Mike Snider's Formal Blog at the Sonnetarium :
poems, mostly metrical, and rants and raves on poets, poetry, and the po-biz



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Mike Snider's Formal Blog at the Sonnetarium

Tuesday, June 29, 2004

I got some good advice and made some changes. Anything newly broken is my fault.

Medical Advice

My father was the strongest man I knew.
One day I found him lying on his back
And stood, grinning, on his right hand. He threw
Me, seventeen, just like an empty sack.
At fifty-nine he carried railroad ties
All weekend for the backyard garden border
And said, "My arm feels strange." No real surprise,
But something frightened Mom. She gave an order:
"We find a doctor now." While signing forms
He coughed and fell. Nine times they shocked his heart.
When I got there he'd shrunk, once-mighty arms
All tubed and wired. He took the comforter's part,
Joking "I wouldn't recommend this, son,"
While almost shrugging, "for just anyone."

I've put drafts for this, starting with the poem I once thought was done, at the Draft House here.

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Sunday, June 27, 2004

I ended up playing a 3 hour gig Friday with Nothin Fancy, a local southern-rock/country band, and then off and on all day yesterday with several different bands at a benefit. I'm beat. My brain, I think, is somewhere at the Tall Timbers marina. Likely there'll be no new poems from me this weekend.

But I did go back and fix (I hope) the metrical problems in this poem, originally written about 5 years ago:

Medical Advice

My father was the strongest man I knew.
One day I found him lying on his back
And stood, grinning, on his right hand — he threw
Me, seventeen, just like an empty sack.
And nearly sixty, carrying railroad ties
All weekend for the garden, the next day
His arm felt strange — perhaps no real surprise —
But he told mom, and mom decided they
Should find a doctor now. While signing forms,
He coughed and fell. Nine times they shocked his heart.
When I got there he'd shrunk, once-mighty arms
All wired and tubed. He took the comforter's part,
Joking "I wouldn't recommend this, son,"
While almost shrugging, "for just anyone."

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Thursday, June 24, 2004

No rants tonight because I'm playing music. And I notice there's no longer any new poetry on the front page: I'll fix that before the weekend's over.

Blogged from webmail

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Wednesday, June 23, 2004

One wonderful thing about metrical poetry is that no one needs to know an iamb from a hole in the ground in order to enjoy it. People are born liking a rhythm regular enough to be noticed and varied enough to be interesting, and we have to be taught otherwise. In human cultures the play of meter across speech is apparently universal.

We also like to know how things work, and many people find their enjoyment of poetry to be enhanced if they can recognize the basic meters. If we also want to make poems, such a skill can be immensely valuable, and, along with rhetoric and logic, it is teachable, unlike vision or judgement or taste. It is a shame and a waste to expect any but the most extraordinary young writers to depend solely upon their inspiration to make poetry, but that is what we do when we fail to teach the skills that enabled generations of writers to produce enjoyable, memorable journeyman's poems — like much of Wordsworth.

J. V. Cunningham put it like this:

For My Contemporaries

How time reverses
The proud in heart!
I now make verses
Who aimed at art.

But I sleep well.
Ambitious boys
Whose big lines swell
With spiritual noise,

Despise me not,
And be not queasy
To praise somewhat:
Verse is not easy.

But rage who will,
Time that procured me
Good sense and skill
Of madness cured me.

Even so, there's no denying that good and even great poetry gets written without the traditional meters and by poets who have only a passing acquaintance with them. But it's perniciously absurd to argue that critics of English poetry do not need to be able to recognize the most characteristic of English meters, the iambic pentameter. That Charles Bernstein either lacks that skill or can't be bothered to use it when he's arguing may say nothing about his poetry. It may be that he or Marjorie Perloff or other similarly challenged critics have useful or important things to say when they confine their attention to things about which they care enough to use what skills they might have. They still deserve ridicule when they are ridiculous, and there's clearly no reason at all to take them seriously when they write about meter or metrical poems.

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Tuesday, June 22, 2004

I lied. There's really no way, in the hour or so I might have for blogging, to seriously address accentual-syllabic prosody. Nor is there any need for any cute monkey, let alone an old fat grey one like me, to defend metrical practice from ignorant ranting. But there are, maybe, a couple of common misconceptions about meter that I can clear up.

