Here's an article on how some youths up in Vermont vandalized a farmhouse that Robert Frost had once owned.
Also, see Jessica on Thomas Wolfe. He's one of those authors to whom posterity has not been kind. He reminds me of Steinbeck on crack (or maybe Ecstasy). He was a definite influence on Kerouac - if you read portions of Of Time and the River and then On the Road you'll see it more clearly. If I remember right, the review of Kerouac's first novel, The Town and the City called it "Wolfean." (Not having read Kerouac's first novel, I can't say for myself.) Of Time and the River is one of those books that I've started to read several times but have never finished, in part due to its length (I do not envy his editor), and partly because I have commitment issues when it comes to literature - I am quite promiscuous. I can speak to how good You Can't Go Home Again was, however.
With what little time I have these days I've been revisiting Robert Lowell, and discovering James Merrill. Also, I've been rereading Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea trilogy.
I know it's been a while, things have been busy. I'll think of something substantive to post soon, or else will call this little experiment off.
Monday, January 28, 2008
Friday, November 23, 2007
Opera
This past Friday I saw the Detroit Opera House's production of Le Nozze di Figaro, which was excellent. It was my first live, in person (more on that in a moment) opera, and I couldn't have been happier. Even though I was in the poor seats (read: the balcony), there was still an excellent view of the stage. The only thing that threw me off was the presence of surtitles (i.e. the translation of the Italian displayed on a screen above the stage). That production is now over, so I can hardly say "go see it!" but I do encourage you to see an opera at the Detroit Opera House, especially if you're a Michigan resident. The cost is hardly prohibitive (about $50). If you're a student, you can also get good deals (like seeing the next three operas for $85 total).
If you aren't in Michigan, and don't care to spend money to see one in person, I will now shamelessly plug the Metropolitan Opera's high definition video broadcasts. Last year the Met started broadcasting some of their operas to movie theatres all across the country, which was more successful than one would think. According to this article, the Met is tripling the number of theatres that it will be broadcasting to. The first opera of the high-def season is Gounod's Romeo et Juliette.* Tickets are $22, which is considerably more expensive than a normal movie ticket - but these are neither normal nor movies. It's also much less expensive than going to New York and getting tickets to the Met. I took in several productions through this medium last year (Eugene Onegin, The First Emperor, Il Trittico, and Il Barbiere di Siviglia) and didn't regret spending the money at all. In fact I was so smitten with Eugene Onegin (er, perhaps I should say smitten with Renee Fleming) that I saw it twice.
The only depressing thing about going to the Met broadcasts was that it made me fear for the future of opera - almost everyone attending those showings were fifty or older. If there is no young audience for opera, who will continue to fund productions? Who will be the audience for opera in thirty years? in one hundred years? If you are completely new to opera, I would recommend checking out one of these broadcasts - I suspect you will be pleasantly surprised. I was initially intimidated by opera, and suspect this is a fear shared by others. Let me assure you that it's a groundless fear - opera does not require more intelligence than an artful movie requires. In fact, it may require less. If you enjoy music, acting, and displays of great talent and virtuosity, you will enjoy opera. So buy tickets already!
*Don't go to this broadcast simply because you are taken with the Bard's language - no one can re-write Shakespeare, and Jules Barbier and Michel Carre (they wrote the libretto for Gounod's opera) were no exceptions.
If you aren't in Michigan, and don't care to spend money to see one in person, I will now shamelessly plug the Metropolitan Opera's high definition video broadcasts. Last year the Met started broadcasting some of their operas to movie theatres all across the country, which was more successful than one would think. According to this article, the Met is tripling the number of theatres that it will be broadcasting to. The first opera of the high-def season is Gounod's Romeo et Juliette.* Tickets are $22, which is considerably more expensive than a normal movie ticket - but these are neither normal nor movies. It's also much less expensive than going to New York and getting tickets to the Met. I took in several productions through this medium last year (Eugene Onegin, The First Emperor, Il Trittico, and Il Barbiere di Siviglia) and didn't regret spending the money at all. In fact I was so smitten with Eugene Onegin (er, perhaps I should say smitten with Renee Fleming) that I saw it twice.
