Congratulations on the excellent notion of examining the work of "the poet's poet," Donald Justice. As far as I am concerned, he is the master. His ear is exquisite, and the more you read him, the deeper you realize how superb his artistry truly is. He dips into various forms and shows what possibilities they might offer, usually extending our notions of them. Here is a snippet from a longer poem, "First Death."

The morning sun rose up and stuck.
Sunflower strove with holleyhock.

I ran the worn path past the sty.
Nothing was hidden from God's eye.

The barn door creaked. I walked among
Chaff and wrinkled cakes of dung.

In the dim light I read the dates
On the dusty license plates

Nailed to the wall as souvenirs.
I breathed the dust in of the years.

I circled the abandoned Ford
Before I tried the running board.

At the wheel I felt the heat
Press upwards through the springless seat.

And when I touched the silent horn,
Small mice scattered through the corn.

I invite everyone to become more familiar with this outstanding poet. My own taste has been improved from familiarizing myself with his rare music, his formal explorations and pure artistry.

ALL BEST,
Dan Rifenburgh

I get a kick out of this one. The profusion of end-stopped lines sorta irks me, but I can see why he'd want to use them. Reminds me a bit of Koch.

-eaf



Poem

This poem is not addressed to you.
You may come into it briefly,
But no one will find you here, no one.
You will have changed before the poem will.

Even while you sit there, unmovable,
You have begun to vanish. And it does not matter.
The poem will go on without you.
It has the spurious glamor of certain voids.

It is not sad, really, only empty.
Once perhaps it was sad, no one knows why.
It prefers to remember nothing.
Nostalgias were peeled from it long ago.

Your type of beauty has no place here.
Night is the sky over this poem.
It is too black for stars.
And do not look for any illumination.

You neither can nor should understand what it means.
Listen, it comes with out guitar,
Neither in rags nor any purple fashion.
And there is nothing in it to comfort you.

Close your eyes, yawn. It will be over soon.
You will forge the poem, but not before
It has forgotten you. And it does not matter.
It has been most beautiful in its erasures.

O bleached mirrors! Oceans of the drowned!
Nor is one silence equal to another.
And it does not matter what you think.
This poem is not addressed to you.

Alicia, thanks for posting Justice's poems. I believe I did
copy some in a year or so ago, but these are poems one can't tire of. He is better technically than any poet I can think of in the last four or five decades, and more various. Yes, a true master. What I wouldn't give to write half as well. Michael, the best bet is the Collected Poems, which is now in proofs and will be out this summer or early in the fall. TJ, you should learn how to read poetry, there's a world of pleasure to be found in it.

Sestina on Six Words by Weldon Kees

I often wonder about the others
Where they are bound for on the voyage,
What is the reason for their silence,
Was there some reason to go away?
It may be they carry a dark burden,
Expect some harm, or have done some harm.

How can we show we mean no harm?
Approach them? But they shy from others.
Offer, perhaps, to share the burden?
They change the subject to the voyage,
Or turn abruptly, walk away,
To brood against the rail in silence.

What is defeated by their silence?
More than love, less than harm?
Many already are looking their way,
Pretending not to. Eyes of others
Will follow them now the whole voyage
And add a little to the burden.

Others touch hands to ease the burden,
Or stroll, companionable in silence,
Counting the stars which bless the voyage,
But let the foghorn speak of harm,
Their hearts will stammer like the others',
Their hands seem in each other's way.

It is so obvious, in a way.
Each is alone, each with his burden.
To others they are always others,
And they can never break the silence,
Say, lightly, _thou_, but to their harm
Although they make many a voyage.

What do they wish for from the voyage
But to awaken far away
By miracle free from every harm,
Hearing at dawn that sweet burden
The birds cry after a long silence?
Where is that country not like others?

There is no way to ease the burden.
The voyage leads on from harm to harm,
A land of others and of silence.

Tom,

If you don't think a Donald Justice poem is good, it may be time to recalibrate your goodness detector. 90% of the world's poets aren't even a pimple on the man's arse. In other words, he is one of the best we have. It's like Alicia said, he makes it look easy; the best always do.

"Ode to a Dressmaker's Dummy" has a beautiful music to it, it's one of the greats, where music is concerned, like Merwin's "My Friends". Those two poems are what I call poetry.

Here's one I like, written as an ode like "Dressmaker":


Anonymous Drawing
by Donald Justice

A delicate young negro stands
With the reins of a horse clutched loosely in his hands;
So delicate, indeed, that we wonder if he can hold the spirited creature beside him
Until the master shall arrive to ride him.
Already the animal's nostrils widen with rage or fear.
But if we imagine him snorting, about to rear,
This boy, who should know about such things better than we,
Only stands smiling, passive and ornamental, in a fantastic livery
Of ruffles and puffed breaches,
Watching the artist, apparently, as he sketches.
Meanwhile the petty lord who must have paid
For the artist's trip up from Perugia, for the horse, for the boy,
for everything here, in fact, has been delayed,
Kept too long by his steward, perhaps, discussing
Some business concerning the estate, or fussing
Over the details of his impeccable toilet
With a manservant whose opinion is that any alteration at all would spoil it.
However fast he should come hurrying now
Over this vast greensward, mopping his brow
Clear of the sweat of the fine Renaissance morning, it would be too late:
The artist will have had his revenge for being made to wait,
A revenge not only necessary but right and clever---
Simply to leave him out of the scene forever.




[This message has been edited by diprinzio (edited May 10, 2004).]

I understand how some will like this kind of writing, as it is a kind of writing; it is called prose. I don't oppose anyone liking or writing like Justice, just don't call prose poetry. When, suddenly, did prose become poetry? (old discussion.)

....for everything here, in fact, has been delayed, kept too long by his steward, perhaps, discussing some business concerning the estate, or fussing over the details of his impeccable toilet with a manservant whose opinion is that any....


The guy is pulling your leg. A few rhymes, talky sounds, thoughts thought to be interesting, and not an ounce of imagination. Nothing goes to the edge. Do you see that the voice is usually exactly the same? Only the thoughts are re-juggled. Poetry does not exist in pre-supposed poetical-suggested half-thoughts;

...Drawn up into so classic and so strict a pose almost, it seemed, our little attic grew...

I might be crazy, but, isn't this left-brained prose? I just re-read this thread and see how often people disagree with me. I understand this, but then I have yet to find anyone who understands left and right brained thinking, as applied to art and poetry, )or if they do, they don't tell me) but I learned about all this from psyche people. Left-brained people will enjoy left-brained writing, and well over 90% of people are left-brained.

Think of a journalist as left-brained and Thoreau as right-brained. I don't like talking too much about this kind of thing because when I do people start to get uncomfortable because they feel they and others might be pidgeon-holed or put in a box of some sort. (The psychological-advertisers DO have most in a box--it is how they get 50% of America to buy gas guzzlers and how the drug companies are taking over the health industry, that's YOUR health.) Poets must study science and psychology.

Robert Mezey, I just see for the first time that you chide me 'TJ, you should learn how to read poetry, there's a world of pleasure to be found in it.' Robert, I say that pleasure has no interest for me, except as a sideline to extreme awareness. But I think I am learning.

"There are many other things to live for other than happiness." Does anyone know who said this? It was live on TV and the interviewer almost fell over with being so flustered with incomprehension it was embarrassing. The interviewer quickly changed the subject, when I thought it was going to be interesting for once.

TJ

If pleasure has no interest for you, why are you wasting your time (and ours) on poetry? If you think Justice's verse is prose, then you have no ear for verse, and neither your right brain nor your left brain will be of any use to you. In that particular poem, Justice took a form invented by Ogden Nash (and he didn't write prose either) and used it for a very different kind of poem. I don't think anyone else has done it.
Well, I'm not going to spend any more time arguing about a man who is perhaps the best American poet in the last fifty years.
Here's another of his masterly sonnets:


CORONADO BEACH, CALIFORNIA

In a hotel room by the sea, the Master
Sits brooding on the continent he has crossed.
Not that he foresees immediate disaster,
Only a sort of freshness being lost---
Or should he go on calling it Innocence?
The sad-faced monsters of the plains are gone;
Wall Street controls the wilderness. There's an immense
Novel in all this waiting to be done,
But not, not---sadly enough---by him. His talents,
Such as they may be, want an older theme,
Something rather more civilized, on balance.
For him now always the consoling dream
Is just the mild dear light of Lamb House falling
Beautifully down the pages of his calling.


This is beyond praise. (I copied it out from memory, so it
may not be exact.) James did stay at the Coronado Hotel in 1905 or 1906; Coulette and I once went in search of the room he had stayed in, but the best we could do was find the general area.

Absences

It’s snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.
There is only this sound of falling, quiet and remote,
Like the memory of scales descending the white keys
Of a childhood piano – outside the window, palms!
And the heavy head of the cereus, inclining,
Soon to let down its white or yellow-white.

Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap,
Like the memory of a white dress cast down…
So much has fallen.
BANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTBANNED POSTAnd I, who have listened for a step
All afternoon, hear it now, but already falling away,
Already in memory. And the terrible scales descending
On the silent piano; the snow; and the absent flowers abounding.

Donald Justice (from Departures, 1973)

Justice has written some superb and moving poems, subtly and beautifully modulated in tone, syntax and rhythm.

Clive Watkins

[This message has been edited by nyctom (edited May 11, 2004).]

Now I know I am crazy.

Robert,

I said poetry doesn't interest me for pleasure. You say,

'If pleasure has no interest for you, why are you wasting your time (and ours) on poetry?'

Am I the only person who responds by saying that the response does not address the statement?

Are you are saying that poetry interests you for pleasure? That is fine, but poetry gives me no pleasure. You are making a statement presupposing how another relates to poetry, as if all people should react as you.

Donald Justice is a garden variety of non-form poet, which is full of pleasure, which is plain to see. DJ takes nothing to the edge, he fills in the blank. Reading for pleasure is like closing your eyes and taking a nap. Good. But what I look for is the thrill of hearing something new, the excitement of new awareness, the advancement of morals and ethics, not a Sunday painter of cutsie scenes.

Drop the word pleasure from the art, and replace it with passion.

Tell me how, structurally, this is not prose:

....for everything here, in fact, has been delayed, kept too long by his steward, perhaps, discussing some business concerning the estate, or fussing over the details of his impeccable toilet with a manservant whose opinion is that any....


The sad-faced monsters of the plains are gone...

I get it. Buffalo of the plains, of the open skies, of the wind, of the grass, etc.

'His talents, such as they may be, want an older theme,
something rather more civilized, on balance.' This isn't prose? It sounds like a review. Cleverly placing rhymes in prose is not poetry.

Robert, I know you and others disagree with me, but I have yet to read anything which explains in a structural manner how writings like Justice ARE poetry and NOT prose, along with many other factors. Skip the vague praise for a minute, and go over what is happening in the words, and, in the over-all tone and sound of the sentences. (Michael Cantor said I seem to only focus on particular words and not the rest of the poem.)

Moving on to Absences

'It’s snowing this afternoon and there are no flowers.'

I am sorry, but this makes me throw up. It sounds retarded.
Or maybe it is supposed to be computer talk. He sounds like he is on medication. Um, maybe there are no flowers because the season is Winter?--is the immediate response. OH, I get it,

'Now, only these poor snow-flowers in a heap..'
Petals. Um, is he certain about 'only these?' and not the others?

The rest of the poem is strictly faking it all the way. And, it is completely telly, no showy. (Ok, it is a sad poem. I am not talking about the subject.)

Of course, I might be wrong. I wonder if anyone will agree with me on these issues.

TJ

Tennesse Williams said, "There are many other things to live for other than happiness." Live on TV, on one of those shows like Johny Carson, and when the interviewer paled, Williams immediately got bored with the dolt for lack of communication and shallowness and soon left.