The first is that metrical stress distorts the ordinary rhythms of speech, forcing unnatural emphasis on unimportant words. You've all heard it done:

The GREAT ofFENsive IN the EAST beGAN
this MORNing AS our FORCes OVerRAN

Despite that being an accurate scansion, no one with a feel for the language or for meter would read the lines from Dana Gioia's "News from Nineteen Eighty-Four" that way. There are three, or perhaps four, speech stresses in each, and they coincide with the metrical stresses in a normative iambic pentameter. So do "in" and "as," but they are certainly not stressed in a good reading. Nevertheless, it is no distortion for "in" to take slightly more emphasis than "sive," or "as" more than "ing."

Now, meter can sometimes guide us how to read. In that same poem, after 27 lines of almost completely regular pentameter (two initial trochees in the third stanza and some feminine endings are hardly variations), the fourth stanza begins "The fires at the docks have been contained," which, in another poem, could easily be scanned The FIRES at the DOCKS have BEEN conTAINED — iamb, anapest, iamb, iamb, a foot short. Here, however, "fire" is helped by the meter to its full dipthonged glory, rhyming with "higher," and perhaps slowing the line down to allow a very slight touch on "at."

A second misconception is that a metrical scheme requires that every foot in a poem conform to that scheme.* As it happens, "News from Nineteen Eighty-Four" is dedicated to James Fenton, who wrote a metrical analysis of Tennyson's "Break, Break, Break," which demonstrates just how much variation is possible. Most of the poem is vaguely anapestic trimeter, but the first lines of stanzas one and four are just the three words of the title, and the third lines of stanzas three and four are tetrameter. Only three lines are purely anapestic; only one pair of consecutive lines (the beginning of the third stanza) has exactly the same scansion in each line. In lesser hands it would be a riot, but Tennyson has made it a marvelously expressive series of variations.

My only complaint about Fenton's piece is that, at its end, he makes Tennyson seem an unselfconscious wild thing "exerting his free will" who would necessarily have hesitated before describing the prosody of his poem. Horse-hockey. Tennyson may not have begun thinking "Why don't I start a poem with something really obscure, like a molossus?" but he damned sure knew that that was what he had done.

*Yeah, I know, I just wrote that knowing a line to be pentameter can stretch "fire" into two syllables. But we do sometimes say it that way, and, even so, only an extremely regular meter allows such things. BTW, that near-lock-step meter is appropriate to the theme of Gioia's poem, but his expressive and skillful line-breaks and caesura-juggling keep it from being rhythmically boring. There's more than one way to skin a cat.

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Thanks to the Little Professor for the link, and welcome to those who've followed it here. Dr. Burstein is certainly correct in pointing out the allusion to Tennyson's "Break, Break, Break" in the last line of the excerpt from Georgia Douglas Johnson that Marjorie Perloff couldn't scan, and in noting that scansion is more than counting syllables. I think, however, that both she and I have been too brief, and it's time for a short lesson in accentual-syllabic prosody. I'll try to provide something tonight, but Timothy Steele's excellent "Introduction to Meter and Form" does much more than I'll be able to in a blog entry.

Blogged from webmail

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Saturday, June 19, 2004

I'm pleased to have found a new blog, Cuttlefish, with at least something of a formalist bent. I'm also jealous, because the anonymous blogger apparently has access to back-to-back readings, in London, by Michael Donaghy and Don Paterson.

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Thursday, June 17, 2004

Michael Donaghy alerted me to this passage from Marjorie Perloff's "Janus-Faced Blockbuster," on some lines by Georgia Douglas Johnson:

The heart of a woman goes forth with the dawn
As a lone bird, soft winging, so restlessly on;
Afar o'er life's turrets and vales does it roam
In the wake of those echoes the heart calls home.
The heart of a woman falls back with the night,
And enters some alien cage in its plight,
And tires to forget it has dreamed of the stars
While it breaks, breaks, breaks, on the sheltering bars. (1918)

These chug-chug iambic pentameter stanzas rhyming aabb remind one of a Hallmark card.

Uh-huh. And Charles Bernstein, in his "Poetics of the Americas," thought this, from Claude McKay, was pentameter:

Just to view de homeland England, in de streets of London walk

It appears to be contagious.

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Wednesday, June 16, 2004

Several times last week I walked within a few feet of Anthony Hecht. It's no surprise that he looks frail, but, when he speaks, he's a lion. I think I will regret that I never spoke to him — I told myself I would be intruding.