The only depressing thing about going to the Met broadcasts was that it made me fear for the future of opera - almost everyone attending those showings were fifty or older. If there is no young audience for opera, who will continue to fund productions? Who will be the audience for opera in thirty years? in one hundred years? If you are completely new to opera, I would recommend checking out one of these broadcasts - I suspect you will be pleasantly surprised. I was initially intimidated by opera, and suspect this is a fear shared by others. Let me assure you that it's a groundless fear - opera does not require more intelligence than an artful movie requires. In fact, it may require less. If you enjoy music, acting, and displays of great talent and virtuosity, you will enjoy opera. So buy tickets already!
*Don't go to this broadcast simply because you are taken with the Bard's language - no one can re-write Shakespeare, and Jules Barbier and Michel Carre (they wrote the libretto for Gounod's opera) were no exceptions.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Whole Grain: Collected Poems, 1958 - 1989
Reading through the poems of James Emanuel that have been collected here, I was both enlivened and saddened – enlivened because that is always my response to great poetry, and saddened because these poems have yet to find a wide and appreciative audience. That a poet of such quality has been neglected while lesser poets earn awards and titles speaks clearly to the wretched state of American letters. But this review is not meant to lament the current state of poetry, but rather to highlight one of its great living artists.
What is initially striking about the poetry of James Emanuel is that his voice – and do not doubt that it is an original one – is clearly discernable. Perhaps I should say that what is striking is that there is a voice to be found here at all. Any reader accustomed to browsing through the numerous literary journals of the day knows that most modern “poets” have no voice – their works blend together to form a congealed mass that only the insane or the clueless would care to examine. Yet these poems are clearly creations of a man who knows his craft well. Emanuel is equally adept at utilizing rhyming couplets and free verse; at addressing topics both weighty and commonplace. But regardless of the form or subject, the poems all buzz with a language that is distinctly Emanuel’s.
He is able, as few poets are, to render common occurrences in a language that is palpably fresh and exciting. One can only imagine what cliches a lesser poet would use to describe a snowfall, but Emanuel is able to turn the weather into lines like "snowflakes untraceably chaotic /dived into caves, laid hills on hills, /rode lavishly with every motion in the street." Or he is able to transform the passing scenery one sees on a train ride into lines like:
poppy-bloodied banks careened across her chin
and junkyard shears chewed steel before her eyes
and shit-soiled cows lashed wiry tails to score her brow
and hooded vans backed deepdark jaws against her breast[...]
I will gladly steal Ian Sansom's comment on Auden and use it for my own purposes: the poetry of James Emanuel is packed with language that makes us respond to its "sheer sexiness."
The volume itself is uniquely arranged, not chronologically, but rather by theme. One does not begin Whole Grain with the young Emanuel and end with the old; rather, the poems are grouped together under headings such as “How I Became a Poet,” “Some Woman’s Arms,” or “Afro-America, The Garden.” This was a bold move. Even the collected poems of major poets like Byron begin with juvenilia not truly worthy of inclusion - putting such works at the beginning allows the reader to say “ah yes, these poems are weak, but the poet was still young…” By organizing the poems thematically, Emanuel demonstrates that his early poems are capable of standing alongside his later ones. How many poets can that be said of?
It is truly a shame that literary convention cautions a writer not to quote excessively from his source, for there is much that is quotable in Whole Grain – there was a great temptation to fill this review with little else but the poems themselves. That is not to suggest that Emanuel’s poems are simply miniature stages set for memorable one-liners, however. They are memorable in the best sense of the word; they are, first and foremost, works by a writer who loves his language, and who has the talent to make it anew. Convention, at least, will allow me to close with a short excerpt. In the poem “Sonnet for a Writer,” Emanuel advises, “Far better to create one living line / Than learn a hundred sunk in fame’s recline.” Whole Grain demonstrates that James Emanuel is in no danger of having just one living line as his poetic legacy. Instead, he has left us a volume of two-hundred-fifteen poems, each of which is worthy of reading – and reading again.
***
Well, that’s the review. If you are already familiar with the man’s poetry, then you know how inadequate my few words about his work are. I would have liked to have written so much more, but as I have said before (and will say again) I am no critic – I simply do not have the words to give you an adequate idea of why this is important poetry. I do, however, intuitively know that it is. Perhaps that’s good enough. Regardless, I still feel the need to apologize for my unworthy and stumbling attempt to convey what I found in these poems that is worthy of your attention.
