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  #41  
Unread 04-07-2017, 06:49 PM
William A. Baurle William A. Baurle is offline
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I'm going Gluck on you again.

I find her subjects profound and her expression unique and excellent in almost every way, except that she has a tendency to veer away from the concrete and rely on abstractions, particularly in her longer poems. Her short poems are usually better. This gem was included in Edward Field's seminal anthology of American poetry, A Geography of Poets, in 1979, but doesn't seem to be one of her more popular poems. Why, I can't figure out. I'm posting it mainly because of the discussion going on in Richard Meyer's thread, "Good Friday".

***

The Gift

Lord, you may not recognize me
speaking for someone else.
I have a son. He is
so little, so ignorant.
He likes to stand
at the screen door, calling
oggie, oggie, entering
language, and sometimes
a dog will stop and come up
the walk, perhaps
accidentally. May he believe
this is not an accident.
At the screen
welcoming each beast
in love’s name, Your emissary.

— Louise Gluck
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  #42  
Unread 04-07-2017, 08:31 PM
John Isbell John Isbell is offline
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This seems like a decent time to plug the Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters, of which this is fairly representative:

"Mickey McGrew

It was just like everything else in life:
Something outside myself drew me down,
My own strength never failed me.
Why, there was the time I earned the money
With which to go away to school,
And my father suddenly needed help
And I had to give him all of it.
Just so it went till i ended up
A man-of-all-work in Spoon River.
Thus when I got the water-tower cleaned,
And they hauled me up the seventy feet,
I unhooked the rope from my waist,
And laughingly flung my giant arms
Over the smooth steel lips of the top of the tower -
But they slipped from the treacherous slime,
And down, down, down, I plunged
Through bellowing darkness!"
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  #43  
Unread 04-08-2017, 05:23 PM
John Isbell John Isbell is offline
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I like this thread, and was wondering whom I'd post here: Seferis? Elytis?
But I think I'll put in Yehuda Amichai, in Bloch and Mitchell's version:

"The Diameter of the Bomb

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city that she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I won't even mention the howl of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God."

John

Last edited by John Isbell; 04-09-2017 at 06:33 AM. Reason: Quotation marks fixed per Bill's suggestion
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  #44  
Unread 04-09-2017, 04:24 AM
William A. Baurle William A. Baurle is offline
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Crushing poem, John.** It reminds me of some of the more God-critical poems of one of my favorite poets (at one time my favorite poet), Menke Katz. Katz doesn't find "no God" as Amichai seems to in this poem, but he is extremely critical of God, and goes about it fearlessly. The Big Kahuna's Big, after all, and He/She can take it. Who needs a shrinking-violet god who can't handle criticism? I guess certain people do. I shouldn't be so flippant.

Technical problem: I see quotation marks at the end of the poem but I can't find where the quote begins?

J.D. McClatchy's The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry contains many of Amichai's poems, but not that one. Thanks!

*

I just discovered a beaut' from a poet I've only known from two or three anthologies, and those being old ones. I decided to finally do a search, and I was delighted to see he has a website, with an offering of poems. The first one I read hit me in the gut. It feels like it just couldn't have been an accident to have thought to look for this particular poet at this particular time, and to find a poem that hits me so hard, no less, being that it's along the lines of what I've been thinking obsessively about: The possibility* of God, or a god-like Being, making mistakes, and bungling things up, and trying like hell to fix things.

*Nota: I say "possibility". I am not putting forth a proposition to be considered as an actual hypothesis - I'm just a poet (I hope that's what I am, because if I'm not, boy oh boy do I ever need to find another hobby) thinking out loud, wearing his heart, and his few remaining marbles, on his sleeve.

On to the poem, which by the way is formatted with a lot of indentation on the web-page, but I will not take the trouble to do it here, as it requires too many x's and too much finger work:

**Edited in 4.10.17: just click "quote" and you can see the proper indentation.

***

Lot's Wife

Lot’s wife,
she knew.
But how little
we learn about her.
Some say
she was named Edith, but later
she may have
taken a different name, a
different language,
in another country. Was she
sad, as they claimed,
and disobedient to turn and look?
Was she punished, as they claimed,
and became a pillar of salt?

Some say she
and the others
had seen it coming,
long before the two angels
appeared
with their warning of
catastrophe.

God would try and fail

(again).

The old methods, napalm,
mass slaughter,
would lead where
they usually led: guerrilla war,
resistance that lasts for
centuries; underground
networks
where pleasure makes its own
rules, identities are hidden and
the labyrinth of tunnels grows
ever longer and
deeper.

I leave it for you to decide. The supposed winners
write these tales.

