That's me and my not-my-poem poem.
Sunday, September 14, 2014
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Handfuls Two. 7.16.14
Handfuls
Someone evaluated
this city, making note of
class conflicts, the looked ahead
for more optimistic
potentials,
and then
elevated
them.
I've reviewed and assessed
the basic situation – Love's
the only ideal answer.
Someone thinks marriage is too
akin to commodification
so she evaluates the time alone,
trying with limited success to
paraphrase
intermingling signs
without losing value.
Several people think love's
impossible or awful –
they stomp around instead of walking
and chew the air ferociously.
Someone notices them,
and she's too disappointed to speak.
Someone evaluated
this city, making note of
class conflicts, the looked ahead
for more optimistic
potentials,
and then
elevated
them.
I've reviewed and assessed
the basic situation – Love's
the only ideal answer.
Someone thinks marriage is too
akin to commodification
so she evaluates the time alone,
trying with limited success to
paraphrase
intermingling signs
without losing value.
Several people think love's
impossible or awful –
they stomp around instead of walking
and chew the air ferociously.
Someone notices them,
and she's too disappointed to speak.
Wednesday, January 23, 2013
The Money Poem v. 2.5
Commercial W(h)or(e)ds
You say there's no
money in poetry:
that is generally
the case of course
but you can put
money in poems
and cash up your
words
so the money's the poem's,
the poem's the whore
works
taken from granted
the money for
poems for hire for
commerce in union
in faith and interloped
disciplines this money
poem's the work
the most all of it
the worst.
You say there's no
money in poetry:
that is generally
the case of course
but you can put
money in poems
and cash up your
words
so the money's the poem's,
the poem's the whore
works
taken from granted
the money for
poems for hire for
commerce in union
in faith and interloped
disciplines this money
poem's the work
the most all of it
the worst.
Monday, December 10, 2012
12.10.12 three.
Translate me.
Je suis nouveau a cette chose.
C'est la seule chose
que
j'ai choisi
Je crois que
j'ai bien fait
pour cette journee.
Je suis nouveau a cette chose.
C'est la seule chose
que
j'ai choisi
Je crois que
j'ai bien fait
pour cette journee.
Today's poem new, two.
Catapult.
Starting with today
I know everything
I need
but
I can't quite
find myself
always
being patient
enough to receive
everything
in proper order.
Realizing this concerns
me
as
I think about what
I'm supposed to be.
But then I stop & see
that I'm doing everything
one person can do to
be complete & free.
Starting with today
I know everything
I need
but
I can't quite
find myself
always
being patient
enough to receive
everything
in proper order.
Realizing this concerns
me
as
I think about what
I'm supposed to be.
But then I stop & see
that I'm doing everything
one person can do to
be complete & free.
New poem for the birthday of Henry Wilson Ramsey (and Emily Dickinson).
Starting on Today.
Fade in --
for Emily.
The shyness of one
& another --
for Henry,
the world's sweetest boy --
I did that, that one
beautiful thing that
became another &
another
&
another.
I know this as I breathe
in & out & in
and look about at the
world
& see it as good & lovely.
Wednesday, November 21, 2012
Unrhetorical
I’m not unable to articulate how I feel, exactly. But when I think about what it’s like to be…
“Hey, I’ve got nothing to do but smile…
…. here I am.”
“After all it was a great big world with lots of places to run to…
One little promise she was gonna keeeeeeep …”
En francais.
Twilight, y’all’s really real and amazing.
Think about the Iron and Wine Song
And
Also
Frank O’Hara.
I’m poems and poems are me
Usually.
Smoke it up and consider why you’re doing what
You do.
Sometimes you have to simply make a book
To explain your feelings
And sometimes
You
Don’t.
Roman numerals.
In memory of my fucking feelings.
(fill the page but don’t waste even a little papier)
Caroline Ruth is a perfect anagram.:
Me.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
It's maybe an emergency.
Meditations in an Emergency
by Frank O'Hara
Am I to become profligate as if I were a blonde? Or religious as if I were French?
Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there'll be nothing left with which to venture forth.
Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else for a change?
I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.
Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves.
However, I have never clogged myself with the praises of pastoral life, nor with nostalgia for an innocent past of perverted acts in pastures. No. One need never leave the confines of New York to get all the greenery one wishes—I can't even enjoy a blade of grass unless I know there's a subway handy, or a record store or some other sign that people do not totally regret life. It is more important to affirm the least sincere; the clouds get enough attention as it is and even they continue to pass. Do they know what they're missing? Uh huh.
My eyes are vague blue, like the sky, and change all the time; they are indiscriminate but fleeting, entirely specific and disloyal, so that no one trusts me. I am always looking away. Or again at something after it has given me up. It makes me restless and that makes me unhappy, but I cannot keep them still. If only i had grey, green, black, brown, yellow eyes; I would stay at home and do something. It's not that I'm curious. On the contrary, I am bored but it's my duty to be attentive, I am needed by things as the sky must be above the earth. And lately, so great has their anxiety become, I can spare myself little sleep.
