Wallace Stevens was, to judge by appearance, the photographic negative of what people expect a poet to be; a lawyer and insurance executive who looked like Dwight Eisenhower, complete with matching politics (Stevens was a conservative Republican). Throw in several drunken altercations with the likes of Ernest Hemingway and Robert Frost, and Stevens comes off as a bit of a thickie, certainly not someone to whom whimsy came easily.
And that’s where you’d be dead-ass wrong. Stevens wrote some of the goofiest poetry ever. He wrote “13 Ways of Looking at a Blackbird,” which has become the mantra of UB’s writing/publishing program, but my personal favorite of his is “The Emperor of Ice Cream.” Let’s look at the first six lines of it, shall we? Right.
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Note the jaw-breaking consonance he uses to slow the reader down, to build a rhythm. Free verse poetry withers and dies without rhythm, in my opinion, and Stevens was right up there with Walt Whitman in terms of anchoring his work on the page with sound.
“Emperor” examines contemporary mourning rituals and how mundane they are in the face of what they’re supposedly preparing the deceased for; note “last month’s newspapers” and the dresses “as they are used to wear.” Ritual has become routine, which is by nature unthinking and unemotional. In the face of the afterlife, it does all seem rather shallow But there’s a giddiness to this poem that I can’t put my finger on, most likely because I’m not a poet, that keeps it from being a downer or a wooden morality play about how to properly grieve the dead. Maybe it’s the pace that’s eventually set by the diction employed here. Maybe it’s the imagery of ice cream, long celebrated as a confection and associated with youth and innocence and joy and thoughtless consumption. No great political or philosophical points were ever built on a hill of ice cream. It’s soft and sweet, far removed from the finality of death.
Whatever it is, it works for me. I like vivid, unorthodox imagery. I like playfulness and absurdity. I like poems that aren’t total self-gratifying inside jokes between the poet and maybe three other people he/she knows. Wallace Stevens satisfies these things in ways that, honestly, not very many other poets do. That and he punched Ernest Hemingway. In the face. Awesome.
For my last entry on poets I know, I thought it would be fitting to go back to where poetry begins for me: Susan Swartwout. I know I’m not the only student from Southeast Missouri State University who could say that because Susan has been a mentor to many. She has an amazing ability to look past the awkward, bumbling lines of first-time writers and see the skeleton, the roots, of something beautiful.
I pulled out my old files tonight and looked through my notes and writing from EN275, Intro to Creative Writing, and took some time to remember where I started. While it’s simultaneously slightly embarrassing and a lot amusing to look at how far I’ve come since then, I can see, through my drafts, how Susan helped me shape my writing and I can recognize those lessons she taught me that still echo in my mind every time I write or revise my poetry.
So, tonight, I wanted to share some poetry by my mentor, the woman where it begins.
First, from her book Freaks:
In the dusk of my heart there are
no safe places. Thin-skinned
winged emotions flap their blind
interior paths and sometimes scream
just to let themselves know where
they are. That they are.
~from “Nightfall Brushes Her Hair”
From her book Uncommon Ground, inspired by her time in Honduras:
Citrus trees grip the mountains, birthing
lemons the size of small melons
and limes so shining you want
to rub them over your body.
At the top of the village road,
the orange grove shimmers,
even the leaves look succulent:
cavern-green of Lorca’s dreaming.
Hard nipples of fruit that swell
in sunlight practice their pendulous droop.
~from “Fence” in Uncommon Ground
Note: I’m excited to bring this month of poetry to a close with some awesome guest bloggers, starting tomorrow. First up is Andy Livingston, so keep an eye out for that.
Note: Dear readers, Forgive the stuttering timing of my posts of late. I have the best of intentions (we all know how those go), but I have to admit that the thesis project eats up pretty much all of my time. I’m going to try to be better as we finish out the month, which should be helped by the series of guest blogs I’m super excited about featuring. Thanks for bearing with me, and enjoy!
In my time at the University of Baltimore MFA program, I have had the great good fortune to meet some unbelievable talented writers, book artists, and publishers. They are the kind of people who inspire with me with their creativity and drive. Today I want to focus on three people who not only write amazing poetry but also help further the art through a publishing endeavor.