Some say
she was part of the underground
and her disguise worked and she
vanished into history leaving
behind only a story still taken as a warning
and a truth.

— Lou Lipsitz

***
**I hope to be able to say something about your poem in Metrical, once I get my thoughts about it collected sufficiently. May take a few hours, or a few days...but it will come.

Last edited by William A. Baurle; 04-24-2017 at 11:03 PM.
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  #45  
Unread 04-09-2017, 06:49 AM
John Isbell John Isbell is offline
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Good morning, Bill,

And doubly thank you for sharing the Lipsitz: the poem is great and I've never heard of him. I love when this starts happening:

"The old methods, napalm,
mass slaughter,
would lead where
they usually led"

How true. Amichai made a great impression on me when i first discovered him, not least for this bomb poem, but he's worth a volume in his own right. May I recommend the Bloch/Mitchell? Mitchell also does a great job with Rilke in Ahead of All Parting, which has the German facing. Amichai is no atheist, but a bomb can make a person wonder.
Your posts are always thought-provoking, Bill, which life deserves more of.

OK, I'll randomly post a Seferis poem now, in Keeley and Sherrard's version:

"Interlude of Joy

That whole morning we were full of joy,
my God, how full of joy.
First, stone leaves and flowers shone
then the sun
a huge sun all thorns and so high in the sky.
A nymph collected our cares and hung them on the trees
a forest of Judas trees.
Young cupids and satyrs played there and sang
and you could see rose-colored limbs among the black laurels
flesh of little children.
The whole morning long we were full of joy;
the abyss a closed well
tapped by the tender hoof of a young faun.
Do you remember its laugh - how full of joy!
Then clouds rain and the wet earth,
you stopped laughing when you lay down in the hut
and opened your large eyes as you watched
the archangel practicing with a fiery sword -
'Inexplicable,' you said, 'inexplicable.
I don't understand people:
no matter how much they play with colors
they all remain pitch-black.'"

Cheers,
John
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  #46  
Unread 04-09-2017, 04:51 PM
Ian Hoffman Ian Hoffman is offline
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Well, I've been quite busy lately and this thread has grown immensely. I can't respond to everything, but I just want to say, William, that I'm also a fan of Reznikoff's work, which I read semi-in-depth (that's how I am with most readings: semi-in-depth) years ago. The poem you posted of his is good; so are many others. I remember this particularly:

A Son with a Future

When he was four years old, he stood at the window during a
....thunderstorm. His father, a tailor, sat on the table sewing.
....He came up to his father and said, “I know what makes
....thunder: two clouds knock together.”
When he was older, he recited well-known rants at parties.
....They all said that he would be a lawyer.
At law school he won a prize for an essay. Afterwards, he
....became the chum of an only son of rich people. They
....were said to think the world of the young lawyer.
The Appellate Division considered the matter of his disbarment.
....His relatives heard rumours of embezzlement.

When a boy, to keep himself at school, he had worked in a
....drug store.
Now he turned to this half-forgotten work, among perfumes
....and pungent drugs, quiet after the hubble-bubble of the
....courts and the search in law books.
He had just enough money to buy a drug store in a side
....street.
Influenza broke out. The old tailor was still keeping his shop
....and sitting cross-legged on the table sewing, but he was
....half-blind.
He, too, was taken sick. As he lay in bed he thought, “What a
....lot of money doctors and druggists must be making; now
....is my son’s chance.”
They did not tell him that his son was dead of influenza.


Basically a short story, but a freakin' good one.
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  #47  
Unread 04-09-2017, 11:29 PM
William A. Baurle William A. Baurle is offline
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Thanks for the Reznikoff, Ian. Yeah, a lot of his poetry reads like prose, especially his lengthy recastings of Biblical stories. But they are always eminently readable, and contain unique insights. His short poems are sometimes dazzlingly good, and one wonders why he wasn't more recognized. Not that he wasn't notable - but I feel there are hundreds of poets more widely-read and lauded than Reznikoff who couldn't shine his shoes poetically.

John - thanks for alerting me to Seferis. Remarkably, he's not included in McClatchy's World Poetry anthology, as I've just discovered. I always love meeting a new poet.

Now for a great poem by a great poet. It's been anthologized, but I reckon many here, and the lurkers, will not know of it. I love this for its sense of desolation in nature, but perfect one-ness with nature. I tend to relish any poem that deals with contraries, and their necessity. The balance of nature, I guess you'd say.

***

If The Owl Calls Again

at dusk
from the island in the river,
and it's not too cold,

I'll wait for the moon
to rise,
then take wing and glide
to meet him.

We will not speak,
but hooded against the frost
soar above
the alder flats, searching
with tawny eyes.