Now there is only one man I like to kiss when he is unshaven. Heterosexuality! you are inexorably approaching. (How best discourage her?)
St. Serapion, I wrap myself in the robes of your whiteness which is like midnight in Dostoevsky. How I am to become a legend, my dear? I've tried love, but that hides you in the bosom of another and I am always springing forth from it like the lotus—the ecstasy of always bursting forth! (but one must not be distracted by it!) or like a hyacinth, "to keep the filth of life away," yes, there, even in the heart, where the filth is pumped in and slanders and pollutes and determines. I will my will, though I may become famous for a mysterious vacancy in that department, that greenhouse.
Destroy yourself, if you don't know!
It is easy to be beautiful; it is difficult to appear so. I admire you, beloved, for the trap you've set. It's like a final chapter no one reads because the plot is over.
"Fanny Brown is run away—scampered off with a Cornet of Horse; I do love that little Minx, & hope She may be happy, tho' She has vexed me by this Exploit a little too.—Poor silly Cecchina! or F:B: as we used to call her.—I wish She had a good Whipping and 10,000 pounds."—Mrs. Thrale.
I've got to get out of here. I choose a piece of shawl and my dirtiest suntans. I'll be back, I'll re-emerge, defeated, from the valley; you don't want me to go where you go, so I go where you don't want me to. It's only afternoon, there's a lot ahead. There won't be any mail downstairs. Turning, I spit in the lock and the knob turns.
Thursday, May 3, 2012
Monday, April 25, 2011
Vanillanellish
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
before I'd let you extinguish this.
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
We wrote our book, collaboratively excellent.
Early on we saw the exceptions we made.
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
The difficult task before us seemed fun –
I was quite the fan of you, you liked pizza.
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
Your friends saw the skip in your step, exuberance.
You promised me brilliance, summation, a life.
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
I'd not thought we'd visit a darkness like this.
You did, but defeated, desiccated the void.
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
Wait, I see you climbing up without me –
How could you think I'd wanted an end?
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
before I'd let you extinguish this.
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
We wrote our book, collaboratively excellent.
Early on we saw the exceptions we made.
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
The difficult task before us seemed fun –
I was quite the fan of you, you liked pizza.
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
Your friends saw the skip in your step, exuberance.
You promised me brilliance, summation, a life.
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
I'd not thought we'd visit a darkness like this.
You did, but defeated, desiccated the void.
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
Wait, I see you climbing up without me –
How could you think I'd wanted an end?
I knew at once I'd alphabetize the oceans
You sing the consequence but sign your hope.
Monday, March 28, 2011
One explanation re: Mina Loy.
On Friday someone asked me how I made sense of Mina Loy. Instead of being a jerk, I replied that I just got her, and I didn't quite know why. (The real reason is that I have decent knowledge of the English language and also philosophy, poetry, and logical theory, probably.) But to offer an example, I wrote this:
Peculiar Machinery
In “Human Cylinders,” Mina Loy charts a sexual encounter seemingly void of sentimentality and tenderness. This Futurist affirmation of men as machines begins by lauding a mechanical, structured approach to human sexuality, reducing sexual experience to an intellectual correspondence. Loy acknowledges the stereotypical dichotomy between a masculine desire for intellectual transcendence and a feminine tendency toward emotionality. In the Futurist model, the masculine volition strikes out into infinity, as the feminine delves inside itself and wallows in the depths of sentimentality. While Loy may have intended this to be an argument for a Futuristic rejection of the irrationality of emotion, a closer reading suggests the opposite. Loy offers, at most, a wavering assertion that humans should emulate machines when faced with the potential for romance. More likely, though, Loy seems unconvinced that the kind of emotional detachment described is either possible or rewarding. Subtle rejections of the “simplification of men” permeate the text, so Loy’s argument seems either pregnant with contradictions or cleverly crafted to crack itself open. In a poem that finally champions complexity over certitude, Loy seems to assert that neither extreme is ideal and that no human relationship can be governed by such strict rules.
The central image of the poem, the cylinder, immediately sexualizes the poem by evoking the image of a pumping piston moving under fluid pressure. The human cylinders, powerful machines, meet in the first stanza to establish their relationship. The “enervating dust” surrounds them, weakening their vitality and clouding their vision. It encases the cylinders, yet keeps them separate, as “each” is wrapped closer. They float among the “litter” of dreariness on a “sunless afternoon,” in a flavorless, dull landscape. These first lines reduce human experience to an existence of unfeeling automatons, each separate and alone. Usually a poetic sexual encounter begins with graceful intimations of adoration, while this couple lacks any semblance of feeling. In startling opposition to romantic conventions, these lovers begin as sexualized machines looking for mechanical connection.
The “mystery of singularity” adds curious complexity, as “singularity” has multiple meanings that muddle the point. At first, Loy may just be musing upon the “mystery” of being a solitary, separate being. The connotations of physics, however, should not be ignored, especially given the plethora of scientific language and imagery in the poem. In this scientific context, singularity refers to the point at which matter becomes infinite and space and time become infinitely distorted. Similarly, singularity in mathematics becomes a situation in which a function takes on every complex value infinitely often. The introduction of such complicated phenomena could not have been coincidental, as the poem thrives on a tension between the simple and the complex. The contradictory meanings of this word mirror the “mystery” Loy herself plays with in this poem. The concepts of oneness and the infinite build upon one another as the lines become distorted.