So I'm grateful to Jonathan Mayhew for pointing out that the current Formalist has webbed Richard Wilbur's lively and moving tribute to his old friend, "An Eightieth-Birthday Ballade for Anthony Hecht." Jonathan, I'm truly sorry that you cannot appreciate what Wilbur has made.

The rest of you, while you're at The Formalist, be sure to read Catherine Tufariello's "Chemist's Daughter."

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Michaela Cooper's Mikarrhea has moved, and I've added Mary Agner's Prosody and Perl to the blogroll. It was a real pleasure to meet Mary at West Chester last week.

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Monday, June 14, 2004

I don't know who said it because in my exhausted stupor yesterday I copied a folder from my iMac to my Powerbook instead of the other way around and lost my notes from the conference , but someone (Can you help me out Jilly? Mary?) at West Chester said that meter was like a lover, an intimate partner in a poem's creation. That is a perfect description of my experience, and the reason I sometimes believe in the Muses. There's more than one, of course, and some of them are men, and some are not moved by meter.

I've got about 30 emails to write to people I met or met again in the last two weeks: many thank yous and exclamations of wonder, and a few arguments. I've bought far too many books, and today I received my copy of the Women in the Avant Garde CD from Narrow House Recordings. And I'm still utterly exhausted. I think it's early bed tonight.

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Sunday, June 13, 2004

What's truly comical is Ron Silliman accusing anyone of having a tin ear. Here's a sample of his own deathless-because-it's-never-lived poetry, from 2197:

   Fog rain forms is high for low tide.

   Locating prior concept atop difficulty.

   Blind talking about color.

   This is the hang-up between handguns

and sex.

   Poem is an end.

   There are warrior song within a kite.

   The long we read into the page, the

less certain it did it does.

   Here the cells are sickling.

   Noise on the bus on their way to this.

   We went fill through the loomy forms.

   We arrived at the small fishing sensi-

tivity just as the language worked its way

over the information.

   The loud inventory of an old ontology.

   Popcorn feeding at woman.

That's from the third page out of more than a hundred, but I doubt even Silliman could put the stanzas back in their correct order after they'd been shuffled. He might argue that, because of the form (click here and search for the title, 2197), ear has nothing to do with this piece. Well, his "ear" told him it was good enough to try to publish. Some forms are more equal than others, I guess.

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I just got back from the West Chester University Poetry Conference and I am immensely tired, emotionally and physically, so I'll have to write later about the enlightened and enlightening conversations, about finally meeting Jilly Dybka, about having lunch with Lewis Turco, about being hugged by Rhina Espaillat, about the wonderfully talented poets and critics I met at meals, in the dorm, and in Tim Steele's very fine workshop, about Dana Gioia and Paul Salerni's new opera Tony Caruso's Last Broadcast, about Anthony Hecht and Paul Lake on the Religion and Poetry panel, about the extraordinary readings by Tim, Rhina, Lew, Sam Gwynn, Fred Chappell (he read only his student's work, and it was wonderful), Diane Thiel, Mark Jarman, Emily Grosholz, Molly Peacock, B. H. Fairchild, David Yezzi, Robert Darling, Meg Schoerke, Marilyn Nelson (a heroic crown of sonnets for Emmett Till), Glyn Maxwell, Kim Addonizio with her harmonica (Fairchild said "I know I'm supposed to give a poetry reading, but I feel like I should take a cold shower"), H. L. Hix, and David Mason. After things like marrying Deana or watching my daughter's birth, the last four days were among the best of my life. So I'm feeling charitable.

I've suggested before that Jonathan Mayhew doesn't understand how to read metrical poetry by people born after about 1930, and, after all, he did provide a link to the complete poem, so it is possible that he simply doesn't know how to read Tim Steele's rather beautiful "Toward the Winter Solstice." But, while I'm feeling charitable, some advice, Jonathan—the next time you want to talk trash about a poem, don't post just the second of five stanzas by someone who understands modulation and dynamics.

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Tuesday, June 8, 2004

Many thanks to Shanna Compton and Ernesto Priego for their kind words today. I'm packing for the West Chester Poetry Conference, where I may or may not have access to the net for blogging. If I don't, I'll be back Sunday. Be well and write well!

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Monday, June 7, 2004

During the Frost-bashing at the Spotted Dog in Carrboro, it was pointed out that, without "The Road Not Taken," fully half of American high school graduation speakers would have nothing to say. No one, not even I, pointed out that it's actually a pretty bizarre poem to present at such an occasion. Everyone knows that this is one of Frost's moral-pointing poems, and that he's saying that by refusing to blindly follow the majority one can find one's own true path: "I took the one less traveled by, / And that has made all the difference." But everyone's wrong.

