Reinventing the Life of a Poet in the Modern World

Month: November 2016

Poetry Card Week 5 (US, Chile)

HdWe’re still doing poem cards from the deck I found in my parents’ basement. Because they're easy like Sunday morning.

Time has an end, they say
sea-walls are worn away
by wind and the sea-spray.
   not the herb,
            rosemary.

This was from “Time Has an End” by H.D. (Hilda Doolittle) (1886-1961)

H.D. liked Greece and Egyptian mythology and hey, she was a Moravian from Pennsylvania! My parents are about to move from Lititz, Pennsylvania, where Starthey’ve lived in retirement for many years and Lititz was founded as an exclusive Moravian community so I know a little somethin-somethin about Moravians. As does anyone else who owns that multi-pointed Christmas decoration, the Moravian star. H.D. moved to Europe in 1911, however, and folded in with Ezra Pound’s Imagists. She was “briefly engaged” to Ezra and it was his idea for her to sign her poems as “H.D. Imagiste.” (I’m not fact checking these cards, btw.) The card calls her a “poet’s poet” and I like this as a description of experimental poets, like pure vs. practical science. She was also in psychoanalysis with Sigmund Freud. She also translated Sappo's poems.

I see only a summer’s
transparency, I sing nothing but wind,
while history creaks on its carnival floats
hoarding medals and shrouds
and passes me by, and I stand by myself
in the spring, knowing nothing but rivers.

NerudaThis is from “Pastoral” by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973), translated by Ben Belitt. Neruda is much loved for his “immense, heroic, prophetic, romantic and moving universe of words” as the card says and he was also controversial due to his “radical socialist politics,” (is this card bias or actually how we refer to his political stance?). He was exiled from Chile between 1936-1952. He won the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1971.

The fog comes
on little cat feet.
It sits looking
over the harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl-sandburgFrom “Fog” by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967). That’s the poem in its entirety! It's a very popular and anthologized poem, according to my card, even though, like Walt Whitman, Sandburg went on to be know for his longer, more effusive lines.

Week Five Stats:

1 white American colonialist female
1 black American female
1 white American female
1 white American male
1 white Andalusian male
1 Chilean male
1 white English male
1 white French male
1 white Italian male
1 white Welsh male

1 1300s poet
1 1600s poet
1 1700-1800s poet
2 1800s poets
5 1900s poets

A Book About Alternate Intelligences

MmAmy King's The Missing Museum (2016)

A month ago I received a review copy of Amy King's new book of poems, Missing Museum. I know only a bit about Amy King from Goodreads, reading news stories about writers who are aggravated Bob Dylan won the Nobel Prize, and seeing her on one of the ModPo MOOC panels. I also quoted one of her essays in my eBook, Writing in the Age of Narcissism. But I hadn't yet had an opportunity to read her work.

In this book I was initially fascinated by her creative but non-integral titles like “Pussy Pussy Sochi Pussy Putin Sochi Queer Queer Pussy” and “One Bird Behind One Bird” and "Imperfect Yet.” The titles felt like random good lines being put to good post-modern use. The first and ending poems also experiment with ALL CAPS, making them challenging little book ends. If every poem had been in ALL CAPS, I'd probably still be reading them.

Once deep into the poems, they reminded me of poems by Jim Carroll due to their kind of gritty, skin-ripping quality. Or Henry Rollins. These poems are unkempt, full of street-intellectualizing that is delightfully pushy.

She had me in the prologue with "purveyors of knowledge, but too, your emotions are an intelligence.” Not only is this a defense of the emotional, I feel the entire set is writing about various intelligences: equations, indices, data, “math life,” points, beliefs and theories that aren’t adding up. In “Pussy Riot Rush Hour” “we incomplete ourselves.” In “Violent Blossoming Cities Ask How to Hear the Song” you can “centrifuge yourself.” These feel like riffs that solve for disruption.

In the book's back-advertising, John Ashbery is quoted describing King’s poems as “abstractions to brilliant, jagged life, emerging into rather than out of the busyness of living.” That’s a good way of saying it (I guess). She's writing in a very intense now-ness. AmykingBut I would like to separate King from Ashbery here because I think she’s moving in another direction from the Ashbery school. These poems move in and out of accessibility. There are bits of straight-shooting I loved in poems like “A Room Without Walls” invoking whiskey and Lionel Richie. There's movement here where some Ashbery-students stall. She's not stuck in the same whirlpool of an old experiment. Literally, “the room opens into a field.”

King can give even her enigmatic-ness a precision in one section but then provide some slack and sense in another. We relax from earlier abstractions and the contrast is satisfying and interesting.  There's also emotional directness at a cerebral level. Here's where we push to escape agendas, both sexual and poetic. In "The Little Engine’s Death" she wonders, “am I hiding in the shotgun’s sexual agenda?” King is not afraid of feelings. And I can't help but think back to her essay on exclusion in today's poetry world when I read a line like this from "My Singularity is Self-Inflicted,"

Tonight I am in the museum of my life, and you have an inflated sense of signature.

And we're back to realism in a poem like "Your Heart, The Weight of Art, " which reminded me of Neruda:

Sometimes I see what isn’t there, and that includes Love,
as if some parlor trick is inherited from my great grandmother
of the mythical Cherokee variety. But she was no soothsayer, and I’m
            just alone
now, with the life that is in you calling mine out.

There's subversiveness around what makes us feel. From the poem "One Bird Behind One Bird:"

Too bad about the plate, the shadowbox, the twisted book.
The universe conspired, a felony against your face
in search of the tiny light that carves such things,
a grand piano to play, a poor painting by Paul Stanley
resembling the way I feel instead,

I also like "Drive By and Understanding the Poem" as a meditation on language and poetry, literally poetry as place and place as a congregation of those who wield power in Poetry.

 The poem’s also a handshake.

Her topics are also very up-to-date: guns, Baltimore, Muslims, gender identity, the Internet, (I always appreciate good capitalization on the word Internet), the Cloud, Americanness.

These poems are not solely games and juxtapositions. This is the difference between random and almost random. It takes more dexterity and I feel like there's just a smarter head behind it.

We are all cross-dressing
in tiny wings with the machines of bones to go on.

 

Poetry, Blogging and The Election

BuddhaWhere We Are Now

I haven't been posting about poetry for the past few weeks. First it was the week before the U.S. election and work was very busy at CNM. Then the week of the election happened. And to be honest something in me changed on November 9. It was as if the election gave me a kind of clarity of purpose that I haven't previously had, politically speaking. I've been spending the last few weeks organizing and setting up some new political initiatives against what I see as the encroachment of Fascism and racism in our world.

Elections have consequences, as President Obama has often said. These are the consequences of this one: I no longer will have the time to post as much about poetry as I could before. My gifts, such as they are, will now be "going to the cause" and that means getting active in my community, motivating Democrats to vote, and wearing my safety pin as a reminder to fight racism and hatred every single day.

If these are values you share, please come by my new Facebook page "BTW New Mexico is a U.S. State," LIKE the page, and SHARE some of the posts with your friends. I would sure appreciate it.

You can also find some comfort in poetry. I've sent around the following poems over the last few weeks that resonated with how people are feeling:

I'll keep posting when I can. Right now I'd like to share this zen parable I learned many years ago. This story has helped me in both good times and in bad:

There is a Taoist story of an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically. “Maybe,” the farmer replied. The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed. “Maybe,” replied the old man.

The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. Now he would not be able to help on the farm. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune. “Maybe,” answered the farmer. The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out. “Maybe,” said the farmer.

 

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