The final lines of the stanza introduce the problematic into the simplified sexual relationship, as the words make a claim they fail to prove:
And at least two of us
Loved a very little
Without seeking
To Know if our two miseries
In the lucid rush-together of automatons
Could form one opulent well-being
If the “two” loved only “a very little” and “without seeking” that “opulent well-being,” there would be no reason for the romanticized description of mutual love. The possibility of their union elicits particularly rich description for a mere afterthought. As Loy introduces this overly protesting image, one is still left with the possibility that the “automatons” form that richly abundant state of comfort.
The “simplifications of men” consummate their physicality in a “frenzied” joining of “intellect,” “leaning brow to brow” rather than heart to heart. However, the space after “brow to brow” begs the question of what was omitted. Perhaps the space allows these simple machines to forge past that “abyss of the potential” that surely must be the trap of emotional attachment. Maybe they believe that if they don’t acknowledge emotional attachment, it will cease to exist. The “abyss” of the awfulness of human emotion holds that aforementioned “potential” of the formation of the one “opulent well-being” from their “two.” They cannot even allow their breath to combine because the “concordance in respiration” would encourage a kind of agreement in spirit. They fight to remain separate, as that “concordance” causes shame. The “absence of corresponding” connotes a lack of harmony between the sense organs: neither responds to the other’s needs. “Reciprocity,” a word also used to describe trade agreements between nations, brings a no-nonsense approach to “conception” and “expression.” The “two” may literally conceive a child in their union, but it remains abstract and detached from sentimentality.
As the machines separate, the product of their physicality is remote and strange. “Each” of the two “extrudes” beyond the realm of the “tangible” and insignificant “trail of speculation” a separate being. The female becomes the “whining beast” who desires to “slink” inward to return to the past. She seeks refuge in a snug, womb-like “burrow,” for pure physicality proves painful and unfulfilling for her. The male, on the other hand, sends out a “tentacle of intuition” into the infiniteness of space. He appears to shoot out unharmed, “elastic” and vital, but is left to “quiver” alone in space. He only looks invincible; he allows his fear to show far away from human judgment. Both machines express a vulnerable being, and both end up alone in their “miseries.”
The final stanza offers a resolution of sorts to the dueling ideologies of the poem. The resolution, however, leaves no certain answer. The “absolute,” the final, decisive basis of all thought or being, is impartial and “Routs” that which aims to simplify. The “problematic” must remain so. The “solution” would “destroy the universe” because no easy solution exists. The “polemic,” who displays blind certitude and stubbornness, simplifies any situation to strengthen his argument. This simplification renders the world a false construct, helping “each” to make sense of the confusion only in the short run. The simplification strips experience of its richness, and can “destroy” the beauty it exudes. Loy likens the infinite complexity of the universe to the infiniteness within the human experience, and embraces this complexity without attempting to understand it. The abstract nature of the text only heightens this argument. As she illustrates the beautiful ambiguity of language, she encourages her reader to accept the ambiguous. Her poem exemplifies a clear advocacy of the difficult, because the perfection of the universe lies in its boundlessness.
Peculiar Machinery
In “Human Cylinders,” Mina Loy charts a sexual encounter seemingly void of sentimentality and tenderness. This Futurist affirmation of men as machines begins by lauding a mechanical, structured approach to human sexuality, reducing sexual experience to an intellectual correspondence. Loy acknowledges the stereotypical dichotomy between a masculine desire for intellectual transcendence and a feminine tendency toward emotionality. In the Futurist model, the masculine volition strikes out into infinity, as the feminine delves inside itself and wallows in the depths of sentimentality. While Loy may have intended this to be an argument for a Futuristic rejection of the irrationality of emotion, a closer reading suggests the opposite. Loy offers, at most, a wavering assertion that humans should emulate machines when faced with the potential for romance. More likely, though, Loy seems unconvinced that the kind of emotional detachment described is either possible or rewarding. Subtle rejections of the “simplification of men” permeate the text, so Loy’s argument seems either pregnant with contradictions or cleverly crafted to crack itself open. In a poem that finally champions complexity over certitude, Loy seems to assert that neither extreme is ideal and that no human relationship can be governed by such strict rules.
The central image of the poem, the cylinder, immediately sexualizes the poem by evoking the image of a pumping piston moving under fluid pressure. The human cylinders, powerful machines, meet in the first stanza to establish their relationship. The “enervating dust” surrounds them, weakening their vitality and clouding their vision. It encases the cylinders, yet keeps them separate, as “each” is wrapped closer. They float among the “litter” of dreariness on a “sunless afternoon,” in a flavorless, dull landscape. These first lines reduce human experience to an existence of unfeeling automatons, each separate and alone. Usually a poetic sexual encounter begins with graceful intimations of adoration, while this couple lacks any semblance of feeling. In startling opposition to romantic conventions, these lovers begin as sexualized machines looking for mechanical connection.