Frost actually didn't write many moral-pointing poems, and when he did, the moral was seldom a comfortable one — think of "Provide, Provide" — and "The Road Not Taken" is steadfast in refusing to point a moral. It opens with a first person speaker telling about coming to a fork in the road and choosing one way over the other because "it was grassy and wanted wear" and immediately denies the fact: "Though as for that, the passing there / Had worn them really about the same." And then, after some fairly inconsequential business in the third verse, there's this very odd last verse:

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The fellow doesn't claim there's been any difference made at all: he says that in the future he'll tell people there was a difference because of taking the less-traveled road, which he's just finished saying wasn't actually less-traveled. It's not a bad way of describing what Frost did with his poetic career. The man was in London with Pound; he only farmed because he'd been given land he was required to work for a period of time before selling it; far from being homespun he was a sophisticated and calculating careerist.

And a damned good poet, rivalled only by Whitman among the Americans.

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Narrow House Recordings has produced a CD of the Women in the Avant Garde discussion and readings I attended at St Mary's College last year. It was an exciting day, and Narrow House has produced a 2-CD set featuring Carol Mirakove, Laura Elrick, Kristin Prevallet, Deborah Richards, and Heather Fuller, for only $17 shipping and handling. Buy it. Hmm—that URL ends "nhpurchasewomen.html." It's a shame that I live (here in Maryland) only about six miles from Kaia Sand, the event's organizer, but have never managed to meet again with her or her husband Jules Boykoff.

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Sunday, June 6, 2004

The really weird thing is that my knee disappeared when I was attempting to demonstrate the action in Rhina Espaillat's "Reservation," in which "the man across the table drops his head / mid-anecdote, just managing to clear / a basket of warm rolls and butter stacked / like little golden dice beside his ear." He was more graceful, but then, he was dead.

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Back from the Carrboro Poetry Festival, where I met Chris Murray, Kasey Mohammad, and Tony Tost, who with his fiancée Leigh had my wife and I in stitches. (Thanks, Deana, for going with me.) Clayton Couch disappeared after reading. Among those I heard but didn't get to realtime blog, I particularly enjoyed John Balaban (though my wife tells me Linh Dinh said that Balaban's Vietnamese is pretty much unintelligible) and Gerald Barrax, but almost everyone put on a good show. Randall Williams brought a Bush effigy; Hassan wanted to be reassured we weren't going to burn it. Patrick Herron, the organizer, deserves canonization. Take that how you will.

I didn't get to hear Chris or Kasey read because I had to drive back here, but we shared drinks (some of which I spilled in the lap of a poet named Murat when my knee gave out — that was weird) and poetry talk at the Spotted Dog. Only Leonard Nimoy was offered as a poet who couldn't kick Maya Angelou's ass, and that didn't get a consensus. There was some Frost-trashing as well, but Kasey and Murat defended "Death of the Hired Man" and "The Witch of Coos"; Chris and I would have helped but were at the next table and had a hard time being heard. "The Road Not Taken" was a popular target, and despite being a good place to take a discussion on narrative at our table, I kept quiet—I was already taking too many contrary positions and I was embarrassed about the drink-spilling. Tomorrow I'll show how post-modern "problematization" (that word's its own problem) of narrative ain't got nothing on Frost in that poem. Tonight I'm tired.

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"just two poems, one's a little longer than the other and they're both about computers"

"In the Beginning": two voices, God's and the computer's

God's password was "technocrat"

"Let there be light"
"Unrecognizable command: try again"
"Create light"
"And God saw there were zero errors"

"And God saw he had zero funds remaining"

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"Clever ironies cannot change our luck"

"We knew and we know these men / and are ashamed to be fooled again"

"crops withered as the shopping center flowered" (1954, Brown v Board of education, first shopping mall built on land bought from Billy Graham's father)

" shiny marked white(?) and a white one marked(?) colored, new but with a dripping drain"

"Google giveth and taketh away"

"tomato above, let us call this love"

"most poems are about analogy or confusion and I'm not always sure which is which"

"If the cat's tail ended in a plug or the blender were covered fur, you couldn't tell them apart"

"the idea of my own limb swinging down to beat me like a bloody club became a part of how I think of me as much of how I think of him"

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She liked my "Animals Without Backbones" shirt for the planaria

"Our universe has a way of squeezing everything before its born or reborn, like your hold on my tired organs"

"Blasphemous master, placate me now"

"Well-toned fractals make the landscape. What all am I host to?"