Jenny O’Grady
I’ve known Jenny for several years now; we first met by coincidence at a poetry reading/launch party for an issue of the Little Patuxent Review. And she’s been in my life in one way or another since as friend, mentor, professor, and even my boss at UMBC. In that time, I’ve learned that her poetry is by turns whimsical, documentary, and heart-wrenchingly honest, but always beautiful. This is an excerpt from a prose poem recently published in the “What You’re Writing” section of the Urbanite (read it in full–it’s about 3/4 of the way down the page)
When we married, we were barely into our 20s. Yet, we knew what we wanted; we knew what we needed to do. We checked things off our checklists, lickety-split. We earned our degrees. Check. We grew our careers. Check. We bought a little house with a green, sloping yard and an extra bedroom. Check.
In addition to her wonderful poetry, Jenny is a book artist–she was featured in the Bonefolder’s 2009 Bind-O-Rama–and she just recently started an awesome online journal called The Light Ekphrastic. The journal pairs writers and visual artists who trade something they’ve already done. Then each one creates something new based on the piece they were given. It’s produced some really fun, inspired work. You should visit the site and check it out; she’s actually accepting submissions for the August issue as we speak. And be sure to check out Jenny’s own website, Kinetic Prose.
Adam Robinson
Adam is graduating this year from the MFA program, and it was fun to watch his manuscript and book come together. He’s the type of poet I’ve always envied for the seeming ease he has in creating poetry that simultaneously lulls its reader while barring its teeth. He has a way of mixing everyday language and the mundane things of life into something surprising. He just had a book, Adam Robison and Other Poems, put out by Narrow House Press here in Baltimore. Here’s an excerpt from his poem “I’m going to have SEX with these people,” which you can read in its entirety here.
This lady on the bus
could pass for a man
She chewed half a
cigarette in her mouth
Had jowls
She did knitting
From the back of the
bus I loved this lady’s
what is it
In addition, Adam is also the man behind Publishing Genius Press, which produces full-length paper back books, the Chapbook Genius series, isReads (an outdoor journal of poetry posted in public spaces), and EveryDay Genius (an online journal updated everyday Monday through Friday). He’s put out some amazing things, which you should go and learn about on the press website and blog.
Kate Wyer
Kate is a poet I have followed closely and admired since I met her a few years ago. Her writing has a lucidity and strength of voice I envy. She has an ability to make her reader accept what she writes as fact, no matter how impossible it is in real life. This is an excerpt from her poem “Peanuts,” which you can read in its entirety here.
The moon gave us a bag of peanuts.
We took them in our aluminum fists.
The moon did not know us by sight,
by our flags. She spoke, Da?
We were silent.
Kate is also in the midst book arts project that I’m fascinated with. The book, called And, Afterward, is a take on the exquisite corpse games of the surrealists. Kate has a collection of writers and artists passing around a book she made and each adding a spread. I’m lucky to be doing one of the spreads, and I’ve fallen in love with what everyone else has done. You can see photos of the book and the spreads here.
As I mentioned in an earlier post, I haven’t set too many guidelines for myself in this month of poetry blogging, but one guiding idea was to highlight lesser known poets, or at least the poets who aren’t known and anthologized all over the place. So this week, I thought it would be fun to highlight poets I’ve known, either as teachers, classmates, or friends. There is something about knowing the poet that brings the writing to life. And, when you have the opportunity, meeting great poets–whether they’re sitting next to you in class or reading from a lectern,–just makes this all more real. The idea of “Poet,” the iconic image of this grand master of language, falls away a bit and you understand that it’s the life lived and the time put into writing that makes poetry.
Also, as a note, I considered breaking it into the Baltimore and the Cape Girardeau Schools (sorry, I couldn’t help it), but I think I’m going to let them mix and mingle.
Today, I wanted to focus on two poets whose words have gripped me and made me wish I could do what they do: James D’Agostino and Valzhyna Mort.
James D’Agostino
I met Jamie when I was in my last couple of years at SEMO: he taught classes and became a fixture around the English Department. I didn’t know him very well, but when his book, Nude With Anything, came out, I was startled (in the way that good poetry has of startling) by the amazing way he had of pairing words and his ability to break lines exactly where they wanted, needed, to be broken.