The “mystery of singularity” adds curious complexity, as “singularity” has multiple meanings that muddle the point. At first, Loy may just be musing upon the “mystery” of being a solitary, separate being. The connotations of physics, however, should not be ignored, especially given the plethora of scientific language and imagery in the poem. In this scientific context, singularity refers to the point at which matter becomes infinite and space and time become infinitely distorted. Similarly, singularity in mathematics becomes a situation in which a function takes on every complex value infinitely often. The introduction of such complicated phenomena could not have been coincidental, as the poem thrives on a tension between the simple and the complex. The contradictory meanings of this word mirror the “mystery” Loy herself plays with in this poem. The concepts of oneness and the infinite build upon one another as the lines become distorted.
The final lines of the stanza introduce the problematic into the simplified sexual relationship, as the words make a claim they fail to prove:
And at least two of us
Loved a very little
Without seeking
To Know if our two miseries
In the lucid rush-together of automatons
Could form one opulent well-being
If the “two” loved only “a very little” and “without seeking” that “opulent well-being,” there would be no reason for the romanticized description of mutual love. The possibility of their union elicits particularly rich description for a mere afterthought. As Loy introduces this overly protesting image, one is still left with the possibility that the “automatons” form that richly abundant state of comfort.
The “simplifications of men” consummate their physicality in a “frenzied” joining of “intellect,” “leaning brow to brow” rather than heart to heart. However, the space after “brow to brow” begs the question of what was omitted. Perhaps the space allows these simple machines to forge past that “abyss of the potential” that surely must be the trap of emotional attachment. Maybe they believe that if they don’t acknowledge emotional attachment, it will cease to exist. The “abyss” of the awfulness of human emotion holds that aforementioned “potential” of the formation of the one “opulent well-being” from their “two.” They cannot even allow their breath to combine because the “concordance in respiration” would encourage a kind of agreement in spirit. They fight to remain separate, as that “concordance” causes shame. The “absence of corresponding” connotes a lack of harmony between the sense organs: neither responds to the other’s needs. “Reciprocity,” a word also used to describe trade agreements between nations, brings a no-nonsense approach to “conception” and “expression.” The “two” may literally conceive a child in their union, but it remains abstract and detached from sentimentality.
As the machines separate, the product of their physicality is remote and strange. “Each” of the two “extrudes” beyond the realm of the “tangible” and insignificant “trail of speculation” a separate being. The female becomes the “whining beast” who desires to “slink” inward to return to the past. She seeks refuge in a snug, womb-like “burrow,” for pure physicality proves painful and unfulfilling for her. The male, on the other hand, sends out a “tentacle of intuition” into the infiniteness of space. He appears to shoot out unharmed, “elastic” and vital, but is left to “quiver” alone in space. He only looks invincible; he allows his fear to show far away from human judgment. Both machines express a vulnerable being, and both end up alone in their “miseries.”
The final stanza offers a resolution of sorts to the dueling ideologies of the poem. The resolution, however, leaves no certain answer. The “absolute,” the final, decisive basis of all thought or being, is impartial and “Routs” that which aims to simplify. The “problematic” must remain so. The “solution” would “destroy the universe” because no easy solution exists. The “polemic,” who displays blind certitude and stubbornness, simplifies any situation to strengthen his argument. This simplification renders the world a false construct, helping “each” to make sense of the confusion only in the short run. The simplification strips experience of its richness, and can “destroy” the beauty it exudes. Loy likens the infinite complexity of the universe to the infiniteness within the human experience, and embraces this complexity without attempting to understand it. The abstract nature of the text only heightens this argument. As she illustrates the beautiful ambiguity of language, she encourages her reader to accept the ambiguous. Her poem exemplifies a clear advocacy of the difficult, because the perfection of the universe lies in its boundlessness.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Insel, Insel, and one poem blue.
1. His very personality taking the form of a question mark, it would have shown a lack of perspicacity when intentionally confronted with a self-composed conundrum, not to attempt unobserved, the intriguer, underrated.
2. Yet, like all who hav to do with any form of magic, he apparently had lost some of his specific gravity.
3. On Blue (gravity)
Sits alone with me while I'm thinking of you.
Eats only silence, drinks often beer.
Contemplative, we think of many things together,
But, alarmingly, we think of nothing collaboratively.
Together, we often feel alone, like the tree and the boy,
but it's home.
You pull us together, as we drift through today.
We think of tomorrow, but hope's still astray.
I rhyme when I want to; he speaks when I sing.
Love's not an altogether precarious thing.
Slanted, we feel fine, but straight too aligned,
Wishing, we love us, praying we find
That nothing in motion can tear you away,
and wanting to see you we'll stay
here today.
Rhythm can help us – we've shown you,
at least, but music is nothing for
gravity to meet. Competing we
lose you, you love us as one. He sees
you, I breath you, she holds you. She's
Everything we hoped for, and all that
you know. You became more than perfect,
Like nothing else grows. You smile and we
love life, our journey, our songs. You
smile and it makes us decide we're not wrong
to love one another and love you still more, to
take like we gave life for granted no --
Eight times we could tell you, nine times
We could play.