One can only hope that in the coming years there will be some sort of awakening of this country’s literary conscience – and a corresponding interest in neglected poets such as James Emanuel. Perhaps this is a pipe-dream, but it is one that I allow myself to entertain. If you are not at all familiar with his poetry, then I urge you to find a copy of Whole Grain and spend time reading it. You won’t be disappointed.
What is initially striking about the poetry of James Emanuel is that his voice – and do not doubt that it is an original one – is clearly discernable. Perhaps I should say that what is striking is that there is a voice to be found here at all. Any reader accustomed to browsing through the numerous literary journals of the day knows that most modern “poets” have no voice – their works blend together to form a congealed mass that only the insane or the clueless would care to examine. Yet these poems are clearly creations of a man who knows his craft well. Emanuel is equally adept at utilizing rhyming couplets and free verse; at addressing topics both weighty and commonplace. But regardless of the form or subject, the poems all buzz with a language that is distinctly Emanuel’s.
He is able, as few poets are, to render common occurrences in a language that is palpably fresh and exciting. One can only imagine what cliches a lesser poet would use to describe a snowfall, but Emanuel is able to turn the weather into lines like "snowflakes untraceably chaotic /dived into caves, laid hills on hills, /rode lavishly with every motion in the street." Or he is able to transform the passing scenery one sees on a train ride into lines like:
poppy-bloodied banks careened across her chin
and junkyard shears chewed steel before her eyes
and shit-soiled cows lashed wiry tails to score her brow
and hooded vans backed deepdark jaws against her breast[...]
I will gladly steal Ian Sansom's comment on Auden and use it for my own purposes: the poetry of James Emanuel is packed with language that makes us respond to its "sheer sexiness."
The volume itself is uniquely arranged, not chronologically, but rather by theme. One does not begin Whole Grain with the young Emanuel and end with the old; rather, the poems are grouped together under headings such as “How I Became a Poet,” “Some Woman’s Arms,” or “Afro-America, The Garden.” This was a bold move. Even the collected poems of major poets like Byron begin with juvenilia not truly worthy of inclusion - putting such works at the beginning allows the reader to say “ah yes, these poems are weak, but the poet was still young…” By organizing the poems thematically, Emanuel demonstrates that his early poems are capable of standing alongside his later ones. How many poets can that be said of?
It is truly a shame that literary convention cautions a writer not to quote excessively from his source, for there is much that is quotable in Whole Grain – there was a great temptation to fill this review with little else but the poems themselves. That is not to suggest that Emanuel’s poems are simply miniature stages set for memorable one-liners, however. They are memorable in the best sense of the word; they are, first and foremost, works by a writer who loves his language, and who has the talent to make it anew. Convention, at least, will allow me to close with a short excerpt. In the poem “Sonnet for a Writer,” Emanuel advises, “Far better to create one living line / Than learn a hundred sunk in fame’s recline.” Whole Grain demonstrates that James Emanuel is in no danger of having just one living line as his poetic legacy. Instead, he has left us a volume of two-hundred-fifteen poems, each of which is worthy of reading – and reading again.
***
Well, that’s the review. If you are already familiar with the man’s poetry, then you know how inadequate my few words about his work are. I would have liked to have written so much more, but as I have said before (and will say again) I am no critic – I simply do not have the words to give you an adequate idea of why this is important poetry. I do, however, intuitively know that it is. Perhaps that’s good enough. Regardless, I still feel the need to apologize for my unworthy and stumbling attempt to convey what I found in these poems that is worthy of your attention.
One can only hope that in the coming years there will be some sort of awakening of this country’s literary conscience – and a corresponding interest in neglected poets such as James Emanuel. Perhaps this is a pipe-dream, but it is one that I allow myself to entertain. If you are not at all familiar with his poetry, then I urge you to find a copy of Whole Grain and spend time reading it. You won’t be disappointed.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Love In the Time of Cholera
If you would like to be spared wasting two hours of your life that you will never be able to regain, I would caution you to avoid seeing Love In the Time of Cholera. Instead, go to a used bookstore and pick up a copy of the novel - spend your time reading that.
