the sand
and the ship getting small, he was home.
Foolishly, he was disappointed that Ariel
was not amazingly there to meet him.
A part had secretly dreamed it would be a woman.
But that lasted briefly and then he was happy.
How dear the bare place looked. How good it felt
getting the supplies up to the house.
—Jack Gilbert (1925-2012), "Prospero Goes Home" from The Dance Most of All, 2009.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
—William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnet LXV
Thanks for everything, Will.
It was not difficult to persuade the captain
to sail a little off course and leave him
at the island. With his boxes on the sand
and the ship getting small, he was home.
Foolishly, he was disappointed that Ariel
was not amazingly there to meet him.
A part had secretly dreamed it would be a woman.
But that lasted briefly and then he was happy.
How dear the bare place looked. How good it felt
getting the supplies up to the house.
—Jack Gilbert (1925-2012), "Prospero Goes Home" from The Dance Most of All, 2009.
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,
But sad mortality o'ersways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer's honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of battering days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack!
Shall Time's best jewel from Time's chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
—William Shakespeare (1564-1616), Sonnet LXV
Thanks for everything, Will.
Tuesday, April 22, 2014
moon dust
Today I finally gave in to the National Poetry Month book-buying bug,
and went to the bookstore on my way home. I bought probably more poetry
books than I should have (my collection increases yearly), including
Nikki Giovanni's new poetry and prose collection, Chasing Utopia
(New York: William Morrow, 2013). I'm already kind of in love with it --
and not just the book design, which is lovely -- so it may be making
frequent appearances in future years. Here's one of the poems:
I baked it
In a biscuit
And someone came along
While I wasn't looking
And stole it away
I had planned
To take it
For Show-and-Tell
Naked I would unveil
My prize
The moon would dress me
In moon dust
The stars settling over
My head
And you with your arms
Outstretched
Would awake me
Warm
In the light of day
While the night made its way
Into the kitchen
To become
Morning pancakes
—Nikki Giovanni (b. 1943), "Where Did The Night Go" from Chasing Utopia, 2013.
I baked it
In a biscuit
And someone came along
While I wasn't looking
And stole it away
I had planned
To take it
For Show-and-Tell
Naked I would unveil
My prize
The moon would dress me
In moon dust
The stars settling over
My head
And you with your arms
Outstretched
Would awake me
Warm
In the light of day
While the night made its way
Into the kitchen
To become
Morning pancakes
—Nikki Giovanni (b. 1943), "Where Did The Night Go" from Chasing Utopia, 2013.
Monday, April 21, 2014
hear the ambassador of velvet
I am not walking on sand,
but I feel I am walking on sand,
this poem is accompanying me on sand.
Fungus lacing the rock,
on the ribs, mould. Moss
feathering the mute roar
of the staved-in throat
of the wreck, the crap gripping.
Why this loop of correspondences,
as your voice grows hoarser
than the chafed Pacific? Your voice
falling soundless as snow on
the petrified Andes, the snow
like feathers from the tilting
rudderless condors,
emissary in a black suit, who
walks among eagles, hand, whose
five-knuckled peninsula
bars the heartbreaking ocean?
Hear the ambassador of velvet
open the felt-hinged door,
the black flag flaps toothless
over Isla Negra. You said
when others like me despaired:
climb the moss-throated stairs
to the crest of Macchu Picchu,
break your teeth like a pick on
the obdurate, mottled terraces,
wear the wind, soaked with rain
like a cloak, above absences,
and for us, in the New World,
our older world, you became
a benign, rigorous uncle,
and through you we fanned open
to others, to the sand-rasped
mutter of César Vallejo, to
the radiant, self-circling
sunstone of Octavio, men
who, unlike the Saxons, I am tempted
to call by their Christian names;
we were all netted to one rock
by vines of iron, our livers
picked by corbeaux and condors
in the New World, in a new word,
brotherhood, word which arrests
the crests of the snowblowing ocean
in its flash to a sea of sierras,
the round fish mouths of our children,
the word cantan. All this
you have done for me. Gracias.
—Derek Walcott (b. 1930), "For Pablo Neruda" from Sea Grapes, 1971, 1976 (First American Printing).
I love Derek Walcott so fucking much. Not incidentally, I also love Neruda.
but I feel I am walking on sand,
this poem is accompanying me on sand.
Fungus lacing the rock,
on the ribs, mould. Moss
feathering the mute roar
of the staved-in throat
of the wreck, the crap gripping.
Why this loop of correspondences,
as your voice grows hoarser
than the chafed Pacific? Your voice
falling soundless as snow on
the petrified Andes, the snow
like feathers from the tilting
rudderless condors,
emissary in a black suit, who
walks among eagles, hand, whose
five-knuckled peninsula
bars the heartbreaking ocean?
Hear the ambassador of velvet
open the felt-hinged door,
the black flag flaps toothless
over Isla Negra. You said
when others like me despaired:
climb the moss-throated stairs
to the crest of Macchu Picchu,
break your teeth like a pick on
the obdurate, mottled terraces,
wear the wind, soaked with rain
like a cloak, above absences,
and for us, in the New World,
our older world, you became
a benign, rigorous uncle,
and through you we fanned open
to others, to the sand-rasped
mutter of César Vallejo, to
the radiant, self-circling
sunstone of Octavio, men
who, unlike the Saxons, I am tempted
to call by their Christian names;
we were all netted to one rock
by vines of iron, our livers
picked by corbeaux and condors
in the New World, in a new word,
brotherhood, word which arrests
the crests of the snowblowing ocean
in its flash to a sea of sierras,
the round fish mouths of our children,
the word cantan. All this
you have done for me. Gracias.
—Derek Walcott (b. 1930), "For Pablo Neruda" from Sea Grapes, 1971, 1976 (First American Printing).
I love Derek Walcott so fucking much. Not incidentally, I also love Neruda.
Sunday, April 20, 2014
all the constellations of the storie
A little late-night George Herbert for Easter Sunday, don't you think?
Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glorie!
Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christians destinie:
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev’ry thing
Thy words do finde me out, & parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.
Starres are poore books, & oftentimes do misse:
This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.
—George Herbert (1593-1633), "The H. Scriptures II" from The Temple, 1633.