And then we'll sit
in the shadowy spruce
and pick the bones
of careless mice,

while the long moon drifts
toward Asia
and the river mutters
in its icy bed.

And when the morning climbs
the limbs
we'll part without a sound,

fulfilled, floating
homeward as
the cold world awakens.

— John Haines

***

I notice we've gone headlong toward free-verse in this thread. My next choice will be from a formalist, or at least a formal poem. Gotta remember, we're at the Sphere, after all.

Last edited by William A. Baurle; 04-24-2017 at 11:04 PM.
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  #48  
Unread 04-09-2017, 11:54 PM
Ian Hoffman Ian Hoffman is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by William A. Baurle View Post
I notice we've gone headlong toward free-verse in this thread. My next choice will be from a formalist, or at least a formal poem. Gotta remember, we're at the Sphere, after all.
Lol. Any good contemporary formal poetry MUST dialogue with free-verse: and visa-versa, I'd say. Free verse is the dominant form, after all, and I think all good formalists are aware of that whether they acknowledge it or not. So, I think discussing free-verse is entirely useful, whether we write it or not.

Beyond that, I like the Haines. I'd never heard of him. Will investigate.

Ian
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  #49  
Unread 04-10-2017, 12:39 AM
William A. Baurle William A. Baurle is offline
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Quote:
Originally Posted by Ian Hoffman View Post
Lol. Any good contemporary formal poetry MUST dialogue with free-verse: and visa-versa, I'd say.

Ian
I agree. Two of the best American poets wrote in formal verse and free verse: James Wright and Theodore Roethke. There are many others. Geoffrey Hill, Stevens, Pound, Eliot, on and on it goes.

That being said, the formalists have a point that so much contemporary poetry is churned out - or so it appears - without much attention to craft: just spilled out onto the page like so much soup.

Hey - Poetry Soup? Now there's a nifty name for a website...

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  #50  
Unread 04-10-2017, 03:35 AM
John Isbell John Isbell is offline
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I like the Haines (though does the Moon set in Asia?), and Reznikoff's last line is brutal. Both new to me, thanks.
The Vintage book fills a void, but misses stuff: Seferis, who won the Nobel Prize, Cavafy (a bit old), Seifert (who also won the Nobel Prize). These are serious gaps, IMO. I didn't notice Montale or Quasimodo, who also both won the Nobel Prize. I'm just saying it is a (crude) benchmark, and seem to be a reason to have Transtroemer. Does it have Walcott or Brodsky or Heaney, Nobel Prizewinners all?
I'll post a Seifert, then a Soyinka it lacks.

"A Song at the End

Listen: about little Hendele.
She came back to me yesterday
and she was tewnty-four already.
And as graceful as Shulamite.

She wore an ash-grey squirrel fur
and a pert little cap
and round her neck she'd tied a scarf
the color of pale smoke.

Hendele, how well this suits you!
I thought that you were dead
and meanwhile you have grown more beautiful.
I am glad you've come!

How wrong you are, dear friend!
I've been dead twenty years,
and very well you know it.
I've only come to meet you."

Jaroslav Seifert


And Soyinka:

"Massacre, October '66

Written in Tegel

Shards of sunlight touch me here
Shredded i nwillows. Through stained-glass
Fragments on the lake I sought to reach
A mind at silt-bed

The lake stayed cold
I swam in an October flush of dying leaves
The gardener's labour flew in seasoned scrolls
Lettering the wind

Swept from painted craft
A mockery of waves remarked this idyll sham
I trod on acorns; each shell's detonation
Aped the skull's uniqueness.

Came sharper reckoning -
This favored food of hogs cannot number high
As heads still harshly crop to whirlwinds
I have briefly fled

The oak rains a hundred more
A kind confusion to arithmetics of death:
Time to watch autumn the removal man
Dust down rare canvases

To let a loud resolve of passion
Fly to a squirrel, burnished light and copper fur
A distant stance without the lake's churchwindows
And for a stranger, love.

A host of acorns fell, silent
As they are silenced all, whose laughter
Rose from such indifferent paths, oh God
They are not strangers all

Whose desecration mocks the word
Of peace -salaam aleikun - not strangers any
Brain of thousands pressed asleep to pig fodder -
Shun pork the unholy - cries the priest.

I borrow seasons of an alien land
In brotherhood of ill, pride of race around me
Strewn in sunlit shards. I borrow alien lands
To stay the season of a mind."

Wole Soyinka


I have a Soyinka volume these days, but discovered him in a little book called Modern Poetry from Africa years ago, which may still be in print. Saw him give a speech once.

Last edited by John Isbell; 04-10-2017 at 06:22 AM. Reason: added poets' names per Bill's suggestion
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