I was disappointed by this film on many levels. First, it was in English. Judging by the accents of the actors, everyone knew Spanish - there was no practical reason for putting our language on their tongues. (Perhaps Americans simply equate foreign language films with "boring films." If that is the case, then I can at least understand the decision to go with English as a marketing strategy.) There was also a certain amount of incongruity when it came to the language - at one point Fermino refers to one of his ships as "New Fidelity," and moments later we see a shot of the ship with the name "Nueva Fidelidad" painted on the side. You could also catch some of the very minor characters (and extras) speaking Spanish - I noticed this during the first funeral scene. If you're going to abandon a language and replace it with our bastard English, at least be consistent about it. They also botched (as all directors do) recreating a realistic pre-Vatican II Mass. For instance, the priest would not have faced the people, but rather would have been facing the altar. Also, the he would not have said "Corpus Christi" when placing the host on a communicant's tongue, but rather "Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam." (I am aware that this has no real relation to the artistic merit of the film, but is a pet peeve left over from my short-lived time as a devout Catholic. That, and I demand historical accuracy of filmmakers, especially in cases where doing so would be painfully easy.) There was also an obnoxious amount of Shakira (yes, Shakira) in the soundtrack. (Though from what I understand Garcia Marquez is to blame for this - apparently he approached Shakira and asked her to come up with several songs for the movie. Perhaps he has grown senile in his dotage.)
The casting was also a let-down. This criticism has perhaps more to do with my distaste for Benjamin Bratt than anything else, but he is the last person I would have chosen to play Urbino. I also found it interesting that they used two different actors to represent Florentino Ariza at different ages, but used only one actress to play Fermina (who, as has been noted elsewhere, was not particularly convincing as an elderly woman).
As it's been years since I've read the book, I can't critique the film properly. From what I remember, however, I finished the novel liking Florentino - yet at times during the movie I wanted to reach through the screen and slap some sense into him. The New York Times capsule review of the movie hit the nail on the head when it said that Florentino "comes off as a crazed stalker, a guy who needs to get a life (as well as a sturdier stomach)..."
I am hoping that someone over at Cosmoetica does a review of the movie. Given Schneider's assessment of Garcia Marquez as a writer (one that I do not agree with) I suspect I can guess the substance of the review. Had I the time I would like to reread the novel, but I have more books at my bedside than I currently have time to read.
Tomorrow I will finally post my review of Whole Grain. I am afraid that I have mentioned this review so much in earlier posts that you will be expecting something more complete. There is much to be said about James Emanuel and his poetry, but I am no critic; I will leave the truly substantive commentary to those more competent than I.
I was disappointed by this film on many levels. First, it was in English. Judging by the accents of the actors, everyone knew Spanish - there was no practical reason for putting our language on their tongues. (Perhaps Americans simply equate foreign language films with "boring films." If that is the case, then I can at least understand the decision to go with English as a marketing strategy.) There was also a certain amount of incongruity when it came to the language - at one point Fermino refers to one of his ships as "New Fidelity," and moments later we see a shot of the ship with the name "Nueva Fidelidad" painted on the side. You could also catch some of the very minor characters (and extras) speaking Spanish - I noticed this during the first funeral scene. If you're going to abandon a language and replace it with our bastard English, at least be consistent about it. They also botched (as all directors do) recreating a realistic pre-Vatican II Mass. For instance, the priest would not have faced the people, but rather would have been facing the altar. Also, the he would not have said "Corpus Christi" when placing the host on a communicant's tongue, but rather "Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in vitam aeternam." (I am aware that this has no real relation to the artistic merit of the film, but is a pet peeve left over from my short-lived time as a devout Catholic. That, and I demand historical accuracy of filmmakers, especially in cases where doing so would be painfully easy.) There was also an obnoxious amount of Shakira (yes, Shakira) in the soundtrack. (Though from what I understand Garcia Marquez is to blame for this - apparently he approached Shakira and asked her to come up with several songs for the movie. Perhaps he has grown senile in his dotage.)
The casting was also a let-down. This criticism has perhaps more to do with my distaste for Benjamin Bratt than anything else, but he is the last person I would have chosen to play Urbino. I also found it interesting that they used two different actors to represent Florentino Ariza at different ages, but used only one actress to play Fermina (who, as has been noted elsewhere, was not particularly convincing as an elderly woman).
As it's been years since I've read the book, I can't critique the film properly. From what I remember, however, I finished the novel liking Florentino - yet at times during the movie I wanted to reach through the screen and slap some sense into him. The New York Times capsule review of the movie hit the nail on the head when it said that Florentino "comes off as a crazed stalker, a guy who needs to get a life (as well as a sturdier stomach)..."
I am hoping that someone over at Cosmoetica does a review of the movie. Given Schneider's assessment of Garcia Marquez as a writer (one that I do not agree with) I suspect I can guess the substance of the review. Had I the time I would like to reread the novel, but I have more books at my bedside than I currently have time to read.