"Just one break and I'm broken"

"Weather sends me opposite the bird, yet I disappear out the window. Wind is something like this bird"

"Next days horn; last night's two short(?) gazes"

"indulge me … thanks!"

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First one to read from table where there's a handwritten sign, tall lower case letters, "lonely" He made the sign. But the table really was lonely.

from a first dinner at the grownup table "Not a crumb anywhere" and "never ever pass your bones to Dad to pick clean."

at a Quaker meeting: "This place was not safe for ants!" … "I wished him luck among all those shoes" … "It was a bad Sunday for both of us."

Snake Says We Got IT All Wrong: "Do those Bible-thumpers really think women are so dumb that even a snake can pull the wool over their eyes." "In your spare time from TV, think it over ."

nifty version of Eve's first days, about the deals made and not kept

"a sex poll--pole spelled with 2 ls and no e" … after wondering about average of 2 and half times a month "I wondered about that 2—was that a whole bunch of halves or even less?"

"OK I'm going to finish you off"

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First Poet Laureate of Carrboro

on a a cattle drive from montana: horses, "Their luminous brown eyes watching us for a signal. We give no signal … Letting them run without fear"

Gifts of a step mother"Conversation whenever, whatever … Caring not to cross into replacement"

"a certain after-dinner mind"

"perhaps it is a word like duende on page 276"

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Didn't have the juice to do the second session yesterday

He brought a Shrub doll!

"the difference, dear reader, between requests and demand is a ready red brick"

"yes we will show these hooligans--we will rub vacation and flesh in their faces"

"exurbia revolves around its satellites"

When the music stops al theses chairs get cul-de-sacced"

"Fortunately, we have a Texan for this Manichean matchup who penetrates where the germs live"

leaves presidential politics

"Darling, I've secured you like a bond."

"He keeps a drowned boy dead by heaving air in spurts"

From The Bigot's Boots: "When I lived in the silver box you rented to drive south I did not know you would give me boots"

and "Tonight I reach for Sherman's Torch and Atlanta flickers under my feet."

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Saturday, June 5, 2004

"from my little book"

"Satisfaction was imposed on every American"

"There was nothing behind the curtain but some great tits and a few thousand skulls"

"Two out of 3 Americans believe they are the 8th wonder of the world."

"For all the talk of shadows we are mostly blood."

About a hostage's hunger: "Like what happens to an incredibly tall man, he says, or a woman born with flippers"

"A word would come through the machine in a manner that surprosed us both": lovers, one of whom uses an "apparatus" to speak

"I'll read two more--ah they're all so good" laughter from the crowd

"California the brief story of a whale's beard"

"The rumor of an interior beard"

"The beard of Joseph Stalin is now twice the size of Russia."

"As I flew through the windshield I knew that being nice does not always work like magic"

"Agnes, the river is looking for interns and I can feel your tongue in my ear"

power calls

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"So you say, 'Can you write?'"

"Rhymeless but musical because my soul plays jazz."

"You must be famished. Here. Sit. Eat."

"Beautiful day out today. Got my walking shoes on. Can I come with you?"

"I on't know whay she marry that black man if she can't learn to do that baby's hair."


back soon

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"Yeats made sense in my science-fictional brain."

"many of the first drafts of these poems were written between reference interviews"

poems difficult to quote because of continuity jumps and my bad typing

"This growth depends on nothing more than recognition."

"What if the land dropped its pants and the sea rushed the square"

"Last the police cares pile up, a full blown retort" from Reflux Disease

"A perfect delivery of bees"

stopping for lack of power--back next poet

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Strange, indeed! Blogging realtime from the Carrboro Poetry Festival, sitting behind Kasey Mohammad and listening to Chris Vitiello read his "funny poem" about the World Trade Center—and it is!

"The president painstakingly checks his body for ticks. "I don't want to go to Secret Town, says the president."

Didn't know I'd be able to do this, so I didn't bring a spare battery or a power adapter.

"The vice-president of secret town is kept asleep with secret drugs, just in case.

The presidents are thinking of a number."

Signing off till next poet.

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Friday, June 4, 2004

Much talk lately in the blogosphere, and some yelling, about attitudes towards Ezra Pound and about whether his politics should matter in our appreciation of his poetry. The latter is utterly uninteresting to me, except in the context of the absurd claims made by some people that writing formal verse is somehow connected with right-wing politics. I once read Pound and anything or anyone connected with him almost obsessively, but until a few weeks ago I hadn't read a line for years. Then Marjorie Perloff's review of Richard Sieburth's new edition of Pound's Poems and Translations led me to buy the thing with a credit card.

There is no question that Pound is one of the people who shaped 20th English language poetry. He championed an amazing variety of work by talented poets in almost every genre, from Frost to Zukofsky. But Jim Behrle and Jonathan Mayhew are right: "he's minor" and it's too bad "Pound's own poetry fails to conform to [his own] criteria most of the time. I wasted my money.

It's another story altogether with Alfred Corn's review in Contemporary Poetry Review of Ben Downing's The Calligraphy Shop and David Yezzi's The Hidden Model (the review itself is in the for-pay-but-well-worth-it-just for Paul Lakes's-essays archives). Though the price-per-poem is much higher in these slim volumes, here's what I found on first opening Yezzi's book:


Who now reads Herrick?
—Allen Tate

Since our proscriptive age cannot abide
the mannish gazing that's objectified
the female shape (both gamine slim and more
curvaceous in its lineaments), I swore
correctness, chiefly to avoid the din
one risks to laud the callipygian.

So, turning chicken, now I praise your skin
rubbed with fresh herbs; and hungrily begin
to taste the parts you help me to prepare,
so plum, for my delight; and, ravished, dare
to broadcast that your white meat drives me wild,
dear circummortal chef, sweet Julia Child.

Well, Chapman's Homer it's not, but it's a delight, and maybe the slightest thing in the book. This other pair of rhyming sestets is from Ben Downing:


—which is to say "God willing," more or less:
a phrase that rose routinely to her lips
whenever plans were hatched or hopes expressed,
the way we knock on wood, yet fervently,
as if too wax too confident might be
to kill the very thing she wanted most.

It used to pique and trouble me somehow,
this precautionary tic of hers, but now
I understand why she was skeptical
of what Allah in his caprice allots,
because that she should live He did not will,
or, more terribly, He did that she should not.

i.m. Mirel Sayinsoy 1967-99

BTW, I read Herrick.

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Lewis Stiller sent me a fine double dactyl (a form dear to one Fool's heart) based on recent news from Berkeley. I've put it on my double dactyl page, and Sunday, when I get back to Maryland and the right software, I'll put it in Poems from Readers.

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I was just beginning to learn my way around meters and forms when I wrote this double ballade, and I recognize how ineptly I handled it. But I think only complete recasting could make it better, and I don't have the time or energy or — sadly — the interest, to do that work. Nevertheless, here it is, on this 15th anniversary of the massacre in Tiananmen Square.

June 4, 1989

Students came to Tiananmen Square
To mourn the death of Hu Yaobang,
And call the old men to repair
The State they'd led to wrong.
Workers joined the student throng
And made the Square the people's place —
Thousands and tens of thousands strong,
They gave Liberty a Chinese face.

From the Great Hall of the People glared
Faces from the revolution, hung
There to silence those who dared
To charge the State with wrong.
But now the torch of freedom shone
From the statue of a woman raised
Before them — the people's challenge flung,
Giving Liberty a Chinese face.

Deng Xiaoping and Li Peng stared
As one man, unarmed and alone,
Despite the armored terror
Of the State's insane wrong,
Stopped a column of tanks along
The Avenue of Eternal Peace.
He simply stood his ground,
And gave Liberty a Chinese face.

Remember the thousands dead and mourn.
Remember the State's deadly wrong.
Martyr's blood is never erased —
They gave Liberty a Chinese face.

9:53:11 AM    comment: use html tags for formatting []  trackback []

Tuesday, June 1, 2004

The June Plum Ruby Review is up, with 4 of my poems. I haven't read much there yet, but there's good stuff by my alter ego Christine Hamm and by Alison Eastley and Miriam Kotzin.

The reason I haven't read more is that I feel awful after a night spent largely in transit between the bed and the toilet. Still queasy, but I worked today and think I'll get some sleep tonight. No one here to rub my forehead and say "poor baby." Sniff.

8:42:21 PM    comment: use html tags for formatting []  trackback []

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