[Robert J. Clawson]

I want to toss into this wonderful forum what I consider a "contemporary" masterpiece, a poem that haunts me, not just because of its subject and its masterful story-telling, but also because of its remarkable usage, its imagery, and the turning of its couplets, their drama.

In the Kalahari Desert

The sun rose like a tarnished
looking-glass to catch the sun

and flash His hot message
at the missionaries below--

Isabella and the Rev. Roger Price,
and the Helmores with a broken axle

left, two days behind, at Fever Ponds.
The wilderness was full of home:

a glinting beetle on its back
struggled like an orchestra

with Beethoven. The Halle,
Isabella thought and hummed.

Makololo, their Zulu guide,
puzzled out the Bible, replacing

words he didn't know with Manchester.
Spikenard, alabaster, Leviticus,

were Manchester and Manchester.
His head reminded Mrs Price

of her old pomander stuck with cloves,
forgotten in some pungent tallboy.

The dogs drank under the wagon
with a far away clip-clopping sound,

and Roger spat into the fire,
leaned back and watched his phlegm

like a Welsh rarebit
bubbling on the brands . . .

When Baby died, they sewed her
in a scrap of carpet and prayed,

with milk still darkening
Isabella's grubby button-through.

Makololo was sick next day
and still the Helmores didn't come.

The outspanned oxen moved away
at night in search of water,

were caught and goaded on
to Matabele water-hole--

nothing but a dark stain on the sand.
Makololo drank vinegar and died.

Back they turned for Fever Ponds
and found the Helmores on the way . . .

Until they got within a hundred yards,
the vultures bobbed and trampolined

around the bodies, then swirled
a mile above their heads

like scalded tea leaves.
The Prices buried everything--

all the tattered clothes and flesh,
Mrs Helmore's bright chains of hair,

were wrapped in bits of calico
then given to the sliding sand.

"In the beginning was the Word'--
Roger read from Helmore's Bible

found open at St. John.
Isabella moved her lips,

'The Word was Manchester'.
Shhh, shhh, the shovel said. Shhh . . .

Craig Raine


[This message has been edited by Robert J. Clawson (edited April 25, 2001).]

[ewrgall]

Originally posted by Robert J. Clawson:
I want to toss into this wonderful forum what I consider a contemporary masterpiece, a poem that haunts me, not just because of its subject and its masterful story-telling, but also because of its remarkable usage, its imagery, and the turning of its couplets, their drama.

I have turned to this post a couple times and read this poem through a couple times each time. I agree with you.

The setup for the ending when the Word of the bible, after the horrors they have experienced, becomes to Isabella something she no longer understands ("The Word was Manchester") works perfectly though it took me a couple readings to put it together. The Shhh, shhh, of the shovel telling Isabella to be silent is brilliant. This is a poem that shows and does not tell.

I am a little confused by the opening lines though. (answering myself)--Giving it some consideration over night I now understand the first lines and have come back to answer my own query. The sun is being compared to a signaling mirror and the light it is throwing off is not self-created but a reflection of Jesus's light--His message--His hot message. (One thinks the words "to catch the sun" should be read "to catch the Son".) The missionaries (who have been preaching the message of Jesus) are going to receive a message from Jesus and the poem tells what that message says---not what it means. To Isabella the message--the Word--is "Manchester".

I am curious how this poem was written. Reading it I get the feeling that this is a synopsis of either a published story or a diary---as if someone took another literary work and cut it down to its bare bones and made a poem out of it. I feel there is an originating document somewhere. Anybody know?

Again adding to my original post I think it interesting to point out that this poem basically asks the same question as Blake does in his "Tiger". What is the point of evil in this world? What type of God would create evil? Raine's poem lays its stress on Jesus, questioning whether the new testament Son is truly benevolent as advertised---or really just as malevolent as his old testament Father.

ewrgall




[This message has been edited by ewrgall (edited April 27, 2001).]

[A. E. Stallings]

Bob,

Thanks for sharing this strange and strangely powerful poem. I enjoyed it very much.

Pardon my ignorance--Craig Raine is one of those names I see mentioned a lot, but whose work I'm not all that familiar with (I must confess to some general ignorance of the UK scene). Is he the guy who started the Martian Poetry "school"? Or am I confusing him with someone else?

Alicia

[SteveWal]

Alicia -

Yep - he's the one. Generally very trendy in the 80's, rather passe nowadays. I was dazzled by it myself for about six months, before I realised just how artificial it was. This one is actually not that bad; but I can't bear to read most of it nowadays. They were generally out to create as many startling similies and metaphors as possible, but here Craig Raine restrains himself and tells a moving story.

If you want to read a poet who could write like the Martians, but with oodles more talent, and do it as naturally as breathing (rather than as a self-conscious creation of style), you should try Norman MacCaig.

Since this time, when he actually produced a few good poems, Craig Raine has written less and less well, in inverse proportion to his ego, which continues to reach for the moon. History, A Home Movie and A La Recherche du Temps Perdu (yes, really, how arrogant is that?) would both make good toilet paper if you're running out.

------------------
Steve Waling

[Robert J. Clawson]

"...you should try Norman MacCaig."

Steve, please post one or lead us to a website. These guys aren't easy to find in the States.

Thanks,

Bob

[Barbara Ann Smith]

RJ- I like this poem. I have read it several times
and enjoy it every time. Regards, Barb.

[Nigel Holt]

Bob,

This is stunning. It is surgically sharp in its detail - the milk darkening her shirt, the spit as welsh rarebit, the conducting beetle - this with the casual horror of the death of the child and the macabre antics of the vultures leave me agog. I didn't even get to the symbolism.