Tomorrow I will finally post my review of Whole Grain. I am afraid that I have mentioned this review so much in earlier posts that you will be expecting something more complete. There is much to be said about James Emanuel and his poetry, but I am no critic; I will leave the truly substantive commentary to those more competent than I.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Michigan's sons
Since most of the readers of this humble blog are residents of Michigan,* I felt obliged to write a short note on two musical entities that are languishing in obscurity here in our great state.
The first is Chris Bathgate. Recently the Free Press declared that he was the "most important songwriter in Michigan." They were right. I would even be willing to go further and say that he is one of the most important songwriters in the nation. Unfortunately there is a dearth of information on him to be found on the internet. He has a MySpace page, which is where I would recommend you begin. Once there you can listen to four of his songs. Here is a site where you can download several songs of his - among those available I would recommend "Cold Fusion (Snakes)." Finally, there is another site devoted to his album "A Cork Tale Wake."
The second is a group, Frontier Ruckus. I will unapologetically say that they are the most important band from our state in recent memory. (Yes, that includes the White Stripes). To call their music "folk music" would be an insult. At times it is spare - guitar, banjo, vocals - but the lyrical content and the sheer force of the songs break over you in a way that should indicate that this is not your average group of whiny college kids trying to get in touch with their inner Pete Seegers. The only site you need to go to is theirs. You can download many of their demos, as well as read the lyrics to their songs. I would specifically recommend that you download "Adirondack Amish Holler," "Dark Autumn Hour," "Foggy Lilac Windows," "The Great Lake-Town," and "The Blood."
That's all for now. Coming up in the future I will have the great privilege of reviewing the collected poems of James Emanuel, so please look for that.
* This is a thoroughly baseless assumption, but I refuse to add Sitemeter for some reason.
The first is Chris Bathgate. Recently the Free Press declared that he was the "most important songwriter in Michigan." They were right. I would even be willing to go further and say that he is one of the most important songwriters in the nation. Unfortunately there is a dearth of information on him to be found on the internet. He has a MySpace page, which is where I would recommend you begin. Once there you can listen to four of his songs. Here is a site where you can download several songs of his - among those available I would recommend "Cold Fusion (Snakes)." Finally, there is another site devoted to his album "A Cork Tale Wake."
The second is a group, Frontier Ruckus. I will unapologetically say that they are the most important band from our state in recent memory. (Yes, that includes the White Stripes). To call their music "folk music" would be an insult. At times it is spare - guitar, banjo, vocals - but the lyrical content and the sheer force of the songs break over you in a way that should indicate that this is not your average group of whiny college kids trying to get in touch with their inner Pete Seegers. The only site you need to go to is theirs. You can download many of their demos, as well as read the lyrics to their songs. I would specifically recommend that you download "Adirondack Amish Holler," "Dark Autumn Hour," "Foggy Lilac Windows," "The Great Lake-Town," and "The Blood."
That's all for now. Coming up in the future I will have the great privilege of reviewing the collected poems of James Emanuel, so please look for that.
* This is a thoroughly baseless assumption, but I refuse to add Sitemeter for some reason.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Poets you should read
I was hoping to put this post off* until I got around to taking out a few volumes of James Emanuel's poetry from the Grad library here, but I am apparently too lazy to do that - even though I have classes in said library. Recently Cosmoetica did an interview with Mr. Emanuel, and it is a great interview. Not only are the questions better than what you will see elsewhere, but Emanuel's answers are great too. Some people do not interview well (perhaps part of the problem is the questions they are asked), but Emanuel's answers are enjoyable, even if you are not familiar with his work. I must admit to not being familiar with much of his work, save that which has appeared on Cosmoetica, but from what I can tell it is many cuts above the "poetry" that you will find in the New Yorker or the Paris Review. (Not a hard task, to be sure, but that's the highest compliment my brain can muster right now.) Here is a link to some of his poems.