This is the second of a pair of sonnets to the Holy Scriptures (conveniently noted by the headnote in my edition of Herbert to be "an alternative title (almost always preferred by H.) for the Bible, the book in which, in sixty-six shorter 'books' of history, poetry, prophecy, and teaching, the historical relationship of God and the Jews (OT) and the salvation of the world by his son Jesus Christ (NT), are recorded." I mean, thanks for that, Professor Wilcox); it's worth reading the two poems together, but I've always liked the second one more. Among my marginalia on this poem are the following: HERMENEUTICS, written sideways in all caps with an underline and a star; books = stars = constellations = word of god? = heavenly lights; and stars pour [sic] books/books not poor stars. I mean, go figure. I wish I knew what I meant, besides, you know, My Little Herbert: God is Magic.
Oh that I knew how all thy lights combine,
And the configurations of their glorie!
Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christians destinie:
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
And comments on thee: for in ev’ry thing
Thy words do finde me out, & parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.
Starres are poore books, & oftentimes do misse:
This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.
—George Herbert (1593-1633), "The H. Scriptures II" from The Temple, 1633.
This is the second of a pair of sonnets to the Holy Scriptures (conveniently noted by the headnote in my edition of Herbert to be "an alternative title (almost always preferred by H.) for the Bible, the book in which, in sixty-six shorter 'books' of history, poetry, prophecy, and teaching, the historical relationship of God and the Jews (OT) and the salvation of the world by his son Jesus Christ (NT), are recorded." I mean, thanks for that, Professor Wilcox); it's worth reading the two poems together, but I've always liked the second one more. Among my marginalia on this poem are the following: HERMENEUTICS, written sideways in all caps with an underline and a star; books = stars = constellations = word of god? = heavenly lights; and stars pour [sic] books/books not poor stars. I mean, go figure. I wish I knew what I meant, besides, you know, My Little Herbert: God is Magic.
Saturday, April 19, 2014
walls and stars
You know, I've never posted any Robert Frost? Here are two, since I missed yesterday (and with thanks, as is often the case, to wintercreek):
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulder in the sun,
And make gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there,
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
—Robert Frost (1874-1963), "Mending Wall" from North of Boston, 1914.
*
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud—
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
—Robert Frost (1874-1963), "Choose Something Like A Star," 1943.
I'm too tired and cranky to write about this at the moment, but if anybody wants to talk about Frost's metrics some other time, just let me know. METRICS ARE GREAT.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it
And spills the upper boulder in the sun,
And make gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there,
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there,
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."
—Robert Frost (1874-1963), "Mending Wall" from North of Boston, 1914.
*
O Star (the fairest one in sight),
We grant your loftiness the right
To some obscurity of cloud—
It will not do to say of night,
Since dark is what brings out your light.
Some mystery becomes the proud.
But to be wholly taciturn
In your reserve is not allowed.
Say something to us we can learn
By heart and when alone repeat.
Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'
But say with what degree of heat.
Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.
Use language we can comprehend.
Tell us what elements you blend.
It gives us strangely little aid,
But does tell something in the end.
And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,
Not even stooping from its sphere,
It asks a little of us here.
It asks of us a certain height,
So when at times the mob is swayed
To carry praise or blame too far,
We may choose something like a star
To stay our minds on and be staid.
—Robert Frost (1874-1963), "Choose Something Like A Star," 1943.
I'm too tired and cranky to write about this at the moment, but if anybody wants to talk about Frost's metrics some other time, just let me know. METRICS ARE GREAT.
Thursday, April 17, 2014
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen
Nobody can convince me that this is not a poem about Steve Rogers.
It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off our heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
—Anne Sexton (1928-1974), "Courage" from The Awful Rowing Toward God (Houghton Mifflin, 1975).
I mean, just saying.
It is in the small things we see it.
The child’s first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.
Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.
Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off our heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.
Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.
—Anne Sexton (1928-1974), "Courage" from The Awful Rowing Toward God (Houghton Mifflin, 1975).
I mean, just saying.
Wednesday, April 16, 2014
screw poetry
I missed posting a poem yesterday, and today I am having a pretty shitty
day. Here is a poem about the inadequacy of poetry; it's also a love
poem. (I think I read more love poetry in hard times than in good times,
which probably says something really interestingly psychological about
me, but who the fuck knows what.)
Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.
I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.
Screw poetry, it's you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.
—Margaret Atwood (b. 1939), "Late Night"
Late night and rain wakes me, a downpour,
wind thrashing in the leaves, huge
ears, huge feathers,
like some chased animal, a giant
dog or wild boar. Thunder & shivering
windows; from the tin roof
the rush of water.
I lie askew under the net,
tangled in damp cloth, salt in my hair.
When this clears there will be fireflies
& stars, brighter than anywhere,
which I could contemplate at times
of panic. Lightyears, think of it.
Screw poetry, it's you I want,
your taste, rain
on you, mouth on your skin.
—Margaret Atwood (b. 1939), "Late Night"
Monday, April 14, 2014
love I submit to thee
It's my birthday, and it's a Donne year. I was thinking pretty seriously about posting The Sunne Rising
again, even though I posted it in 2008; but then there was this one,
and I like this one. Credit to K for picking it out for me. Additional
credit to K for cleaning my kitchen and baking me a cake. (Best platonic
wife ever.) Anyway, it's a gorgeous day, and I haven't done nearly
enough grading, but I did go out this morning and get bagels, and I lay
around in the sunshine and read fic, and later I am going out to dinner
with a whole bunch of great people, so I'm calling it: fuck yeah, happy
birthday to me.
For every houre that thou wilt spare mee now,
I will allow,
Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee,
When with my browne, my gray haires equall bee;
Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let
Mee travell, sojourne, snatch, plot, have, forget,
Resume my last yeares relict: thinke that yet
We'had never met.
Let mee thinke any rivalls letter mine,
And at next nine
Keepe midnights promise; mistake by the way
The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay;
Onely let mee love none, no, not the sport
From country grasse, to comfitures of Court,
Or cities quelque choses, let report
My minde transport.
This bargaine's good; if when I'am old, I bee
Inflam'd by thee,
If thine owne honour, or my shame, or paine,
Thou covet most, at that age thou shalt gaine.
Doe thy will then, then subject and degree,
And fruit of love, Love I submit to thee,
Spare mee till then, I'll beare it, though she bee
One that loves mee.
—John Donne (1572-1631), "Loves Usury" from Songs and Sonets, which I always feel obliged to note contains neither songs nor sonnets. Donne's poetry was first published in print in 1633, but circulated in manuscript both before and after. I don't know anything like a specific date for this one, and am too lazy to go look it up in the Variorum. Meanwhile, I love it when poets try to bargain with Love. Spoilers: it doesn't usually work.
