[Janice D. Soderling]

Jerome, I know what they are and I wish I had one in my attic. What I said was (I hope) that when unusual or longish words appear in a workshop poem, the advice is often given to ditch them. Added in. I keep wondering why he chose that word and not "laterna magica, or "magic lantern", but the reason may very well be that those words were too obvious for what he wants the poem to do. Or that may have been the common word for it in the era he speaks of. (Like "gramophone" or "the wireless"). I'm not saying the word is wrong. Justice was a superior craftsman as far as I am concerned and as David insightful comment points up.

In a poem about reflection, projection, illusion, it's as if the form itself were enacting a shimmering mirrored surface--symmetries that are broken just slightly, just enough to create a sense of instability.

Chris, I haven't looked at the dates of all the selected poems, but I'm surprised to hear the story. Adrienne Rich does has an excerpt from her Forward--as do several others--I think I'll go read Bloom's forward and find out what he had for inclusion criteria.

Dean, I couldn't find anything about the poem in "The Art of..." but it wasn't time wasted to go look. It is an excellent book and I'm keeping it close to hand for a while rather than put it back on the shelf.

I think David has answered my question. An insightful commentary.

Thanks for all the responses to this question.

[Janice D. Soderling]

Now I have read the Forward by Harold Bloom and he states in no uncertain terms that he has not chosen from the 1996 Anthology. Sadly, that is one of the BAPs I do not own, but it does make me want to get a copy. The reasons he gives are similar to the reasons that flourished during the public debate on the recent Rita Dove anthology.

[Jerome Betts]

Janice, my mistake. I'd only come across 'stereopticon' before back in the 60s in Adrienne Cecile Rich's The Evil Eye in Readings of History.

Last night we sat with the stereopticon
Laughing at genre views of 1906 . . .

I assumed it was the American English for the hand-held stereoscope with a sliding frame to hold double images on card, which is the thing in my attic inherited from grandparents,

Doesn't really affect Rich's poem, but I now see a stereopticon was a stereoscopic projector or 'magic lantern, as you say. Sorry about the confusion.

[Janice D. Soderling]

Actually, Jerome, I think the word works in its context no matter which image the mind conjures up.

This poem certainly grows on one.

I am puzzled though about the omission and can't but think that Bloom is making a larger statement by skipping Adrienne Rich's collection. It fits his crusade or agenda or whatever one choses to call it. And it likely created a great deal of publicity.

There is a list of the poems in that 1996 collection and some of my personal favorite poets (Sherman Alexie (who I am going to write a paper on soon), Alberto Alvaro Ríos, Margaret Atwood, Jane Kenyon, Ai) and their 1996 BAP poems are excluded.

I agree that the poems I recognize aren't in the the high diction poetry tradition of say, Wilbur, Hecht, Hollander et al, (who are also dear to my heart) but they represent is contemporary "best" poetry, by which I mean they move the reader (me) intellectually and/or emotionally or both, they are memorable--once read one remembers them. I would chose any of them as poetry over the one- act play by Thomas M. Disch "The Cardinal Detoxes: A Play in One Act", which was chosen by Bloom as "best poetry". No offense to Thomas M. Disch as I would love to see that 14-page play performed on stage.

I recognized some old favorites in the 1996:

"b o d y"

James Merrill,

Look closely at the letters. Can you see,
entering (stage right), then floating full,
then heading off—so soon—
how like a little kohl-rimmed moon
o plots her course from b to d

—as y, unanswered, knocks at the stage door?
Looked at too long, words fail,
phase out. Ask, now that body shines
no longer, by what light you learn these lines
and what the b and d stood for

***

Morning in the Burned House

by Margaret Atwood
In the burned house I am eating breakfast.
You understand: there is no house, there is no breakfast,
yet here I am.

The spoon which was melted scrapes against
the bowl which was melted also.
No one else is around.

Where have they gone to, brother and sister,
mother and father? Off along the shore,
perhaps. Their clothes are still on the hangers,

their dishes piled beside the sink,
which is beside the woodstove
with its grate and sooty kettle,

every detail clear,
tin cup and rippled mirror.
The day is bright and songless,

the lake is blue, the forest watchful.
In the east a bank of cloud
rises up silently like dark bread.

I can see the swirls in the oilcloth,
I can see the flaws in the glass,
those flares where the sun hits them.

I can't see my own arms and legs
or know if this is a trap or blessing,
finding myself back here, where everything

in this house has long been over,
kettle and mirror, spoon and bowl,
including my own body,

including the body I had then,
including the body I have now
as I sit at this morning table, alone and happy,

bare child's feet on the scorched floorboards
(I can almost see)
in my burning clothes, the thin green shorts

and grubby yellow T-shirt
holding my cindery, non-existent,
radiant flesh. Incandescent.

I see that the 25th Anniversary Best of BAP edited by Robert Pinsky remedies this to some extent.

So I suppose I'll have to try to scrape up the dough for Pinksy's and Rich's anthologies.

Thanks again, everyone who helped me think about this poem and its place in a greater context.