The title of this post reads "poets" as I thought I might as well throw in a couple more that you may not have heard of. I first discovered Conrad Aiken a couple years ago, browsing through the poetry section at my local Borders. I noticed that the introduction was written by none other than Harold Bloom. And, while I am suspicious of some of his criticism, I nonetheless respect his aesthetic sense. Unfortunately the only poems by Aiken that are in print are the "Selected Poems," but I was able to find a copy of his "Preludes" at a used bookstore. Perhaps my favorite is the second Prelude, which reads:
II
Two coffees in the Español, the last
Bright drops of golden Barsac in a goblet,
Fig paste and candied nuts...Hardy is dead,
And James and Conrad dead, and Shakspere dead,
And old Moore ripens for an obscene grave,
And Yeats for an arid one; and I, and you-
What winding sheet for us, what boards and bricks,
What mummeries, candles, prayers, and pious frauds?
You shall be lapped in Syrian scarlet, woman,
And wear your pearls, and your bright bracelets, too,
Your agate ring, and round your neck shall hang
Your dark blue lapis with its specks of gold.
And I, beside you-ah! but will that be?
For there are dark streams in this dark world, lady,
Gulf Streams and Arctic currents of the soul;
And I may be, before our consummation
Beds us together, cheek by jowl, in earth,
Swept to another shore, where my white bones
Will lie unhonored, or defiled by gulls.
What dignity can death bestow on us,
Who kiss beneath a streetlamp, or hold hands
Half hidden in a taxi, or replete
With coffee, figs and Barsac make our way
To a dark bedroom in a wormworn house?
The aspidistra guards the door; we enter,
Per aspidistra-then-ad astra-is it?-
And lock ourselves securely in our gloom
And loose ourselves from terror...Here´s my hand,
The white scar on my thumb, and here's my mouth
To stop your murmur; speechless let us lie,
And think of Hardy, Shakspere, Yeats and James;
Comfort our panic hearts with magic names;
Stare at the ceiling, where the taxi lamps
Make ghosts of light; and see, beyond this bed,
That other bed in which we will not move;
And, whether joined or separate, will not love.
c. 2003 by Joan Aiken, Jane Aiken Hodge, and Joseph Killorin
You can find some more of his poems at (surprise) Cosmoetica, and also over at a blog dedicated solely to Aiken.
If James Emanuel and Conrad Aiken have suffered the indignity of being largely overlooked, the third poet I'll mention, Derek Walcott, is just the opposite. (He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1992.) I am suspicious of modern poets who have won accolades (Billy Collins, anyone?), but I rather like Walcott. Here's a poem of his:
Piano Practice
(for Mark Strand)
April, in another fortnight, metropolitan April.
A drizzle glazes the museum's entrance,
like their eyes when they leave you, equivocating spring!
The sun dries the avenue's pumice facade
delicately as a girl tamps tissue on her cheek;
the asphalt shines like a silk hat,
the fountains trot like percherons round the Met,
clip, clop, clip, clop in Belle Epoque Manhattan,
as gutters part their lips to the spring rain -
down avenues hazy as Impressionist cliches,
their gargoyle cornices,
their concrete flowers on chipped pediments,
their subway stops in Byzantine mosaic -
the soul sneezes and one tries to compile
the collage of a closing century,
the epistolary pathos, the old Laforguean ache.
Deserted plazas swept by gusts of remorse,
rain-polished cobbles where a curtained carriage
trotted around a corner of Europe for the last time,
as the canals folded like concertinas.
Now fever reddens the trouble spots of the globe,
rain drizzles on the white iron chairs in the gardens.
Today is Thursday, Vallejo is dying,
but come, girl, get your raincoat, let's look for life
in some cafe behind tear-streaked windows,
perhaps the fin de siecle isn't really finished,
maybe there's a piano playing it somewhere,
as the bulbs burn through the heart of the afternoon
in the season of tulips and the pale assassin.
I called the Muse, she pleaded a headache,
but maybe she was just shy at being seen
with someone who has only one climate,
so I passed the flowers in stone, the sylvan pediments,
alone. It wasn't I who shot the archduke,
I excuse myself of all crimes of that ilk,
muttering the subway's graffiti;
I could offer nothing but the predictable
pale head-scarf of the twilight's lurid silk.
Well, goodbye, then, I'm sorry I've never gone
to the great city that gave Vallejo fever.
Maybe the Seine outshines the East River,
maybe, but near the Metropolitan
a steel tenor pan
dazzlingly practices something from old Vienna,
the scales skittering like minnows across the sea.
c. 1986 by Derek Walcott
That's all for right now. You may have noticed I deleted the last post; I did so because I refuse to turn this blog into a personal one, and I also refuse to believe that you are interested in the particulars of my life. Even if you are, I'm not interested in telling them to you. (No offense.)