For every houre that thou wilt spare mee now,
I will allow,
Usurious God of Love, twenty to thee,
When with my browne, my gray haires equall bee;
Till then, Love, let my body raigne, and let
Mee travell, sojourne, snatch, plot, have, forget,
Resume my last yeares relict: thinke that yet
We'had never met.
Let mee thinke any rivalls letter mine,
And at next nine
Keepe midnights promise; mistake by the way
The maid, and tell the Lady of that delay;
Onely let mee love none, no, not the sport
From country grasse, to comfitures of Court,
Or cities quelque choses, let report
My minde transport.
This bargaine's good; if when I'am old, I bee
Inflam'd by thee,
If thine owne honour, or my shame, or paine,
Thou covet most, at that age thou shalt gaine.
Doe thy will then, then subject and degree,
And fruit of love, Love I submit to thee,
Spare mee till then, I'll beare it, though she bee
One that loves mee.
—John Donne (1572-1631), "Loves Usury" from Songs and Sonets, which I always feel obliged to note contains neither songs nor sonnets. Donne's poetry was first published in print in 1633, but circulated in manuscript both before and after. I don't know anything like a specific date for this one, and am too lazy to go look it up in the Variorum. Meanwhile, I love it when poets try to bargain with Love. Spoilers: it doesn't usually work.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
all stories
wintercreek posted this a couple of years ago, and I think it's wonderful; as usual, her taste is impeccable. Hey, internet. Have a love poem. ♥
At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn't make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it's gone. it's just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending's its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there's a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.
—Marty McConnell, "Three of Cups"
At some point it becomes true that all stories
are love stories. all making, love making.
I didn't make this rule. but it binds me
all the same. I wish there were a law
against condescending against love. against
the economy of fear that says your joy
means less joy for me as if love
were pie, or money, or fossil fuel
dug or pumped from the earth, gone
when it's gone. it's just not true. the heart
with its gift for magnificent expansion
is not coal. not fruit set to spoil or the dollar
cringing in its wallet. when you say darling,
the world lights up at its edges. when mouths
find mouths and minds follow or minds find
minds and mouths, hands, hips, toes, follow –
how about you call that sacred. how about you raise
your veined right hand and swear on the blood
that branches there, yes. I take this crush
to be my lawful infatuation. I will bend toward joy
until the bending's its own pleasure. I will memorize
photographs and street maps, I will acquiesce
to the maudlin urgency of pop songs and dance,
and dance – there's a perfection only the impossible kiss
possesses. there are notes you can only hear naked
in the dark of a room to which you will never
return. anything that moves the world toward light
is a blessing. why not take it with both hands,
lift it to your lips like a broth of stars. this
is the substance that holds our little atoms together
into bodies. this sweet paste of longing
is all that binds us to the earth.
and all we know of the gods.
—Marty McConnell, "Three of Cups"
Saturday, April 12, 2014
like a golden galleon
I feel like this is sort of a sequel to yesterday's poem. Somebody on tumblr (I think it was sea-tidesofthesoul)
posted this poem earlier in the month, and it seems like a good one for
today, when the sun is shining, and I am about to put on a pretty dress
and go have afternoon tea and then go to the theatre.
O gift of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!
Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,
Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.
Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!
O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), "A Day of Sunshine," from Birds of Passage, 1863.
O gift of God! O perfect day:
Whereon shall no man work, but play;
Whereon it is enough for me,
Not to be doing, but to be!
Through every fibre of my brain,
Through every nerve, through every vein,
I feel the electric thrill, the touch
Of life, that seems almost too much.
I hear the wind among the trees
Playing celestial symphonies;
I see the branches downward bent,
Like keys of some great instrument.
And over me unrolls on high
The splendid scenery of the sky,
Where through a sapphire sea the sun
Sails like a golden galleon,
Towards yonder cloud-land in the West,
Towards yonder Islands of the Blest,
Whose steep sierra far uplifts
Its craggy summits white with drifts.
Blow, winds! and waft through all the rooms
The snow-flakes of the cherry-blooms!
Blow, winds! and bend within my reach
The fiery blossoms of the peach!
O Life and Love! O happy throng
Of thoughts, whose only speech is song!
O heart of man! canst thou not be
Blithe as the air is, and as free?
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882), "A Day of Sunshine," from Birds of Passage, 1863.
Friday, April 11, 2014
sunlight
Somebody posted this poem on tumblr a while ago, and it stuck with me,
so I saved it in my National Poetry Month folder, and here we are. I
know, this is a really great introduction. In my defense, it's been a
very long week.
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli," you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is beautiful. It touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent from someplace distant
as this morning—to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing
that also needs accomplishing.
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue,
but today you get a telegram
from the heart in exile,
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
—to any one among them
who can find the time
to sit out in the sun and listen.
—Tony Hoagland (b. 1953), "The Word" from Sweet Ruin (University of Wisconsin Press, 1992).
Down near the bottom
of the crossed-out list
of things you have to do today,
between "green thread"
and "broccoli," you find
that you have penciled "sunlight."
Resting on the page, the word
is beautiful. It touches you
as if you had a friend
and sunlight were a present
he had sent from someplace distant
as this morning—to cheer you up,
and to remind you that,
among your duties, pleasure
is a thing
that also needs accomplishing.
Do you remember?
that time and light are kinds
of love, and love
is no less practical
than a coffee grinder
or a safe spare tire?
Tomorrow you may be utterly
without a clue,
but today you get a telegram
from the heart in exile,
proclaiming that the kingdom
still exists,
the king and queen alive,
still speaking to their children,
—to any one among them
who can find the time
to sit out in the sun and listen.
—Tony Hoagland (b. 1953), "The Word" from Sweet Ruin (University of Wisconsin Press, 1992).
Thursday, April 10, 2014
cancel the count
I went to see The Winter Soldier again. Have some Rilke.
Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter
dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.
Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,
daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.
Sei immer tot in Eurydike—, singender steige,
preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.
Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,
sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.
Sei—und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,
den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,
daß du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.
Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen
Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,
zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.
Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among those winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.
Be forever dead in Eurydice—more gladly arise
into the seamless life proclaimed in your song.
Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days,
be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.
Be—and yet know the great void where all things begin,
the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,
so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.
To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb
creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums,
joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.
—Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), II, 13 from The Sonnets to Orpheus, 1923, translated by Stephen Mitchell (New York: Vintage International, 1989). This might be my favorite of the whole sonnet sequence. I do actually like Rilke even when he's not having lots of feelings about Orpheus, but the thing is that I have lots of feelings about Orpheus, and on this topic I feel we share a certain rapport. And, you know, I'm not saying I'm drawing any Orpheus/Eurydice Steve/Bucky parallels, but I'm not saying I'm not, either.
Sei allem Abschied voran, als wäre er hinter
dir, wie der Winter, der eben geht.
Denn unter Wintern ist einer so endlos Winter,
daß, überwinternd, dein Herz überhaupt übersteht.
Sei immer tot in Eurydike—, singender steige,
preisender steige zurück in den reinen Bezug.
Hier, unter Schwindenden, sei, im Reiche der Neige,
sei ein klingendes Glas, das sich im Klang schon zerschlug.
Sei—und wisse zugleich des Nicht-Seins Bedingung,
den unendlichen Grund deiner innigen Schwingung,
daß du sie völlig vollziehst dieses einzige Mal.
Zu dem gebrauchten sowohl, wie zum dumpfen und stummen
Vorrat der vollen Natur, den unsäglichen Summen,
zähle dich jubelnd hinzu und vernichte die Zahl.
Be ahead of all parting, as though it already were
behind you, like the winter that has just gone by.
For among those winters there is one so endlessly winter
that only by wintering through it will your heart survive.
Be forever dead in Eurydice—more gladly arise
into the seamless life proclaimed in your song.
Here, in the realm of decline, among momentary days,
be the crystal cup that shattered even as it rang.
Be—and yet know the great void where all things begin,
the infinite source of your own most intense vibration,
so that, this once, you may give it your perfect assent.
To all that is used-up, and to all the muffled and dumb
creatures in the world's full reserve, the unsayable sums,
joyfully add yourself, and cancel the count.
—Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926), II, 13 from The Sonnets to Orpheus, 1923, translated by Stephen Mitchell (New York: Vintage International, 1989). This might be my favorite of the whole sonnet sequence. I do actually like Rilke even when he's not having lots of feelings about Orpheus, but the thing is that I have lots of feelings about Orpheus, and on this topic I feel we share a certain rapport. And, you know, I'm not saying I'm drawing any Orpheus/Eurydice Steve/Bucky parallels, but I'm not saying I'm not, either.
Wednesday, April 9, 2014
oh heart, with your empty pockets
Today I looked at approximately one million apartments, and may in fact have found the right one.
I'm trying not to bank on it, yet, but I'm putting in an application,
and my rental broker is fantastic, and this might actually be happening.
Moving is terrifying, but also kind of awesome and exciting. More to
the point: oh, New York, New York, I love you.
Streetwise but foolish, the heart
knows what's good for it but goes
for the dark bar, the beer before noon,
the doughy pretzel hot and salty, tied up
in a Gordian knot. It takes a walk
through Tompkins Square where
the homeless sleep it off on stone benches,
one shrouded body to each gritty sarcophagus.
The streets fill with taxis and trucks,
pinstripes and briefcases, and the subways
spark and sway underground. The sun
is snagged on the Empire State, performing
its one-note song, the citizens below
dragging their shadows down the sidewalk
like sidekicks, spitting into the gutter
as if on cue, as if in a musical,
as if there's no association between the trash
flapping against the chain link and the girl
with her skirt up in the alley. When the traffic
jams on 110th—a local pain, a family affair—
the Starbucks junkie leans against the glass
and laughs into his hand, a cabbie
sits on the hood and smokes, cops
on skates weave through the exhaust,
billy club blunts bumping against their
dark blue thighs. Everyone's on a cell phone,
the air a-buzz with yammer and electricity
as the heart of the city pounds like a man
caught in the crosswalk holding his shoulder,
going down on one knee, then blundering
into Central Park to lean over the addled bridge,
the sooty swans floating under him, grown fat
on cheap white bread. Oh heart, with your
empty pockets and your hat on backwards,
stop looking at yourself in the placid waters.
Someone is sneaking up behind you
in an overcoat lined with watches,
and someone else is holding a cardboard sign
that says: The End Is Here.
—Dorianne Laux (b. 1952), "The Mysterious Human Heart in New York," from The Book of Men, 2011.
Streetwise but foolish, the heart
knows what's good for it but goes
for the dark bar, the beer before noon,
the doughy pretzel hot and salty, tied up
in a Gordian knot. It takes a walk
through Tompkins Square where
the homeless sleep it off on stone benches,
one shrouded body to each gritty sarcophagus.
The streets fill with taxis and trucks,
pinstripes and briefcases, and the subways
spark and sway underground. The sun
is snagged on the Empire State, performing
its one-note song, the citizens below
dragging their shadows down the sidewalk
like sidekicks, spitting into the gutter
as if on cue, as if in a musical,
as if there's no association between the trash
flapping against the chain link and the girl
with her skirt up in the alley. When the traffic
jams on 110th—a local pain, a family affair—
the Starbucks junkie leans against the glass
and laughs into his hand, a cabbie
sits on the hood and smokes, cops
on skates weave through the exhaust,
billy club blunts bumping against their
dark blue thighs. Everyone's on a cell phone,
the air a-buzz with yammer and electricity
as the heart of the city pounds like a man
caught in the crosswalk holding his shoulder,
going down on one knee, then blundering
into Central Park to lean over the addled bridge,
the sooty swans floating under him, grown fat
on cheap white bread. Oh heart, with your
empty pockets and your hat on backwards,
stop looking at yourself in the placid waters.
Someone is sneaking up behind you
in an overcoat lined with watches,
and someone else is holding a cardboard sign
that says: The End Is Here.
—Dorianne Laux (b. 1952), "The Mysterious Human Heart in New York," from The Book of Men, 2011.
Tuesday, April 8, 2014
what I do is me: for that I came
As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies dráw fláme;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.
—Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), "As kingfishers catch fire," undated.
Will I ever get tired of posting Hopkins poems and then waving my hands around in awe and bafflement? Signs point to no. Sometimes I think about his utterly bizarre, completely idiosyncratic, glorious revolution of the sonnet, and then I get happy and sad at the same time. He's not like anybody else before or since, and I can never decide whether or not I think that's a good thing.
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell's
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves—goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying Whát I do is me: for that I came.
Í say móre: the just man justices;
Kéeps gráce: thát keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God's eye what in God's eye he is—
Chríst—for Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men's faces.
—Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), "As kingfishers catch fire," undated.
Will I ever get tired of posting Hopkins poems and then waving my hands around in awe and bafflement? Signs point to no. Sometimes I think about his utterly bizarre, completely idiosyncratic, glorious revolution of the sonnet, and then I get happy and sad at the same time. He's not like anybody else before or since, and I can never decide whether or not I think that's a good thing.
Monday, April 7, 2014
crashing through the iron gates of life
This poem has been in my to-post folder since 2011, which means that
I've been sitting on it for rather a long time. This is a little weird,
because I feel this poem with great frequency and acuteness; but then,
maybe that's just the way this sort of thing is supposed to go.
Maybe it was the fast-moving clouds
or the spring flowers quivering among the dead leaves,
but I knew this was one day I was born to seize—
not just another card in the deck of the year,
but March 19th itself,
looking as clear and fresh as the ten of diamonds.
Living life to the fullest is the only way,
I thought as I sat by a tall window
and tapped my pencil on the dome of a glass paperweight.
To drain the cup of life to the dregs
was a piece of irresistible advice,
I averred as I checked someone's dates
in the Dictionary of National Biography
and later, as I scribbled a few words
on the back of a picture postcard.
Crashing through the iron gates of life
is what it is all about,
I decided as I lay down on the carpet,
locked my hands behind my head,
and considered how unique this day was
and how different I was from the men
of hari-kari for whom it is disgraceful
to end up lying on your back.
Better, they think, to be found facedown
in blood-soaked shirt
than to be discovered with lifeless eyes
fixed on the elegant teak ceiling above you,
and now I can almost hear the silence
of the temple bells and the lighter silence
of the birds hiding in the darkness of a hedge.
—Billy Collins (b. 1941), "Carpe Diem," from Ballistics, 2008.
Maybe it was the fast-moving clouds
or the spring flowers quivering among the dead leaves,
but I knew this was one day I was born to seize—
not just another card in the deck of the year,
but March 19th itself,
looking as clear and fresh as the ten of diamonds.
Living life to the fullest is the only way,
I thought as I sat by a tall window
and tapped my pencil on the dome of a glass paperweight.
To drain the cup of life to the dregs
was a piece of irresistible advice,
I averred as I checked someone's dates
in the Dictionary of National Biography
and later, as I scribbled a few words
on the back of a picture postcard.
Crashing through the iron gates of life
is what it is all about,
I decided as I lay down on the carpet,
locked my hands behind my head,
and considered how unique this day was
and how different I was from the men
of hari-kari for whom it is disgraceful
to end up lying on your back.
Better, they think, to be found facedown
in blood-soaked shirt
than to be discovered with lifeless eyes
fixed on the elegant teak ceiling above you,
and now I can almost hear the silence
of the temple bells and the lighter silence
of the birds hiding in the darkness of a hedge.
—Billy Collins (b. 1941), "Carpe Diem," from Ballistics, 2008.
Sunday, April 6, 2014
here is unfenced existence
Swerving east, from rich industrial shadows
And traffic all night north; swerving through fields
Too thin and thistled to be called meadows,
And now and then a harsh-named halt, that shields
Workmen at dawn; swerving to solitude
Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants,
And the widening river's slow presence,
The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud,
Gathers to the surprise of a large town:
Here domes and statues, spires and cranes cluster
Beside grain-scattered streets, barge-crowded water,
And residents from raw estates, brought down
The dead straight miles by stealing flat-faced trolleys,
Push through plate-glass swing doors to their desires -
Cheap suits, red kitchen-ware, sharp shoes, iced lollies,
Electric mixers, toasters, washers, driers -
A cut-price crowd, urban yet simple, dwelling
Where only salesmen and relations come
Within a terminate and fishy-smelling
Pastoral of ships up streets, the slave museum,
Tattoo-shops, consulates, grim head-scarfed wives;
And out beyond its mortgaged half-built edges
Fast-shadowed wheat-fields, running high as hedges,
Isolate villages, where removed lives
Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands
Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,
Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,
Luminously-peopled air ascends;
And past the poppies bluish neutral distance
Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach
Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence:
Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.
—Philip Larkin (1922-1985), "Here" from The Whitsun Weddings, 1964. (Dates of poem composition: 6 September 1961 to 8 October 1961.)
I compulsively buy poetry books in March and April, which results in me owning things like The Complete Poems of Philip Larkin because it was only $12.50 at the Strand last March. It's a beautiful, sunny, perfect spring day in New York City, and yet, I don't know; I was feeling this poem. I'm listening to Vienna Teng's Aims as I write this up, which seems startling apropos.
Here is Larkin on the poem in 1981, when "asked whether he intended the poem as a brief for retirement, the simpler life": "Oh no, not at all ... well, it depends what you mean by retirement. If you mean not living in London, I suppose it might be interpreted along those lines. I meant it just as a celebration of here, Hull. It's a fascinating area, not quite like anywhere else. So busy, yet so lonely. The poem is frightful to read aloud: the first sentence goes on for twenty-four-and-a-half lines, which is three-quarters of the poem, and the rest is full of consonants." He also called it "a pointless shapeless thing about Hull," which I sort of adore. A+ Larkin. I love the enjambment in this poem so much that I don't even mind that the first sentence goes on for twenty-four-and-a-half lines. (The Complete Poems of Philip Larkin, edited by Archie Burnett (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012), 391-392.)
And traffic all night north; swerving through fields
Too thin and thistled to be called meadows,
And now and then a harsh-named halt, that shields
Workmen at dawn; swerving to solitude
Of skies and scarecrows, haystacks, hares and pheasants,
And the widening river's slow presence,
The piled gold clouds, the shining gull-marked mud,
Gathers to the surprise of a large town:
Here domes and statues, spires and cranes cluster
Beside grain-scattered streets, barge-crowded water,
And residents from raw estates, brought down
The dead straight miles by stealing flat-faced trolleys,
Push through plate-glass swing doors to their desires -
Cheap suits, red kitchen-ware, sharp shoes, iced lollies,
Electric mixers, toasters, washers, driers -
A cut-price crowd, urban yet simple, dwelling
Where only salesmen and relations come
Within a terminate and fishy-smelling
Pastoral of ships up streets, the slave museum,
Tattoo-shops, consulates, grim head-scarfed wives;
And out beyond its mortgaged half-built edges
Fast-shadowed wheat-fields, running high as hedges,
Isolate villages, where removed lives
Loneliness clarifies. Here silence stands
Like heat. Here leaves unnoticed thicken,
Hidden weeds flower, neglected waters quicken,
Luminously-peopled air ascends;
And past the poppies bluish neutral distance
Ends the land suddenly beyond a beach
Of shapes and shingle. Here is unfenced existence:
Facing the sun, untalkative, out of reach.
—Philip Larkin (1922-1985), "Here" from The Whitsun Weddings, 1964. (Dates of poem composition: 6 September 1961 to 8 October 1961.)
I compulsively buy poetry books in March and April, which results in me owning things like The Complete Poems of Philip Larkin because it was only $12.50 at the Strand last March. It's a beautiful, sunny, perfect spring day in New York City, and yet, I don't know; I was feeling this poem. I'm listening to Vienna Teng's Aims as I write this up, which seems startling apropos.
Here is Larkin on the poem in 1981, when "asked whether he intended the poem as a brief for retirement, the simpler life": "Oh no, not at all ... well, it depends what you mean by retirement. If you mean not living in London, I suppose it might be interpreted along those lines. I meant it just as a celebration of here, Hull. It's a fascinating area, not quite like anywhere else. So busy, yet so lonely. The poem is frightful to read aloud: the first sentence goes on for twenty-four-and-a-half lines, which is three-quarters of the poem, and the rest is full of consonants." He also called it "a pointless shapeless thing about Hull," which I sort of adore. A+ Larkin. I love the enjambment in this poem so much that I don't even mind that the first sentence goes on for twenty-four-and-a-half lines. (The Complete Poems of Philip Larkin, edited by Archie Burnett (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2012), 391-392.)
Saturday, April 5, 2014
by many names is thine
Even now that Care which on thy Crowne attends
and with thy happy greatnes dayly growes
Tells mee thrise sacred Queene my Muse offends,
and of respect to thee the line outgoes,
One instant will, or willing can shee lose
I say not reading, but receiving Rimes,
On whom in chiefe dependeth to dispose
what Europe acts in theise most active times?
Yet dare I so, as humblenes may dare
cherish some hope they shall acceptance finde;
not waighing less thy state, lighter thy Care,
but knowing more thy grace, abler thy minde.
What heav'nly powrs thee highest throne assign'de,
assign'd thee goodnes suting that Degree:
and by thy strength thy burthen so defin'de,
To others toile, is Exercise to thee.
Cares though still great, cannot bee greatest still,
Busines most ebb, though Leasure never flowe:
Then these the Postes of Dutie and Goodwill
shall presse to offer what their Senders owe;
Which once in two, now in one Subject goe,
the poorer left, the richer reft awaye:
Who better might (O might ah word of woe.)
have giv'n for mee what I for him defraye.
How can I name whom sighing sighes extend,
and not unstopp my teares eternall spring?
but hee did warpe, I weav'd this webb to end;
the stuffe not ours, our worke no curious thing,
Wherein yet well wee thought the Psalmist King
Now English denizend, though Hebrue borne,
woold to thy musicke undispleased sing,
Oft having worse, without repining worne;
And I the Cloth in both our names present,
A liverie robe to bee bestowed by thee:
small parcell of that undischarged rent,
from which nor paines, nor paiments can us free.
And yet enough to cause our neighbours see
wee will our best, though scanted in our will:
and those nighe feelds where sow'n thy favors bee
unwalthy doo, not elce unworthie till.
for in our worke what bring wee but thine owne?
What English is, by many names is thine.
There humble Lawrells in thy shadowes growne
To garland others woold, themselves repine.
Thy brest the Cabinet, thy seat the shrine,
where Muses hang their vowed memories:
where Wit, where Art, where all that is divine
conceived best, and best defended lies.
Which if men did not (as they doe) confesse,
and wronging worlds woold otherwise consent:
Yet here who mynds so meet a Patrones
for Authors state or writings argument?
A King should onely to a Queene bee sent.
Gods loved choise unto his chosen love:
Devotion to Devotions President:
what all applaud, to her whom none reprove.
And who sees ought, but sees how justly square
his haughtie Ditties to thy glorious daies?
How well beseeming thee his Triumphs are?
his hope, his zeale, his praier, plaint, and praise,
Needles thy person to their height to raise:
lesse need to bend them downe to thy degree:
Theise holy garments each good soule assaies,
some sorting all, all sort to none but thee.
For ev'n thy Rule is painted in his Raigne:
booth cleere in right: both nigh by wrong opprest:
And each at length (man crossing God in vaine)
Possest of place, and each in peace possest.
proud Philistines did interrupt his rest,
The foes of heav'n no lesse have beene thy foes;
Hee with great conquest, though with greater blest;
Thou sure to winn, and hee secure to lose.
Thus hand in hand with him thy glories walke:
but who can trace them where alone they goe?
Of thee two hemispheres on honor talke,
and Lands and seas thy Trophees jointly showe.
The very windes did on thy partie blowe,
and rocks in armes thy foe men eft defie:
But soft my muse, Thy pitch is earthly lowe;
forbeare this heav'n, where onely Eagles flie.
Kings on a Queene enforst their states to lay;
Main-lands for Empire waiting on an Ile;
Men drawn by worth a woman to obay;
one moving all, herselfe unmov'd the while:
Truthes restitution, vanitie exile,
wealth sprung of want, warr held without annoye,
Let subject bee of some inspired stile,
Till then the object of her subjects joye.
Thy utmost can but offer to hir sight
Her handmaids taske, which most her will endeeres;
and pray unto thy paines life from that light
which lively lightsome Court, and Kingdome cheeres,
What wish shee may (farre past hir living Peeres
and Rivall still to Judas Faithfull King)
In more then hee and more triumphant yeares,
Sing what God doth, and doo what men may sing.
—Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, "Even Now That Care," 1599. This is the dedicatory poem to Queen Elizabeth in the Tixall Manuscript of the Sidney translation of the Psalms. I was originally planning to post Mary Sidney's elegy to her brother, today—it's also a prefatory poem to the Sidney Psalter, and is called "To the Angell Spirit of the Most Excellent Sir Philip Sidney"—and I do love that poem; but I love this one rather more, for a lot of reasons.
and with thy happy greatnes dayly growes
Tells mee thrise sacred Queene my Muse offends,
and of respect to thee the line outgoes,
One instant will, or willing can shee lose
I say not reading, but receiving Rimes,
On whom in chiefe dependeth to dispose
what Europe acts in theise most active times?
Yet dare I so, as humblenes may dare
cherish some hope they shall acceptance finde;
not waighing less thy state, lighter thy Care,
but knowing more thy grace, abler thy minde.
What heav'nly powrs thee highest throne assign'de,
assign'd thee goodnes suting that Degree:
and by thy strength thy burthen so defin'de,
To others toile, is Exercise to thee.
Cares though still great, cannot bee greatest still,
Busines most ebb, though Leasure never flowe:
Then these the Postes of Dutie and Goodwill
shall presse to offer what their Senders owe;
Which once in two, now in one Subject goe,
the poorer left, the richer reft awaye:
Who better might (O might ah word of woe.)
have giv'n for mee what I for him defraye.
How can I name whom sighing sighes extend,
and not unstopp my teares eternall spring?
but hee did warpe, I weav'd this webb to end;
the stuffe not ours, our worke no curious thing,
Wherein yet well wee thought the Psalmist King
Now English denizend, though Hebrue borne,
woold to thy musicke undispleased sing,
Oft having worse, without repining worne;
And I the Cloth in both our names present,
A liverie robe to bee bestowed by thee:
small parcell of that undischarged rent,
from which nor paines, nor paiments can us free.
And yet enough to cause our neighbours see
wee will our best, though scanted in our will:
and those nighe feelds where sow'n thy favors bee
unwalthy doo, not elce unworthie till.
for in our worke what bring wee but thine owne?
What English is, by many names is thine.
There humble Lawrells in thy shadowes growne
To garland others woold, themselves repine.
Thy brest the Cabinet, thy seat the shrine,
where Muses hang their vowed memories:
where Wit, where Art, where all that is divine
conceived best, and best defended lies.
Which if men did not (as they doe) confesse,
and wronging worlds woold otherwise consent:
Yet here who mynds so meet a Patrones
for Authors state or writings argument?
A King should onely to a Queene bee sent.
Gods loved choise unto his chosen love:
Devotion to Devotions President:
what all applaud, to her whom none reprove.
And who sees ought, but sees how justly square
his haughtie Ditties to thy glorious daies?
How well beseeming thee his Triumphs are?
his hope, his zeale, his praier, plaint, and praise,
Needles thy person to their height to raise:
lesse need to bend them downe to thy degree:
Theise holy garments each good soule assaies,
some sorting all, all sort to none but thee.
For ev'n thy Rule is painted in his Raigne:
booth cleere in right: both nigh by wrong opprest:
And each at length (man crossing God in vaine)
Possest of place, and each in peace possest.
proud Philistines did interrupt his rest,
The foes of heav'n no lesse have beene thy foes;
Hee with great conquest, though with greater blest;
Thou sure to winn, and hee secure to lose.
Thus hand in hand with him thy glories walke:
but who can trace them where alone they goe?
Of thee two hemispheres on honor talke,
and Lands and seas thy Trophees jointly showe.
The very windes did on thy partie blowe,
and rocks in armes thy foe men eft defie:
But soft my muse, Thy pitch is earthly lowe;
forbeare this heav'n, where onely Eagles flie.
Kings on a Queene enforst their states to lay;
Main-lands for Empire waiting on an Ile;
Men drawn by worth a woman to obay;
one moving all, herselfe unmov'd the while:
Truthes restitution, vanitie exile,
wealth sprung of want, warr held without annoye,
Let subject bee of some inspired stile,
Till then the object of her subjects joye.
Thy utmost can but offer to hir sight
Her handmaids taske, which most her will endeeres;
and pray unto thy paines life from that light
which lively lightsome Court, and Kingdome cheeres,
What wish shee may (farre past hir living Peeres
and Rivall still to Judas Faithfull King)
In more then hee and more triumphant yeares,
Sing what God doth, and doo what men may sing.
—Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, "Even Now That Care," 1599. This is the dedicatory poem to Queen Elizabeth in the Tixall Manuscript of the Sidney translation of the Psalms. I was originally planning to post Mary Sidney's elegy to her brother, today—it's also a prefatory poem to the Sidney Psalter, and is called "To the Angell Spirit of the Most Excellent Sir Philip Sidney"—and I do love that poem; but I love this one rather more, for a lot of reasons.
Friday, April 4, 2014
these boys of light
I
I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
II
But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.
We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.
We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ho the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.
III
I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
—Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), "I see the boys of summer," Eighteen Poems, 1934. Thomas was twenty when he published this poem, and I have never quite been able to decide whether that makes me love it more, or makes me want to roll my eyes a bit. Both, probably.
One of my favorite things about National Poetry Month is those moments when I realize that even after seven years, I have never posted that poem. Consequently, it's hard to imagine ever getting tired of doing this. So anyway, here's a poem I love that's a bit of a classic, and that I've never posted before.
I see the boys of summer in their ruin
Lay the gold tithings barren,
Setting no store by harvest, freeze the soils;
There in their heat the winter floods
Of frozen loves they fetch their girls,
And drown the cargoed apples in their tides.
These boys of light are curdlers in their folly,
Sour the boiling honey;
The jacks of frost they finger in the hives;
There in the sun the frigid threads
Of doubt and dark they feed their nerves;
The signal moon is zero in their voids.
I see the summer children in their mothers
Split up the brawned womb's weathers,
Divide the night and day with fairy thumbs;
There in the deep with quartered shades
Of sun and moon they paint their dams
As sunlight paints the shelling of their heads.
I see that from these boys shall men of nothing
Stature by seedy shifting,
Or lame the air with leaping from its hearts;
There from their hearts the dogdayed pulse
Of love and light bursts in their throats.
O see the pulse of summer in the ice.
II
But seasons must be challenged or they totter
Into a chiming quarter
Where, punctual as death, we ring the stars;
There, in his night, the black-tongued bells
The sleepy man of winter pulls,
Nor blows back moon-and-midnight as she blows.
We are the dark derniers let us summon
Death from a summer woman,
A muscling life from lovers in their cramp
From the fair dead who flush the sea
The bright-eyed worm on Davy's lamp
And from the planted womb the man of straw.
We summer boys in this four-winded spinning,
Green of the seaweeds' iron
Hold up the noisy sea and drop her birds,
Pick the world's ball of wave and froth
To choke the deserts with her tides,
And comb the county gardens for a wreath.
In spring we cross our foreheads with the holly,
Heigh ho the blood and berry,
And nail the merry squires to the trees;
Here love's damp muscle dries and dies
Here break a kiss in no love's quarry,
O see the poles of promise in the boys.
III
I see you boys of summer in your ruin.