Ten reasons you ground us, one poem per day.
These things we should give you.
These songs we should write.
These words take forever --
We wish they were right.
They're wrong, not enough for you,
Wrong because true.
They're taking forever, forgiveness
must do. You know more than I do,
we all feel the same. Forever, we'll play this. Forever the game.
2. Yet, like all who hav to do with any form of magic, he apparently had lost some of his specific gravity.
3. On Blue (gravity)
Sits alone with me while I'm thinking of you.
Eats only silence, drinks often beer.
Contemplative, we think of many things together,
But, alarmingly, we think of nothing collaboratively.
Together, we often feel alone, like the tree and the boy,
but it's home.
You pull us together, as we drift through today.
We think of tomorrow, but hope's still astray.
I rhyme when I want to; he speaks when I sing.
Love's not an altogether precarious thing.
Slanted, we feel fine, but straight too aligned,
Wishing, we love us, praying we find
That nothing in motion can tear you away,
and wanting to see you we'll stay
here today.
Rhythm can help us – we've shown you,
at least, but music is nothing for
gravity to meet. Competing we
lose you, you love us as one. He sees
you, I breath you, she holds you. She's
Everything we hoped for, and all that
you know. You became more than perfect,
Like nothing else grows. You smile and we
love life, our journey, our songs. You
smile and it makes us decide we're not wrong
to love one another and love you still more, to
take like we gave life for granted no --
Eight times we could tell you, nine times
We could play.
Ten reasons you ground us, one poem per day.
These things we should give you.
These songs we should write.
These words take forever --
We wish they were right.
They're wrong, not enough for you,
Wrong because true.
They're taking forever, forgiveness
must do. You know more than I do,
we all feel the same. Forever, we'll play this. Forever the game.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Three poems old, one poem new.
Derek Walcott, from Sea Grapes (1976):
"The Fist"
The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp
brightness; but it tightens
again. When have I ever not loved
the pain of love? But this has moved
past love to mania. This has the strong
clench of the madman, this is
gripping the ledge of unreason, before
plunging howling into the abyss.
Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.
"Love After Love"
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self,
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart.
Take down the love-letters from the bookshelf
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
**************************
"Command If and Only If"
Catch your poison
Pick your prison
Give a person
Wonder whys.
If you tame them, they will take you.
If he hates you, promise lies.
If you name
the spot
the difference
I will give you
something more.
If he hates the spot
we gave him
We can simply
Shut the door.
Truth precedes you,
Love believes you,
You alone are something more.
Never knowing,
Always perfect,
You, my you,
you are adored.
**************************
Penelope Shuttle:
"Outgrown"
It is both sad and a relief to fold so carefully
her outgrown clothes and line up the little worn shoes
of childhood, so prudent, scuffed and particular.
It is both happy and horrible to send them galloping
back tappity-tap along the mist chill path into the past.
It is both a freedom and a prison, to be outgrown
by her as she towers over me as thin as a sequin
in her doc martens and her pretty skirt
because just as I work out how to be a mother
She stops being a child.
"The Fist"
The fist clenched round my heart
loosens a little, and I gasp
brightness; but it tightens
again. When have I ever not loved
the pain of love? But this has moved
past love to mania. This has the strong
clench of the madman, this is
gripping the ledge of unreason, before
plunging howling into the abyss.
Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.
"Love After Love"
The time will come
when, with elation,
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your mirror,
and each will smile at the other's welcome,
and say sit here. Eat.
You will love again the stranger who was your self,
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart.
Take down the love-letters from the bookshelf
the photographs, the desperate notes,
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life.
**************************
"Command If and Only If"
Catch your poison
Pick your prison
Give a person
Wonder whys.
If you tame them, they will take you.
If he hates you, promise lies.
If you name
the spot
the difference
I will give you
something more.
If he hates the spot
we gave him
We can simply
Shut the door.
Truth precedes you,
Love believes you,
You alone are something more.
Never knowing,
Always perfect,
You, my you,
you are adored.
**************************
Penelope Shuttle:
"Outgrown"
It is both sad and a relief to fold so carefully
her outgrown clothes and line up the little worn shoes
of childhood, so prudent, scuffed and particular.
It is both happy and horrible to send them galloping
back tappity-tap along the mist chill path into the past.
It is both a freedom and a prison, to be outgrown
by her as she towers over me as thin as a sequin
in her doc martens and her pretty skirt
because just as I work out how to be a mother
She stops being a child.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Heaney's poetics.
From Seamus Heaney's "Feeling into Words," expressing his view of poetry, invites us to see:
"...poetry as divination, poetry as revelation of the self to the self, as restoration of the culture to itself; poems as elements of continuity, with the aura and authenticity of archeological finds, where the buried shard has an importance that is not diminished by the importance of the buried city; poetry as a dig, a dig for finds that end up being plants...