*I wanted to put it off because I am suspicious of people who are wont to recommend works of art that they have not read or watched. But based on the quality of the poems I have read, in addition to the interview (and Schneider's exuberant praise), I feel safe in telling you to read the interview, at least.
The title of this post reads "poets" as I thought I might as well throw in a couple more that you may not have heard of. I first discovered Conrad Aiken a couple years ago, browsing through the poetry section at my local Borders. I noticed that the introduction was written by none other than Harold Bloom. And, while I am suspicious of some of his criticism, I nonetheless respect his aesthetic sense. Unfortunately the only poems by Aiken that are in print are the "Selected Poems," but I was able to find a copy of his "Preludes" at a used bookstore. Perhaps my favorite is the second Prelude, which reads:
II
Two coffees in the Español, the last
Bright drops of golden Barsac in a goblet,
Fig paste and candied nuts...Hardy is dead,
And James and Conrad dead, and Shakspere dead,
And old Moore ripens for an obscene grave,
And Yeats for an arid one; and I, and you-
What winding sheet for us, what boards and bricks,
What mummeries, candles, prayers, and pious frauds?
You shall be lapped in Syrian scarlet, woman,
And wear your pearls, and your bright bracelets, too,
Your agate ring, and round your neck shall hang
Your dark blue lapis with its specks of gold.
And I, beside you-ah! but will that be?
For there are dark streams in this dark world, lady,
Gulf Streams and Arctic currents of the soul;
And I may be, before our consummation
Beds us together, cheek by jowl, in earth,
Swept to another shore, where my white bones
Will lie unhonored, or defiled by gulls.
What dignity can death bestow on us,
Who kiss beneath a streetlamp, or hold hands
Half hidden in a taxi, or replete
With coffee, figs and Barsac make our way
To a dark bedroom in a wormworn house?
The aspidistra guards the door; we enter,
Per aspidistra-then-ad astra-is it?-
And lock ourselves securely in our gloom
And loose ourselves from terror...Here´s my hand,
The white scar on my thumb, and here's my mouth
To stop your murmur; speechless let us lie,
And think of Hardy, Shakspere, Yeats and James;
Comfort our panic hearts with magic names;
Stare at the ceiling, where the taxi lamps
Make ghosts of light; and see, beyond this bed,
That other bed in which we will not move;
And, whether joined or separate, will not love.
c. 2003 by Joan Aiken, Jane Aiken Hodge, and Joseph Killorin
You can find some more of his poems at (surprise) Cosmoetica, and also over at a blog dedicated solely to Aiken.
If James Emanuel and Conrad Aiken have suffered the indignity of being largely overlooked, the third poet I'll mention, Derek Walcott, is just the opposite. (He won the Nobel Prize for literature in 1992.) I am suspicious of modern poets who have won accolades (Billy Collins, anyone?), but I rather like Walcott. Here's a poem of his:
Piano Practice
(for Mark Strand)
April, in another fortnight, metropolitan April.
A drizzle glazes the museum's entrance,
like their eyes when they leave you, equivocating spring!
The sun dries the avenue's pumice facade
delicately as a girl tamps tissue on her cheek;
the asphalt shines like a silk hat,
the fountains trot like percherons round the Met,
clip, clop, clip, clop in Belle Epoque Manhattan,
as gutters part their lips to the spring rain -
down avenues hazy as Impressionist cliches,
their gargoyle cornices,
their concrete flowers on chipped pediments,
their subway stops in Byzantine mosaic -
the soul sneezes and one tries to compile
the collage of a closing century,
the epistolary pathos, the old Laforguean ache.
Deserted plazas swept by gusts of remorse,
rain-polished cobbles where a curtained carriage
trotted around a corner of Europe for the last time,
as the canals folded like concertinas.
Now fever reddens the trouble spots of the globe,
rain drizzles on the white iron chairs in the gardens.
Today is Thursday, Vallejo is dying,
but come, girl, get your raincoat, let's look for life
in some cafe behind tear-streaked windows,
perhaps the fin de siecle isn't really finished,
maybe there's a piano playing it somewhere,
as the bulbs burn through the heart of the afternoon
in the season of tulips and the pale assassin.