Man in his maggots barren.
And boys are full and foreign to the pouch.
I am the man your father was.
We are the sons of flint and pitch.
O see the poles are kissing as they cross.
—Dylan Thomas (1914-1953), "I see the boys of summer," Eighteen Poems, 1934. Thomas was twenty when he published this poem, and I have never quite been able to decide whether that makes me love it more, or makes me want to roll my eyes a bit. Both, probably.
One of my favorite things about National Poetry Month is those moments when I realize that even after seven years, I have never posted that poem. Consequently, it's hard to imagine ever getting tired of doing this. So anyway, here's a poem I love that's a bit of a classic, and that I've never posted before.
this is the art of living with a ticking heart
It's definitely not April 3 anymore, but I had the longest day ever and then I went to see Captain America: Winter Soldier, and I'm still awake, so here is a poem for April 3.
(I have a lot of feelings about Winter Soldier. Too many to articulate right now. I need to see it again, and then I maybe need to write about it, but, uh, yeah. I was fairly emotionally shattered before I went to see the movie. Now I am basically a pile of smoking emotional wreckage.)
Burn all your bridges
just so that you can build them again
with thicker ropes.
Hurt all the people you love
and then commit every felony to win them back.
Drown yourself in bleach until not even Heaven's light
can compare to how bright you can burn.
Turn yourself inside out
and paint your organs the color of what you see
in your dreams.
This is the art of
living with a ticking heart, a grenade you
throw through windows to make a
point that language
has no room for.
This is how I destroyed you.
And this,
is how I kept you alive.
Dig yourself a ditch, six
feet deep, and bury everything that you've ever
said, everything that you've never
meant, and everything that has
burned you and left you with nothing
but ash.
—Shinji Moon, "Advice From Dionysus," 2013. As I learned when I went to look for a citation for this poem, which I got originally from marina, I discovered that it can be sourced to the poet's tumblr. So, you know, gotta love the modern world. I should probably buy her book.
(I have a lot of feelings about Winter Soldier. Too many to articulate right now. I need to see it again, and then I maybe need to write about it, but, uh, yeah. I was fairly emotionally shattered before I went to see the movie. Now I am basically a pile of smoking emotional wreckage.)
Burn all your bridges
just so that you can build them again
with thicker ropes.
Hurt all the people you love
and then commit every felony to win them back.
Drown yourself in bleach until not even Heaven's light
can compare to how bright you can burn.
Turn yourself inside out
and paint your organs the color of what you see
in your dreams.
This is the art of
living with a ticking heart, a grenade you
throw through windows to make a
point that language
has no room for.
This is how I destroyed you.
And this,
is how I kept you alive.
Dig yourself a ditch, six
feet deep, and bury everything that you've ever
said, everything that you've never
meant, and everything that has
burned you and left you with nothing
but ash.
—Shinji Moon, "Advice From Dionysus," 2013. As I learned when I went to look for a citation for this poem, which I got originally from marina, I discovered that it can be sourced to the poet's tumblr. So, you know, gotta love the modern world. I should probably buy her book.
Wednesday, April 2, 2014
explain how poetry
My platonic wife is having a really rough day with academia, and my
roommate is taking her oral exam as I write this, so this one is for
them. It packs a punch.
You must prepare your bosom for his knife,
said Portia to Antonio in which
of Shakespeare's Comedies? Who killed his wife,
insane with jealousy? And which Scots witch
knew Something wicked this way comes? Who said
Is this a dagger which I see? Which Tragedy?
Whose blade was drawn which led to Tybalt's death?
To whom did dying Caesar say Et tu? And why?
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark - do you
know what this means? Explain how poetry
pursues the human like the smitten moon
above the weeping, laughing earth; how we
make prayers of it. Nothing will come of nothing:
speak again. Said by which King? You may begin.
—Carol Ann Duffy (b. 1955), "Mrs Schofield's GCSE" from The Bees, 2011. This whole collection is great; I bought it because it's called The Bees and because I had read like two Carol Ann Duffy poems and liked them in the past, but now I totally love her. Plus, you kind of have to love a sonnet that is this committed to slant and internal rhymes.
You must prepare your bosom for his knife,
said Portia to Antonio in which
of Shakespeare's Comedies? Who killed his wife,
insane with jealousy? And which Scots witch
knew Something wicked this way comes? Who said
Is this a dagger which I see? Which Tragedy?
Whose blade was drawn which led to Tybalt's death?
To whom did dying Caesar say Et tu? And why?
Something is rotten in the state of Denmark - do you
know what this means? Explain how poetry
pursues the human like the smitten moon
above the weeping, laughing earth; how we
make prayers of it. Nothing will come of nothing:
speak again. Said by which King? You may begin.
—Carol Ann Duffy (b. 1955), "Mrs Schofield's GCSE" from The Bees, 2011. This whole collection is great; I bought it because it's called The Bees and because I had read like two Carol Ann Duffy poems and liked them in the past, but now I totally love her. Plus, you kind of have to love a sonnet that is this committed to slant and internal rhymes.
Tuesday, April 1, 2014
yearly, down this hill
I am so out of practice at actually posting original content on the
internet that I almost forgot it was April. In my defense, it's been a
long day, and a longer month, and an even longer winter. I feel like it
cannot possibly be April, because despite today's lovely weather, it will never be spring again. Let's just hope I'm wrong.
So anyway, welcome to National Poetry Month. This the eighth year I have done National Poetry Month here at my (various) journal(s), making National Poetry Month longer-lasting in my life than any romantic relationship I have ever had. This is both awesome and slightly terrifying.
The rules: There will be something approximating a poem a day from today until the end of the month. I am both eclectic and predictable. I try not to repeat poets within the course of the month, and I try not to repeat poems I have posted in previous years, but I definitely do not promise not to break my own rules.
April surprised me, this year, so I think Edna is probably the right place to begin.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "Spring" from Second April, 1921.
So anyway, welcome to National Poetry Month. This the eighth year I have done National Poetry Month here at my (various) journal(s), making National Poetry Month longer-lasting in my life than any romantic relationship I have ever had. This is both awesome and slightly terrifying.
The rules: There will be something approximating a poem a day from today until the end of the month. I am both eclectic and predictable. I try not to repeat poets within the course of the month, and I try not to repeat poems I have posted in previous years, but I definitely do not promise not to break my own rules.
April surprised me, this year, so I think Edna is probably the right place to begin.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
—Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950), "Spring" from Second April, 1921.
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