Finding a voice means that you can get your own feeling into your own words and that your words have the feel of you about them; and I believe that it may not even be a metaphor, for a poetic voice is probably very intimately connected with the poet's natural voice, the voice that he hears as the ideal speaker of the lines he is making up...
Traditionally an oracle speaks in riddles, yielding its truths in disguise, offering its insights cunningly. And in the practice of poetry, there is corresponding occasion of disguise, a protean, chameleon moment when the lump in the throat takes protective colouring in the new element of thought..."
"...poetry as divination, poetry as revelation of the self to the self, as restoration of the culture to itself; poems as elements of continuity, with the aura and authenticity of archeological finds, where the buried shard has an importance that is not diminished by the importance of the buried city; poetry as a dig, a dig for finds that end up being plants...
Finding a voice means that you can get your own feeling into your own words and that your words have the feel of you about them; and I believe that it may not even be a metaphor, for a poetic voice is probably very intimately connected with the poet's natural voice, the voice that he hears as the ideal speaker of the lines he is making up...
Traditionally an oracle speaks in riddles, yielding its truths in disguise, offering its insights cunningly. And in the practice of poetry, there is corresponding occasion of disguise, a protean, chameleon moment when the lump in the throat takes protective colouring in the new element of thought..."
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
John Berryman, Philip Larkin, Hart Crane, Ulysses.
John Berryman
The Dream Songs:
Alliterative, graceful, delicious... I didn't appreciate Berryman's verse until about seventeen minutes ago. I thought it was all fine, and liked that a prominent figure is a guy called Henry, but I never remembered anything especially resonant or different about it other than "dreaminess." Now, though, it seems refined and carefully orchestrated. Also, his use of space and object, the balance between feeling and sound... it all seems remarkable to me today. Lines like:
There sat down, once a thing on Henry's heart,
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
(29)
Here we have so much of Henry, his feelings, his intimate thoughts, his body -- but we also have much more than him. We have time and song, history and circumstance, & more, of course, the symbol. And everyone loves an ampersand or few. Also, it's tough to distinguish between hopefulness and melancholy, between withholding and disclosure. It's both touching and removed, honest and discrete. In any case, it's still dreamy.
Henry's Understanding:
What I like about this poem is the absence of Henry, or the existence of his figure and symbol as collapsed with (yet separate from) the self. The blurry relationship between narrator, subject, and object tends to be emphasized throughout Berryman's work, but this little poem continues to strike and perplex me. It ends like this:
It only takes a few minutes to make a man.
A concentration upon now & here.
Suddenly, unlike Bach,
& horribly, unlike Bach, it occurred to me
that one night, instead of my warm pajamas,
I'd take off all my clothes
& cross the damp cold lawn & down the bluff
into the terrible water & walk forever
under it out toward the island.
(1972)
I like the look toward the future, a wish, more than just a dream, but a palpable and carefully articulated desire. It feels eerie, but filled with wonder and reverence.
Philip Larkin:
For me, Philip Larkin's always been a little meh. I'm not especially opposed, but I've never been convinced he's any better than Frost or more interesting than someone like Moore or Auden. I even tend to rope him in with Ted Hughes and Dylan, and nobody wants to be in that boring company. "Wild men" who speak about being filled with "rage" and energy, blazing forward into and from the beyond... those guys speak of boldness but are stylistically pretty bland. As a poet in the tradition of Yeats, then Auden, I feel that he should've evolved more, to be less like Yeats and Auden.
That said, I found some Larkin I liked today. I was looking to like him, really, I swear. I was totally looking to love Larkin. And now, I like. Liking is a start. Here's why:
Talking in Bed
Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses clouds about the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why,
At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not true and not unkind.
(1964)
It's not especially experimental or edgy, obviously, but I appreciate the technique and simplicity. Here, spareness works to his advantage, as does delicate language, tone, and image. The balance between delicate and grand, between the particular and everything else, feels honest and refreshing. I like that. I also like that the content, though a little sad and a little trite, feels true.
Hart Crane:
Everyone loves Hart Crane. He makes everyone feel sad, in his poems and in the circumstances of his death. He makes everyone feel something, though, that should be faced, addressed, and felt. Like this:
YOU ARE THAT FRAIL...
You are that frail decision that devised
Their lowest common multiple of human need,
And on that bleak assumption risked the prize
Forgetfulness of all you bait for greed ...
(Complete Poems 209)
Also, my personal favorite:
HER EYES HAD...
Her eyes had the blue of desperate days,
Freezingly bright; I saw her hair unfurl,
Unsanctioned, finally, by anything left her to know
She had learned that Paradise is not a question of eggs
If anything, it was her privilege to undress
Quietly in a glass she had guarded
Always with correcting states before.
It was this, when I asked her how she died,
That asked me why her final happy cry
Should not have found an echo somewhere, and I stand
Before her finally, as beside a wall, listening as though
I heard the breath of Holofernes toast
Judith's cold bosom through her righteous years.
(CP 211)
Favorite 13 lines of Ulysses for the day:
Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. (89)
Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the face. (93)
They talked seriously of a mocker's serious. (163)
absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipollent nature's incorruptible benefaction. (314)
The visible signs of antesatisfaction?
An approximate erection: a solicitous adversion: a gradual elevation: a tentative revelation: a silent contemplation. (604)
The visible signs of postsatisfaction?
A silent contemplation: a tentative velation: a gradual abasement: a solicitous aversion: a proximate erection. (604)
Was the narrative otherwise unaltered by modifications?
Absolutely. (605)
arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts
all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will
Yes. (644)
I've always been partial to the ending. I know it seems obvious, but the obvious choice is usually the obvious choice because it's the right and true one. Yes I say yes I will Yes.
The Dream Songs:
Alliterative, graceful, delicious... I didn't appreciate Berryman's verse until about seventeen minutes ago. I thought it was all fine, and liked that a prominent figure is a guy called Henry, but I never remembered anything especially resonant or different about it other than "dreaminess." Now, though, it seems refined and carefully orchestrated. Also, his use of space and object, the balance between feeling and sound... it all seems remarkable to me today. Lines like:
There sat down, once a thing on Henry's heart,
so heavy, if he had a hundred years
& more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time
Henry could not make good.
Starts again always in Henry's ears
the little cough somewhere, an odour, a chime.
(29)
Here we have so much of Henry, his feelings, his intimate thoughts, his body -- but we also have much more than him. We have time and song, history and circumstance, & more, of course, the symbol. And everyone loves an ampersand or few. Also, it's tough to distinguish between hopefulness and melancholy, between withholding and disclosure. It's both touching and removed, honest and discrete. In any case, it's still dreamy.
Henry's Understanding:
What I like about this poem is the absence of Henry, or the existence of his figure and symbol as collapsed with (yet separate from) the self. The blurry relationship between narrator, subject, and object tends to be emphasized throughout Berryman's work, but this little poem continues to strike and perplex me. It ends like this:
It only takes a few minutes to make a man.
A concentration upon now & here.
Suddenly, unlike Bach,
& horribly, unlike Bach, it occurred to me
that one night, instead of my warm pajamas,
I'd take off all my clothes
& cross the damp cold lawn & down the bluff
into the terrible water & walk forever
under it out toward the island.
(1972)
I like the look toward the future, a wish, more than just a dream, but a palpable and carefully articulated desire. It feels eerie, but filled with wonder and reverence.
Philip Larkin:
For me, Philip Larkin's always been a little meh. I'm not especially opposed, but I've never been convinced he's any better than Frost or more interesting than someone like Moore or Auden. I even tend to rope him in with Ted Hughes and Dylan, and nobody wants to be in that boring company. "Wild men" who speak about being filled with "rage" and energy, blazing forward into and from the beyond... those guys speak of boldness but are stylistically pretty bland. As a poet in the tradition of Yeats, then Auden, I feel that he should've evolved more, to be less like Yeats and Auden.
That said, I found some Larkin I liked today. I was looking to like him, really, I swear. I was totally looking to love Larkin. And now, I like. Liking is a start. Here's why:
Talking in Bed
Talking in bed ought to be easiest,
Lying together there goes back so far,
An emblem of two people honest.
Yet more and more time passes silently.
Outside, the wind's incomplete unrest
Builds and disperses clouds about the sky,
And dark towns heap up on the horizon.
None of this cares for us. Nothing shows why,
At this unique distance from isolation
It becomes still more difficult to find
Words at once true and kind,
Or not true and not unkind.
(1964)
It's not especially experimental or edgy, obviously, but I appreciate the technique and simplicity. Here, spareness works to his advantage, as does delicate language, tone, and image. The balance between delicate and grand, between the particular and everything else, feels honest and refreshing. I like that. I also like that the content, though a little sad and a little trite, feels true.
Hart Crane:
Everyone loves Hart Crane. He makes everyone feel sad, in his poems and in the circumstances of his death. He makes everyone feel something, though, that should be faced, addressed, and felt. Like this:
YOU ARE THAT FRAIL...
You are that frail decision that devised
Their lowest common multiple of human need,
And on that bleak assumption risked the prize
Forgetfulness of all you bait for greed ...
(Complete Poems 209)
Also, my personal favorite:
HER EYES HAD...
Her eyes had the blue of desperate days,
Freezingly bright; I saw her hair unfurl,
Unsanctioned, finally, by anything left her to know
She had learned that Paradise is not a question of eggs
If anything, it was her privilege to undress
Quietly in a glass she had guarded
Always with correcting states before.
It was this, when I asked her how she died,
That asked me why her final happy cry
Should not have found an echo somewhere, and I stand
Before her finally, as beside a wall, listening as though
I heard the breath of Holofernes toast
Judith's cold bosom through her righteous years.
(CP 211)
Favorite 13 lines of Ulysses for the day:
Love among the tombstones. Romeo. Spice of pleasure. In the midst of death we are in life. (89)
Remind you of the voice like the photograph reminds you of the face. (93)
They talked seriously of a mocker's serious. (163)
absent when fortunately present constitutes the certain sign of omnipollent nature's incorruptible benefaction. (314)
The visible signs of antesatisfaction?
An approximate erection: a solicitous adversion: a gradual elevation: a tentative revelation: a silent contemplation. (604)
The visible signs of postsatisfaction?
A silent contemplation: a tentative velation: a gradual abasement: a solicitous aversion: a proximate erection. (604)
Was the narrative otherwise unaltered by modifications?
Absolutely. (605)
arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts
all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will
Yes. (644)
I've always been partial to the ending. I know it seems obvious, but the obvious choice is usually the obvious choice because it's the right and true one. Yes I say yes I will Yes.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Today, hooray.
I'm over you
Everything is okay.
I'm over myself,
which is certainly
a relief. I'm not
bummed, just me.
Quiet, medium, free.
You're not over me.
You are okay.
You're not over me
because you want
something else that
is like me but not me.
You're free, because
you don't have to deal
deal deal deal deal
with me.
You should be
quiet for a moment,
medium you, and grow
a little, so you, like
me can be a little more
free. See? I can show you
more than merely poems
and I can teach you more
than merely me. This poem
isn't about me, it's about
you. It's about your need to
feel free and your need
for me to teach you. But you
can only teach yourself
how to really feel free.
Write a poem, drink a coffee,
smile, breath. You'll be
over me and really, truly happy.
Everything is okay.
I'm over myself,
which is certainly
a relief. I'm not
bummed, just me.
Quiet, medium, free.
You're not over me.
You are okay.
You're not over me
because you want
something else that
is like me but not me.
You're free, because
you don't have to deal
deal deal deal deal
with me.
You should be
quiet for a moment,
medium you, and grow
a little, so you, like
me can be a little more
free. See? I can show you
more than merely poems
and I can teach you more
than merely me. This poem
isn't about me, it's about
you. It's about your need to
feel free and your need
for me to teach you. But you
can only teach yourself
how to really feel free.
Write a poem, drink a coffee,
smile, breath. You'll be
over me and really, truly happy.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
One.
Dear Victorian Literature,
I love you. You've taught me many things, to like boring books and also ones that are interesting, to love and be brave, to be brave, to be mean. I say this because I've never told you before that I love you, and I've never considered why. I love that you produced Bleak House and Little Dorrit, even though they say Charles Dickens was popular and mean. I love Aurora Leigh because someone awesome told me to, and I also love it because it's beautiful, poetic, and true. I like things that are true, especially if they're beautiful and definitely if they're true. I love a new poem, "The Other Side of the Mirror," of yours, which of course isn't new to the world, or even to me. I just newly love it, when before I thought it was meh. J'adore Les Miserables, parce que, je ne sais pas... J'adore "Jenny" en francais, uh, benediction. Je m'appelle Caroline, evidemment. J'adore tout le monde.
I'm finished with you now, for today, not for forever. We will meet again, in some dark alley or sunny beach, and we will laugh and be in love again. Today, though I move on to the future: the 1900's and beyond. You'll be proud when you see how much I'm enjoying it already. You'll be sad at first, like any lover would, but you'll be glad to know I've made something of myself without you. We both know you brought me this far, but you're old and I'm not. I'm not telling you it's time to die, because you'll never do something stupid like that, and also because I still will love you forever. I'm just now in love with other literatures. Thanks for everything. I'd tell you this in person, but you wouldn't believe me. Plus the number one thing I love about you, other than your queen and your social progress, is letters. I love letters, and I love that you love letters, so it's sensible to write you a proper letter.
Take care now, I'll speak well of you for forever,
me.
I love you. You've taught me many things, to like boring books and also ones that are interesting, to love and be brave, to be brave, to be mean. I say this because I've never told you before that I love you, and I've never considered why. I love that you produced Bleak House and Little Dorrit, even though they say Charles Dickens was popular and mean. I love Aurora Leigh because someone awesome told me to, and I also love it because it's beautiful, poetic, and true. I like things that are true, especially if they're beautiful and definitely if they're true. I love a new poem, "The Other Side of the Mirror," of yours, which of course isn't new to the world, or even to me. I just newly love it, when before I thought it was meh. J'adore Les Miserables, parce que, je ne sais pas... J'adore "Jenny" en francais, uh, benediction. Je m'appelle Caroline, evidemment. J'adore tout le monde.
I'm finished with you now, for today, not for forever. We will meet again, in some dark alley or sunny beach, and we will laugh and be in love again. Today, though I move on to the future: the 1900's and beyond. You'll be proud when you see how much I'm enjoying it already. You'll be sad at first, like any lover would, but you'll be glad to know I've made something of myself without you. We both know you brought me this far, but you're old and I'm not. I'm not telling you it's time to die, because you'll never do something stupid like that, and also because I still will love you forever. I'm just now in love with other literatures. Thanks for everything. I'd tell you this in person, but you wouldn't believe me. Plus the number one thing I love about you, other than your queen and your social progress, is letters. I love letters, and I love that you love letters, so it's sensible to write you a proper letter.
Take care now, I'll speak well of you for forever,
me.
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