Sunday, June 16, 2013
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
the trick
*
“The trick naturally is what [Robert] Duncan learned years ago and tried to teach us — not to search for the perfect poem but to let your way of writing of the moment go along its own paths, explore and retreat but never be fully realized (confined) within the boundaries of one poem. . . . There is really no single poem.” —Jack Spicer
*
I don't totally disagree with what Spicer says:
—his "trick" works for some poets—Frank O'Hara for example—but not for others,
whose trick is "to search for the perfect poem"—Bishop and Mallarme, to name a couple—
Many perhaps most poets sort of dither away between this either-or,
compare the "perfected" poems of Robert Lowell versus his Notebook sonnets . . .
...
“The trick naturally is what [Robert] Duncan learned years ago and tried to teach us — not to search for the perfect poem but to let your way of writing of the moment go along its own paths, explore and retreat but never be fully realized (confined) within the boundaries of one poem. . . . There is really no single poem.” —Jack Spicer
*
I don't totally disagree with what Spicer says:
—his "trick" works for some poets—Frank O'Hara for example—but not for others,
whose trick is "to search for the perfect poem"—Bishop and Mallarme, to name a couple—
Many perhaps most poets sort of dither away between this either-or,
compare the "perfected" poems of Robert Lowell versus his Notebook sonnets . . .
...
missing dove
Missing from Dove Anthology
Clayton Eshleman prepared the following list of "important" 20th century American poets missing from the recent Rita Dove-edited Penguin Anthology of Twentieth Century American Poetry. It's not alphabetical, so I wonder about the order of names: is he arranging them in terms of quality, the best ones first and the less better ones after? And since he modestly includes himself, how did he decide where to position his name?
Louis Zukofsky
George Oppen
Charles Reznikoff
Carl Rakosi
Laura Riding
Mina Loy
William Bronk
Paul Blackburn
Allen Ginsberg
Larry Eigner
Edward Dorn
Jack Kerouac
Lorine Niedecker
Jackson Mac Low
Jack Spicer
Sylvia Plath
Robin Blaser
Charles Bernstein
Armand Schwerner
Philip Lamantia
Michael McClure
Philip Whalen
Cid Corman
Barbara Guest
James Schuyler
Ron Padgett
Tony Towle
Charles North
Jerome Rothenberg
Robert Kelly
Clayton Eshleman
David Antin
Gerrit Lansing
Bob Perelman
Rae Armantrout
Rachel Blau DuPlessis
John Wieners
Nathaniel Tarn
Clark Coolidge
Gustaf Sobin
Edward Sanders
John Taggert
David Bromige
Jayne Cortez
Fanny Howe
Susan Howe
Keith Waldrop
Rosmarie Waldrop
Judy Grahn
August Kleinzahler
Anne Waldman
Kenneth Rexroth
Andrew Joron
Forrest Gander
Will Alexander
Diane DiPrima
Alice Notley
Elaine Equi
Thom Gunn
William Everson
Brenda Hillman
Linh Dinh
John Olson
Anselm Hollo
Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge
Carla Harryman
David Shapiro
Leslie Scalapino
*
Clayton Eshleman prepared the following list of "important" 20th century American poets missing from the recent Rita Dove-edited Penguin Anthology of Twentieth Century American Poetry. It's not alphabetical, so I wonder about the order of names: is he arranging them in terms of quality, the best ones first and the less better ones after? And since he modestly includes himself, how did he decide where to position his name?
Louis Zukofsky
George Oppen
Charles Reznikoff
Carl Rakosi
Laura Riding
Mina Loy
William Bronk
Paul Blackburn
Allen Ginsberg
Larry Eigner
Edward Dorn
Jack Kerouac
Lorine Niedecker
Jackson Mac Low
Jack Spicer
Sylvia Plath
Robin Blaser
Charles Bernstein
Armand Schwerner
Philip Lamantia
Michael McClure
Philip Whalen
Cid Corman
Barbara Guest
James Schuyler
Ron Padgett
Tony Towle
Charles North
Jerome Rothenberg
Robert Kelly
Clayton Eshleman
David Antin
Gerrit Lansing
Bob Perelman
Rae Armantrout
Rachel Blau DuPlessis
John Wieners
Nathaniel Tarn
Clark Coolidge
Gustaf Sobin
Edward Sanders
John Taggert
David Bromige
Jayne Cortez
Fanny Howe
Susan Howe
Keith Waldrop
Rosmarie Waldrop
Judy Grahn
August Kleinzahler
Anne Waldman
Kenneth Rexroth
Andrew Joron
Forrest Gander
Will Alexander
Diane DiPrima
Alice Notley
Elaine Equi
Thom Gunn
William Everson
Brenda Hillman
Linh Dinh
John Olson
Anselm Hollo
Mei-Mei Berssenbrugge
Carla Harryman
David Shapiro
Leslie Scalapino
*
creeley
*
When I started writing poetry sort of devotedly in my early 20s, I went through a period of being influenced by Robert Creeley and trying to write like him until I happened to read an essay by Kenneth Rexroth that said something like "currently 2000 young poets are trying to write like Robert Creeley"—an observation which really rocked me. Soon afterwards I began consciously imitating other poets than Creeley, though over the decades since I continued to read him with appreciation, nothing to say more than that, he is still a poet whose work I admire and look up to as a model of devotion. His verse still astonishes and delights me.
When I started writing poetry sort of devotedly in my early 20s, I went through a period of being influenced by Robert Creeley and trying to write like him until I happened to read an essay by Kenneth Rexroth that said something like "currently 2000 young poets are trying to write like Robert Creeley"—an observation which really rocked me. Soon afterwards I began consciously imitating other poets than Creeley, though over the decades since I continued to read him with appreciation, nothing to say more than that, he is still a poet whose work I admire and look up to as a model of devotion. His verse still astonishes and delights me.
Thursday, February 14, 2013
Valentine
*
If
you like Billy Collins, you'll like Benny Andersen, the wonderful Danish poet—
I've
expressed my admiration for Collins many times on my various blogs, I think
he's a magnificent poet, one of the best living poets on the planet—
I'm
jealous of course of his success and popularity, but even more, I'm envious of
the verse itself:
I
don't think I've ever finished reading a Collins poem without muttering to
myself something along the lines of "Gee, I wish I'd written this,"
or "God, I wish I'd thought of that idea," or "Huh, I wish I
could write a poem half as good as this," or other whimpers of that nature—
Anyway,
back to Andersen—but wait, I wasn't thinking of him today, I was thinking about
finding a poem to post for Valentine's Day and what came to mind was Esther
Jansma,
do
you know her work? A Dutch poet, born 1958. A Selected Poems in
English is available (I'll post a link below) . . .
Here's
two of her rather astonishing love poems, translated by the late great James
Brockway:
/
The
Lovers
He
lay washed up on red rocks
and
dreamed her voice was calling him, sand
scattered
over him and blowing away.
The
sea lay itself down on his breast.
His
heart was the breeding-ground of
colourful
birds. The wind came back.
One
by one the birds rose up,
they
shrieked and fell upwards, helpless,
they
were swept aside.
When
she found him his heart was a wound,
a
deserted chamber, the difference between him
and
the ground was love, no more.
She
lifted him up. Gently she tried
to
close his lips. In the ship
she
tried to close his mouth.
She
grew silent and pressed his lips together.
She
grew silent and laid his arms round her neck.
It
worked. His head lies on her shoulder.
He
is silent. They set sail. They are everything
to
each other.
/
Descent
We
crossed the Styx.
The
ferryman lay drunk in his boat.
I
took the helm and we sank like stones.
Water
like the earth consists of layers,
transparent
ribbons, glistening strata
of
ever less life, less warmth.
Bubbles
blossomed in your hair,
the
current tugged your head backwards
and
caressed your throat.
Stones
waved with algae and ferns,
gurgled
softly, sang of 'peace'.
They
sliced your clothes away.
Fish
licked the blood from your legs.
I
held your hand tight. I wanted to
comfort you,
but
we were falling too fast and no words can exist
without
air; my love
lay
above, blue balloons, brief buoys,
marking
the site of the accident,
before
flowing on. Your mouth fell open,
your
face turned red, your two hands sought
for
balance, sought my arms.
You
tried to climb up inside me.
You
were a glass blower with a cloud of diamonds
circling
his mouth. I hugged you like a kitten.
I
stroked your fingers.
You
held on tight.
You
fell asleep. I stroked your fingers, let
go.
/
Link
to Esther Jansma, Selected Poems in English book:
//
Looking
on my Scandinavian poetry shelf for the Jansma book, I noticed Benny Andersen
and pulled out his book of Selected Poems in English—
/
In
addition to recommending Jansma and Andersen, I want to direct attention to the
John Irons blog (see sidebar blog list for link) which features his bravura
translations from Scandinavian poets, and which very amenably has a
downloadable list of all the versions he's published there— If you are in any
way interested at all in Scandinavian poetry (and if you're reading my blog, you darn well should be!), his site is a must for your don't-miss
list—
Here
hopefully for your delectation are the Andersen translations he's posted there,
with titles and dates, in his archives:
Andersen, Benny:
Adultery and love
|
25.12.12
|
Andersen, Benny: Closet
Swedes
|
02.07.12
|
Andersen, Benny:
Diet
|
28.12.12
|
Andersen Benny: The
muddy tongue (Svantes Viser)
|
07.12.09
|
Andersen, Benny:
High time
|
18.02.10
|
Andersen, Benny:
Little Song for Nina (Svantes Viser)
|
06.12.09
|
Andersen, Benny:
Morning Anthem
|
05.09.12
|
Andersen, Benny:
Svante’s black song
|
28.10.10
|
Andersen, Benny:
Svante’s drinking song
|
08.09.12
|
Andersen, Benny: The
poetics of preservation
|
04.11.10
|
Andersen, Benny: The
seasons
|
04.02.11
|
///
Thursday, February 7, 2013
convenience
/
I've been putting together a new edition of my Collected Sonnets for publication, and was going to include this squib below as an afterword, but didn't . . . I post it here instead, for what it's worth—
/
I've been putting together a new edition of my Collected Sonnets for publication, and was going to include this squib below as an afterword, but didn't . . . I post it here instead, for what it's worth—
/
Around 2000, Rain Taxi
Magazine interviewed me and one of the questions they asked was why I was
writing sonnets. My answer (somewhat
edited):
Like some others of my generation, I wrote short poems in the 1960s under the influence of Robert Bly . . . but then in 1971, as a result of reading Paz and Tomlinson’s book, Renga, I started working with the sonnet. The short poems had led to an interest in haiku and tanka, but I felt unable to write these authentically, they were so indigenous to Asian culture and so foreign to mine. Pound and the Imagists, although greatly influenced by these forms, rarely pursued them per se: how many actual haiku/tanka/renga did they write?—not a lot that I've seen. —And then Renga was published and had an immediate impact on me. To quote from Paz’s forward: “Looking for a western equivalent of the renga, one thinks of the sonnet . . . it is composed, like the tanka, of semi-independent and separable entities.” From the Paz book I began to think of the sonnet as a putatively composite form, a sort of 'solo renga' or elongated tanka. Quatrain, quatrain, tercet, tercet: these units [could be] autotelic, self-enclosed . . . I would take four isolate bits written at different times and juxtapose them, sometimes arbitrarily, sometimes purposefully. And gradually, over the years, this collagiste method has resulted in quite a few of the sonnets I’ve done, though many others were composed in a less piecemeal fashion. But I think too of the sonnet in this way: it’s like going to the art supplies store and buying a lot of canvases all the same size, a size appropriate for your studio (or mental) space. In other words, it’s handy. Though like all conveniences it has the potential danger of being too easy, too readily and reliably a temptation shortcut. And doubtless I have succumbed to that fault at times.
Like some others of my generation, I wrote short poems in the 1960s under the influence of Robert Bly . . . but then in 1971, as a result of reading Paz and Tomlinson’s book, Renga, I started working with the sonnet. The short poems had led to an interest in haiku and tanka, but I felt unable to write these authentically, they were so indigenous to Asian culture and so foreign to mine. Pound and the Imagists, although greatly influenced by these forms, rarely pursued them per se: how many actual haiku/tanka/renga did they write?—not a lot that I've seen. —And then Renga was published and had an immediate impact on me. To quote from Paz’s forward: “Looking for a western equivalent of the renga, one thinks of the sonnet . . . it is composed, like the tanka, of semi-independent and separable entities.” From the Paz book I began to think of the sonnet as a putatively composite form, a sort of 'solo renga' or elongated tanka. Quatrain, quatrain, tercet, tercet: these units [could be] autotelic, self-enclosed . . . I would take four isolate bits written at different times and juxtapose them, sometimes arbitrarily, sometimes purposefully. And gradually, over the years, this collagiste method has resulted in quite a few of the sonnets I’ve done, though many others were composed in a less piecemeal fashion. But I think too of the sonnet in this way: it’s like going to the art supplies store and buying a lot of canvases all the same size, a size appropriate for your studio (or mental) space. In other words, it’s handy. Though like all conveniences it has the potential danger of being too easy, too readily and reliably a temptation shortcut. And doubtless I have succumbed to that fault at times.
///
Thursday, January 31, 2013
BAP aps
I notice that Denise Duhamel is editing (has edited by now, I guess) the Best American Poetry 2013,
to be published this fall . . . it should be an interesting anthol.
4 or 5 years ago I wrote a short "appreciation" of Duhamel, reposted here:
a few words in praise of Denise Duhamel
*
to be published this fall . . . it should be an interesting anthol.
4 or 5 years ago I wrote a short "appreciation" of Duhamel, reposted here:
a few words in praise of Denise Duhamel
Denise Duhamel is a poet whose work, while widely published, will probably not receive as much acclaim as it might . . .
Compare her to her contemporaries who have won Pulitzers and other such awards . . . the difference is that Duhamel, unlike, for example, Claudia Emerson, Franz Wright, and Natasha Trethewey, has made the "mistake" of writing poems in the comic mode.
I mention these three Pulitzer poets not to question the quality of their work—each of them has written poetry which deserves prize honors—
but to place in contrast Duhamel, who is also worthy of attention and respect and official laurels. Yet—
she has committed the one error most USA poets know to avoid.
Because you know—you all know—if you wanna win the prizes, you gotta be Ser-i-ous.
*
Here's an early Duhamel poem I've admired since its publication in 1996. She has moved on from this kind of writing into other more experimental modes, but here's one I hope she won't leave out of her Selected when her publisher Pitt does it: this comes from a section of poems about her mother, all of which I like, in the book entitled "Girl Soldier"—maybe it loses something out of that context—:
FROM THE SHORE
Michele and I pull out our feet from the mud, and begin
to scream from a new spot. We think you are going to drown.
You won't look back as you swim to the middle of the ocean.
"But Ma!" we call. Chills through our arms, down
through our legs as though we've been struck still by lightning
and no one will touch us. We're afraid to touch each other.
If only we could jump out past our bodies, the small ones
you had to lift up when the waves come. Michele and I clung
to your sides and still got mouthfuls of salt water.
Had we dragged mud from the sand castle to the blanket
or sung too loud or fought with each other? The foam
like thrown toys breaking at our feet, unsteadying us.
At sunset, the family beach mostly cleared,
a lady with red veins on her legs and a bathing suit with a skirt
stops to help us. We point you out, the only mother
in the lineup. Your face, a small craft at the point where water
meets choppy sky. The lady says it's about to rain
and starts yelling with us, demanding you get back on shore
to take care of your daughters. I know we've made a mistake
as you turn around and see Michele and me with this other adult.
All the ocean goes silent—the sea sounds, the gulls.
It's like watching TV with the sound turned off.
You rise from the water like a wet monster and the lady,
in a rage, begins to yell and I guess you yell back:
my ears are murmuring a quiet that's louder.
I vow never to tell on anyone again—if ever I see a kid hitting
another kid, if ever I see someone robbing a bank.
My whole body shakes, the sound inside a seashell.
You yank Michele's arm and mine, saying,
"Can't I have one goddamn minute alone?"
*
Maybe it's not a great poem, but it's one I've read dozens of times with pleasure and responsive gratitude.
Duhamel was one of the poets I used to xerox for my writing classes, urging them to emulate her.
Allison Joseph was another, and Laura Kasischke . . . Daisy Fried. Lots of others, but these names come to mind. Each of them seems to write out of their quotidian, with great presentational skills, scene-creation-in-depth, and with vivid imagery of detail.
"Write like they do," I would urge the students, neglecting to add that I myself couldn't do it.
*
"From the Shore" is what a narrative poem should be, in my opinion. Its clarity and focus and intimacy of emotion are exemplary.
*
/
Compare her to her contemporaries who have won Pulitzers and other such awards . . . the difference is that Duhamel, unlike, for example, Claudia Emerson, Franz Wright, and Natasha Trethewey, has made the "mistake" of writing poems in the comic mode.
I mention these three Pulitzer poets not to question the quality of their work—each of them has written poetry which deserves prize honors—
but to place in contrast Duhamel, who is also worthy of attention and respect and official laurels. Yet—
she has committed the one error most USA poets know to avoid.
Because you know—you all know—if you wanna win the prizes, you gotta be Ser-i-ous.
*
Here's an early Duhamel poem I've admired since its publication in 1996. She has moved on from this kind of writing into other more experimental modes, but here's one I hope she won't leave out of her Selected when her publisher Pitt does it: this comes from a section of poems about her mother, all of which I like, in the book entitled "Girl Soldier"—maybe it loses something out of that context—:
FROM THE SHORE
Michele and I pull out our feet from the mud, and begin
to scream from a new spot. We think you are going to drown.
You won't look back as you swim to the middle of the ocean.
"But Ma!" we call. Chills through our arms, down
through our legs as though we've been struck still by lightning
and no one will touch us. We're afraid to touch each other.
If only we could jump out past our bodies, the small ones
you had to lift up when the waves come. Michele and I clung
to your sides and still got mouthfuls of salt water.
Had we dragged mud from the sand castle to the blanket
or sung too loud or fought with each other? The foam
like thrown toys breaking at our feet, unsteadying us.
At sunset, the family beach mostly cleared,
a lady with red veins on her legs and a bathing suit with a skirt
stops to help us. We point you out, the only mother
in the lineup. Your face, a small craft at the point where water
meets choppy sky. The lady says it's about to rain
and starts yelling with us, demanding you get back on shore
to take care of your daughters. I know we've made a mistake
as you turn around and see Michele and me with this other adult.
All the ocean goes silent—the sea sounds, the gulls.
It's like watching TV with the sound turned off.
You rise from the water like a wet monster and the lady,
in a rage, begins to yell and I guess you yell back:
my ears are murmuring a quiet that's louder.
I vow never to tell on anyone again—if ever I see a kid hitting
another kid, if ever I see someone robbing a bank.
My whole body shakes, the sound inside a seashell.
You yank Michele's arm and mine, saying,
"Can't I have one goddamn minute alone?"
*
Maybe it's not a great poem, but it's one I've read dozens of times with pleasure and responsive gratitude.
Duhamel was one of the poets I used to xerox for my writing classes, urging them to emulate her.
Allison Joseph was another, and Laura Kasischke . . . Daisy Fried. Lots of others, but these names come to mind. Each of them seems to write out of their quotidian, with great presentational skills, scene-creation-in-depth, and with vivid imagery of detail.
"Write like they do," I would urge the students, neglecting to add that I myself couldn't do it.
*
"From the Shore" is what a narrative poem should be, in my opinion. Its clarity and focus and intimacy of emotion are exemplary.
*
/
And thinking of BAP, another repost, this from April 2012:
*
p.s.
All kidding aside, David Lehman is to be commended for his valiant efforts to keep the Best American Poetry anthology alive for so long. I've written some bad jokes about him and BAP over the years, I've "roasted" him in print too many times, but I must confess my admiration for his superlative service to poetry and for his unique accomplishments.
I should apologize for all those carping comments. Consider them as nothing but spite and envy. My poems were never good enough for BAP, and that made me bitter, and I expressed my resentments with vitriol and sarcasm.
He is so well-known for his civic leadership in the poetry community, his role as the public persona aegis of BAP's success, and for being the face of USA poetry as it were, that his own distinguished and marvelous verse is perhaps sometimes lost in the shadow of that spotlight fame, and doesn't get the recognition and acclaim it deserves.
He should put out a big Selected Poems, and it should win the Pulitzer on the strength of its own merits alone.
And parenthetically I must say that everyone I ever met who knew David Lehman personally, everyone I have ever heard speak of him, all of them were unanimous in praise of his generosity and kindness and warm affable demeanor. He seems to be not just a great poet/writer/editor, but a real gentleman as well.
///
p.s.
All kidding aside, David Lehman is to be commended for his valiant efforts to keep the Best American Poetry anthology alive for so long. I've written some bad jokes about him and BAP over the years, I've "roasted" him in print too many times, but I must confess my admiration for his superlative service to poetry and for his unique accomplishments.
I should apologize for all those carping comments. Consider them as nothing but spite and envy. My poems were never good enough for BAP, and that made me bitter, and I expressed my resentments with vitriol and sarcasm.
He is so well-known for his civic leadership in the poetry community, his role as the public persona aegis of BAP's success, and for being the face of USA poetry as it were, that his own distinguished and marvelous verse is perhaps sometimes lost in the shadow of that spotlight fame, and doesn't get the recognition and acclaim it deserves.
He should put out a big Selected Poems, and it should win the Pulitzer on the strength of its own merits alone.
And parenthetically I must say that everyone I ever met who knew David Lehman personally, everyone I have ever heard speak of him, all of them were unanimous in praise of his generosity and kindness and warm affable demeanor. He seems to be not just a great poet/writer/editor, but a real gentleman as well.
///
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)