I called the Muse, she pleaded a headache,
but maybe she was just shy at being seen
with someone who has only one climate,
so I passed the flowers in stone, the sylvan pediments,
alone. It wasn't I who shot the archduke,
I excuse myself of all crimes of that ilk,
muttering the subway's graffiti;
I could offer nothing but the predictable
pale head-scarf of the twilight's lurid silk.
Well, goodbye, then, I'm sorry I've never gone
to the great city that gave Vallejo fever.
Maybe the Seine outshines the East River,
maybe, but near the Metropolitan
a steel tenor pan
dazzlingly practices something from old Vienna,
the scales skittering like minnows across the sea.
c. 1986 by Derek Walcott
That's all for right now. You may have noticed I deleted the last post; I did so because I refuse to turn this blog into a personal one, and I also refuse to believe that you are interested in the particulars of my life. Even if you are, I'm not interested in telling them to you. (No offense.)
*I wanted to put it off because I am suspicious of people who are wont to recommend works of art that they have not read or watched. But based on the quality of the poems I have read, in addition to the interview (and Schneider's exuberant praise), I feel safe in telling you to read the interview, at least.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Love lesson of the day:
Some women find it terribly romantic when you fake your death and then have them arrested for it. More details here.
Having now seen all three of the movies in the Trois Couleurs trilogy, I am planning on exploring more Kieslowski films - especially "The Double Life of Veronique" and "The Decalogue" (the latter of which is really a series of films).
Since I have nothing original to say today, let me direct your attention to some of the blogs and other sites that I have linked on the right. I hope you are already familiar with Bartleby (where you can find classic literature, reference, and other texts online for free). If not, go there and read some Yeats already.
You may not be familiar with Cosmoetica, but you should be. Nijinsky may have said "criticism is death," but he went crazy, remember? The creator and main voice of the site is Dan Schneider, an unfortunately lesser known critic of literature, film, and lots in between. Some of his articles and opinions may rub you the wrong way, but that's what good criticism should do. I stumbled upon the site several years ago when I was looking around for articles on Harold Bloom's silly book "The Anxiety of Influence." Schneider's criticism of the book made me gleefully happy at the time. (If you've ever attempted to read Bloom's aforementioned book, read the article by Schneider that tears it apart, and you'll see what I mean.)
The next is the blog of Jessica Schneider which, among other things, will give you an idea of what good authors have to go through to get something published (or, as the case may be, not published). Both her site and Cosmoetica will also alert you to authors and films that might otherwise pass you by. (I, for one, would likely not have heard of Kieslowski, James Emanuel, and who knows how many other great artists without the help of these sites.)
Another one to check out is Too Many Commas, my friend Elissa's blog - especially if you like seeing rather egregious typographical errors (not hers!)
I read The Dirt Field simply because the author is a fellow law school drop out, and I feel immediate kinship with law school dropouts. She's also quite funny.
Having now seen all three of the movies in the Trois Couleurs trilogy, I am planning on exploring more Kieslowski films - especially "The Double Life of Veronique" and "The Decalogue" (the latter of which is really a series of films).
Since I have nothing original to say today, let me direct your attention to some of the blogs and other sites that I have linked on the right. I hope you are already familiar with Bartleby (where you can find classic literature, reference, and other texts online for free). If not, go there and read some Yeats already.
You may not be familiar with Cosmoetica, but you should be. Nijinsky may have said "criticism is death," but he went crazy, remember? The creator and main voice of the site is Dan Schneider, an unfortunately lesser known critic of literature, film, and lots in between. Some of his articles and opinions may rub you the wrong way, but that's what good criticism should do. I stumbled upon the site several years ago when I was looking around for articles on Harold Bloom's silly book "The Anxiety of Influence." Schneider's criticism of the book made me gleefully happy at the time. (If you've ever attempted to read Bloom's aforementioned book, read the article by Schneider that tears it apart, and you'll see what I mean.)
The next is the blog of Jessica Schneider which, among other things, will give you an idea of what good authors have to go through to get something published (or, as the case may be, not published). Both her site and Cosmoetica will also alert you to authors and films that might otherwise pass you by. (I, for one, would likely not have heard of Kieslowski, James Emanuel, and who knows how many other great artists without the help of these sites.)
Another one to check out is Too Many Commas, my friend Elissa's blog - especially if you like seeing rather egregious typographical errors (not hers!)
I read The Dirt Field simply because the author is a fellow law school drop out, and I feel immediate kinship with law school dropouts. She's also quite funny.
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