a little storm on which the sun was kind
of shining made a monochrome
of many things, and silver light, day
enough to feel assured we fully understand
the impact of skin on raindrops…
-from “Against Vanishing”
The broken shade of huge pines
describes a husband and wife
driving through it, less simple
than the central problem
of their snowscape, namely,
the August it was every morning…
-from “The Darling of the Mining Town”
Valzhyna Mort
Valzhyna is one of my teachers in the MFA program at the University of Baltimore. Originally from Belarus and only 2 years older than me, she’s had an amazing amount of success and has been called a “risen star of the international poetry world” by the Irish Times. She’s one of those poets whose writing seizes you by the throat and only lets you back down at the moment you’ve given up on breathing. And though her poetry is wonderful to read, it’s best to hear her read it. Here are a few of my favorite lines from her poems:
your body is so white
that it falls on me like snow
every night is a winter
-from “your body is so white”
the air died
strangled
between two bodies
-from “was it your hair you lost”
And because I mean it when I say you need to hear her read, here is a poem that she reads over an animation done by the Poetry Foundation:
Note: As usual, I’m playing catch-up today, so consider this the post from Friday.
Over the course of this month, I’ve tried to bring you a range of poets–those I like and have learned from–without too many restrictions or rules. But I have had couple guiding ideas, and one was to try to mention lesser-known poets. But today I bring you a poet it’s hard to imagine never having heard of: Pablo Neruda. At first, I resisted the idea; Neruda’s so well-known, and I didn’t know what I could add to what’s already been said. But then I remembered this isn’t about me. It’s about great and beautiful poetry, pure and simple, and I couldn’t think of a better way to close out the week on Spanish-speaking poets.
Pablo Neruda (Chile)
I recently picked up Neruda’s Odes to Common Things. It’s a gorgeous book with a simple design and pencil illustrations by Ferris Cook. I connected to it instantly because it shares one of the themes of my MFA thesis: the idea that the everyday things contain a wonderful beauty and can inspire awe just as easily as the most exotic of items or experiences. So I’m going to share some lines with you from “Odes to Things”:
Amo
todas
las cosas,
no porque sean
ardientes
o fragantes,
sino porque
no sé,
porque
este océano es el tuyo,
es el mío:
los botones,
las ruedas,
los pequeños
tesoros
olvidados,
los abanicos en
cuyos plumajes
desvaneció el amor
sus azahares,
las copas, los cuchillos,
las tijeras,
todo tiene
en el mango, en el contorno,
la huella
de unos dedos,
de una remota mano
perdida
en lo más olvidado del olvido.
Ilove all things,
not because they are
passionate
or sweet-smelling
but because, I don’t know,
because
this ocean is yours,
and mine:
these buttons
and wheels
and little
forgotten
treasures,
fans upon
whose feathers love has scattered
its blossoms,
glasses, knives and
scissors– all bear
the trace
of someone’s fingers
on their handle or surface
the trace of a distant hand
lost
in the depths of forgetfulness
I’m also very excited to announce that the last week of this month I’ll be featuring a fantastic line-up of guest bloggers who will share their favorite poems/poets with you. The blogs have started to roll in and I can’t wait to share them with you!
Seeing as my weekend was eaten by the “Lotsathingstodo” monster, I’m going to do a round-up here of the last three days worth of poets.
I’m heading in a slightly different direction this week by focusing on Spanish-speaking poets. It’s a group near to my heart because of my study of their language and the time I spent in Spain and New Mexico. Spanish is a language that can be both sonorous and staccato; that can lisp across the tongue or curl and tuck itself along the cheeks, depending on where the speaker comes from. And when that language is put down on the page, it’s beauty becomes even more clear. I’ll be posting both the original Spanish and the English translation (when available) so you can get a sense for both.
Gabriela Mistral (Chile)
I found Gabriela Mistral in college, when I was required to write a paper for a Spanish literature class. I don’t think I fully appreciated her then, but I did know that her language was beautiful. She is of particular note as the first Latin American to win the Nobel Prize for Literature. Read more about her.
Below, a stanza from her poem “The Abandoned Woman,” found in the book Mad Woman, translated by Randall Couch.
Me he sentado a mitad de la Tierra
amor mío, a mitad de la vida,
a abrir mis venas y mi pecho,
a mondarme en grande viva,
y a romper la caoba roja
de mis huesos que te querían.
I have sat down in the middle of the Earth,
my love, in the middle of my life,
to open my veins and my chest,
to peel my skin like a pomegranate,
and to break the red mahogany
of these bones that loved you.