Why this poem has not been anthologised defeats me (or perhaps it has?).

I have only seen one other poem by Raine:

A Martian Sends A Postcard Home

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

I have never seen one fly, but
sometimes they perch on the hand.

Mist is when the sky is tired of flight
and rests its soft machine on ground:

then the world is dim and bookish
like engravings under tissue paper.

Rain is when the earth is television.
It has the property of making colours darker.

Model T is a room with the lock inside -
a key is turned to free the world

for movement, so quick there is a film
to watch for anything missed.

But time is tied to the wrist
or kept in a box, ticking with impatience.

In homes, a haunted apparatus sleeps,
that snores when you pick it up.

If the ghost cries, they carry it
to their lips and soothe it to sleep

with sounds. And yet they wake it up
deliberately, by tickling with a finger.

Only the young are allowed to suffer
openly. Adults go to a punishment room

with water but nothing to eat.
They lock the door and suffer the noises

alone. No one is exempt
and everyone's pain has a different smell.

At night when all the colours die,
they hide in pairs

and read about themselves -
in colour, with their eyelids shut.

-- Craig Raine

I also found out that he did an acclaimed poem called "In the Mortuary", but am unable to locate an online copy.

Nigel

[ewrgall]

Originally posted by Nigel Holt:
I have only seen one other poem by Raine:

A Martian Sends A Postcard Home

Caxtons are mechanical birds with many wings
and some are treasured for their markings -

they cause the eyes to melt
or the body to shriek without pain.

And so on......

This is a terrible poem! Is "In the Kilahari Desert" an exception and this poem "A Martian Sends A Postcard Home" typical of him? What to say---I just dont know.

ewrgall




[This message has been edited by ewrgall (edited April 25, 2001).]

[Robert J. Clawson]

"This is a terrible poem! Is "In the Kilahari Desert" an exception and this poem "A Martian Sends A Postcard Home" typical of him? What to say---I just dont know."

Ewrgall, some questions:

Did you read this as persistently as you did "Kalahari Desert"?

Let's posit that "Martian Sends a Postcard" IS a terrible poem: should we pray for Raine to stick to narrative poems? Are there other examples of his narrative work that would justify this question?

Was he one time lucky?

Can a poet write a wonderful poem and become a "master"?

If a baseball pitcher throws a no-hitter, he goes automatically to the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Hank Aaron greatly exceeded Babe Ruth's home-run output, but white fans still revere The Babe. Aaron persisted and over time produced more "great poems." But Babe Ruth remains the symbol of the slugger. Why?

What makes a "master," a singular great performance or many great performances? Many remarkable artists die young (Hart Crane; Bunny Berrigan), having produced some great work. Many produce a great piece, but live and fizzle.

Should we concentrate on the value of a singularly fine poem and simply ignore the output, the ouvre, the biography, and, particularly, the School?

I posted this poem trying to adhere to the title of this forum: "Musing on Mastery." In my mind, and ear, there's no question that "Kalahari" is an example of "mastery." Whether it's the work of a "master" may be another question.

On a website where Robert Frost (not unlike Hank Aaron) doesn't always cut it, I'm curious whether less well-known poets can score for a singularly powerful poem.

Bob



[This message has been edited by Robert J. Clawson (edited April 25, 2001).]

[ewrgall]

"This is a terrible poem! Is "In the Kilahari Desert" an exception and this poem "A Martian Sends A Postcard Home" typical of him? What to say---I just don't know."

Ewrgall, some questions:

Did you read this as persistently as you did "Kalahari Desert"? Why would I bother?

Was he one time lucky? Can a poet write a wonderful poem and become a "master"?I have argued that a poet is always as good as his best poem (why we should respect poets in their dotage) but the question you ask is slightly different. It could be restated as--if a monkey pounding on a typewriter produces a great poem, is he a master?--but we also have to take into consideration that "great" poets produce only a few truly "great" poems--so are "great" poets merely "luckier" than other poets? Are "great" poets merely VERY lucky monkeys pounding on their typewriters? I would prefer to think that luck has nothing to do with writing a great poem--inspiration yes--but not luck. Give the poet who writes a great poem his due--call him a master. There are so few great poems written, even if we err every time a great poem comes along, we will be making few mistakes.

Should we concentrate on the value of a singularly fine poem and simply ignore the output, the ouvre, the biography, and, particularly, the School? The study of poetry and the enjoyment of poetry are two completely different things---almost mutually exclusive. This is why academics have such bad judgment about "new" poets. (What are the "language poets" but a horrible academic misjudgment?) The reality is that "output", "the ouvre"(that is a new one to me) "the biography" and "the school" all become less and less significant over time. Only the good poems last. (Actually that point is disproved by the fact that lately we have been posting on this site some "bad" poems by some "great" poets.) But again we live in a time of poor poetry---without much "great" poetry around what is there to hold our attention but "the output" "the ouvre" "the biography" and "the school"? We wait for Godot and argue from the garbage cans.

I posted this poem trying to adhere to the title of this forum: "Musing on Mastery." In my mind, and ear, there's no question that "Kalahari" is an example of "mastery." Whether it's the work of a "master" may be another question.
On a website where Robert Frost (not unlike Hank Aaron) doesn't always cut it, I'm curious whether less well-known poets can score for a singularly powerful poem.Well, I liked it.

ewrgall







[This message has been edited by ewrgall (edited April 27, 2001).]