Octavio Paz (Mexico)
I can’t remember the first time I read Paz. It was likely in a literature class in college. But I do remember buying The Collected Poems of Octavio Paz, 1957-1987. A rather plain book, I’d been visiting it at the book store for months, thumbing through its pages, wanting to take it home, but I was strapped for cash and couldn’t afford the $22.95. But, as always happens with me, I could only walk away so many times, and finally I gave in. I walked out of the bookstore clutching the book to my chest, and I remember hauling it around with me for some time, reading pieces at random here and there, falling in love over and over with his starkly beautiful language. Here, a selection from “Interior.”
Pensamientos en guerra
quieren romper mi frente
Por caminos de pájaros
avanza la escritura
…
Con medias rojas y cara pálida
entran tú y la noche
Warring thoughts try
to split my skull
This writing moves
through streets of birds
…
With red stockings and a pale face
you and the night come in
I love Gioconda Belli because she is frank and honest. She is not afraid to write what she feels, even if it’s a little uncomfortable. I wish I always felt so comfortable in my own existence as she seems to. Her poem “And God Made Me Woman” is a great example of this blunt beauty:
Y Dios me hizo mujer,
de pelo largo,
ojos,
nariz y boca de mujer.
Con curvas
y pliegues
y suaves hondonadas
y me cavó por dentor,
me hizo un taller de seres humanos.
And God made me .
With the long hair,
with the eyes,
the nose and mouth of a woman.
With the curves
and folds
and soft hollows.
God carved into me a workshop for human beings.
If I had to pick one poet who I could just follow around in hopes that some wonderfulness would rub off on me, I would pick Russell Edson. I was introduced to his work in an experimental forms class and fell in love right away. He has that ability that you see in writers like Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Jorge Luis Borges to tell the most fantastic stories in a way that seems undeniably real. Women are married to apes and chairs fall in love and these are just the things of the every day.
Here are a few lines from his poem “Let Us Consider.”
Let us consider the farmer who makes his straw hat his
sweetheart; or the old woman who makes a floor lamp her son;
or the young woman who has set herself the task of scraping
her shadow off a wall….
Ave took this photo during one of our recent snows.
It’s the great blizzard of January ‘10, and it’s coming tomorrow. Some are predicting as much as 45″. We’re tucking in for the weekend. I hope you all stay nice and warm and have plenty of food and drink so that your forced hibernation is enjoyable. I’ll be drinking hot chocolate and working on homework. What are your plans?
Photo by Nature's Pics, shared under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0
I’m a pessimist. I don’t often expect happy little surprises in my day. But lately, I’ve stumbled across a number of them, from the pair of books my dear friend Ginny sent me to my new favorite ginger tea. This week I’ve had an extraordinarily high number of pieces of happy and I want to share them with you:
On Monday, my brand new copy of Pictorial Webster’s: A Visual Dictionary of Curiosities by John M. Carrerra arrived in the mail. It’s a collection of engravings from 19th century editions of the Webster’s Dictionaries. I’m smitten, and think that anyone who loves dictionaries, printing, or vintage art should check it out. The content is fabulous and the book design is, in my humble opinion, beautiful.
On Tuesday, I started my last semester of grad school. Admittedly, more of a mixed bag than these other happiness makers, as this final semester brings with it an overwhelming amount of work, but I love school and starting anew is always exhilarating.
And then, today, I got two lovely little bits of happy.
Around lunch time, I caught sight of the first robin of spring. Throughout my life, the idea that the robin was a harbinger of fairer weather has stuck with me. Perhaps it’s not true, but whenever I see that first robin, I get a little thrill. I can imagine the melting feeling of sitting in the warm sun. I usually write down the sighting as well.
And then, tonight, I returned home from class to find a package waiting for me. Now, I’ve been trying to curb my spending, but I can’t help myself and sometimes I cave. This time I caved at an Etsy shop, and bought a beautiful edition of Jerome K. Jerome’s Idle Thoughts. My camera has gone kablooey, but at some point soon I’ll still Ave’s and get a decent picture of this favorite new find (and a number of other projects of late) posted.
I can only hope the rest of the week keeps up the trend. Tell me: what unexpected (or even expected) things have made you happy lately?
RSS
Valzhyna is one of my teachers in the MFA program at the University of Baltimore. Originally from Belarus and only 2 years older than me, she’s had an amazing amount of success and has been called a “risen star of the international poetry world” by the Irish Times. She’s one of those poets whose writing seizes you by the throat and only lets you back down at the moment you’ve given up on breathing. And though her poetry is wonderful to read, it’s best to hear her read it. Here are a few of my favorite lines from her poems:
