Discussion: Blind Spots

why must itself up every of a park by E. E. Cummings


why must itself up every of a park
anus stick some quote statue unquote to
prove that a hero equals any jerk
who was afraid to dare to answer "no"?
quote citizens unquote might otherwise
forget(to err is human;to forgive
divine)that if the quote state unquote says
"kill" killing is an act of christian love.
"Nothing" in 1944 AD
"can stand against the argument of mil
itary necessity"(generalissimo e)
and echo answers "there is no appeal
from reason"(freud)--you pays your money and
you doesn't take your choice. Ain't freedom grand

----------------------------------------------------------

I intentionally picked out an E.E. Cummings poem because I don't like his poems much. They seem deliberatly obtuse and it feels as if he's trying too hard to be clever and original. (which obviously worked, huh?)

That's a sonnet...
I am intrigued by him...he makes things look like a mess but they're often old forms.

poetinahat said:

All are limitory, but each has her own
nuance of damage. The elite can dress and decent themselves,
are ambulant with a single stick, adroit
to read a book all through, or play the slow movements of
easy sonatas. (Yet, perhaps their very
carnal freedom is their spirit's bane: intelligent
of what has happened and why, they are obnoxious
to a glum beyond tears.) Then come those on wheels, the average
majority, who endure T.V. and, led by
lenient therapists, do community-singing, then
the loners, muttering in Limbo, and last
the terminally incompetent, as improvident,
unspeakable, impeccable as the plants
they parody. (Plants may sweat profusely but never
sully themselves.) One tie, though, unites them: all
appeared when the world, though much was awry there, was more
spacious, more comely to look at, it's Old Ones
with an audience and secular station. Then a child,
in dismay with Mamma, could refuge with Gran
to be revalued and told a story. As of now,
we all know what to expect, but their generation
is the first to fade like this, not at home but assigned
to a numbered frequent ward, stowed out of conscience
as unpopular luggage.
As I ride the subway
to spend half-an-hour with one, I revisage
who she was in the pomp and sumpture of her hey-day,
when week-end visits were a presumptive joy,
not a good work. Am I cold to wish for a speedy
painless dormition, pray, as I know she prays,
that God or Nature will abrupt her earthly function?

=====================

I find this an introspective piece -- it asks a difficult question at the end. The language is extremely poetic, but the message is clear.

To me, it's a beautiful read; I was put off originally by Auden's contrast of language with relatively unstructured form. I'm also a fan of breaking things into stanzas, allowing the reader a pause for air.

But this one just sucked me in -- seduced me. I started reading and couldn't stop. First try, and I've come up with a new favorite.

Click to expand...

I like this a lot. He certainly has a handle on the human condition, but it's the language that also drew me in.

Marianne Moore (1887-1972) -- Poetry

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against "business documents and

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
"literalists of
the imagination"--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them,"
shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
==============================================
I have an anthology of poems by American women that I opened for the first time tonight..thanks to the prompt of this thread. I picked this one because she was one of the few in there that lived much into the 20th century. The topic seemed appropriate to some of the discussion we have had here regarding poetry. I wish I could get the format to show the way it does in the book, and on another website here.
The interesting thing about this woman is that she was twice a Pulitzer prize winner, and this is one of her more highly regarded poems. The form is surprisingly easy to read and the poem reads faster than I expected considering its lengthy lines. I found it interesting and worthy of some debate. The first and last stanzas for me are the heart of the poem, with the middle ones taking more effort to read through. Which I would guess was her intention.
Although I won't be putting it too high on my favorites list, it is interesting enough to cause me to explore more of her work.

The Black Riviera
by Mark Jarman
For Garrett Hongo


There they are again. It's after dark.

The rain begins its sober comedy,

Slicking down their hair as they wait

Under a pepper tree or eucalyptus,

Larry Dietz, Luis Gonzalez, the Fitzgerald brothers,

And Jarman, hidden from the cop car

Sleeking innocently past. Stoned,

They giggle a little, with money ready

To pay for more, waiting in the rain.



They buy from the black Riviera

That silently appears, as if risen,

The apotheosis of wet asphalt

And smeary-silvery glare

And plush inner untouchability.

A hand takes money and withdraws,

Another extends a plastic sack--

Short, too dramatic to be questioned.

What they buy is light rolled in a wave.



They send the money off in a long car

A god himself could steal a girl in,

Clothing its metal sheen in the spectrum

Of bars and discos and restaurants.

And they are left, dripping rain

Under their melancholy tree, and see time

Knocked akilter, sort of funny,

But slowing down strangely, too.

So, what do they dream?



They might dream that they are in love

And wake to find they are,

That outside their own pumping arteries,

Which they can cargo with happiness

As they sink in their little bathyspheres,

Somebody else's body pressures theirs

With kisses, like bursts of bloody oxygen,

Until, stunned, they're dragged up,

Drawn from drowning, saved.



In fact, some of us woke up that way.

It has to do with how desire takes shape.

Tapered, encapsulated, engineered

To navigate an illusion of deep water,

Its beauty has the dark roots

Of a girl skipping down a high-school corridor

Selling Seconal from a bag,

Or a black car gliding close to the roadtop,

So insular, so quiet, it enters the earth.

********************************************

Okay, I've never heard of this fellow -- but man can he write (of course, just my opinion). My poetic education ended sometime in the early to mid 80's with my writing in general -- both gone like dinosaurs. I am fortunate, my writing came back (relative merits for later discussion, I'm sure).

I'm drawn to the seductive darkness about this particular poem. The shifting perceptions and "time akilter" quality echoing the effects of the drugs.

At the same time vivid and distant, formal yet loose -- and there's more at the link.

Great first call Rob!

P.H.Delarran said:

I, too, dislike it: there are things that are important beyond
all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one
discovers in
it after all, a place for the genuine.
Hands that can grasp, eyes
that can dilate, hair that can rise
if it must, these things are important not because a

high-sounding interpretation can be put upon them but because
they are
useful. When they become so derivative as to become
unintelligible,
the same thing may be said for all of us, that we
do not admire what
we cannot understand: the bat
holding on upside down or in quest of something to

eat, elephants pushing, a wild horse taking a roll, a tireless
wolf under
a tree, the immovable critic twitching his skin like a horse
that feels a flea, the base-
ball fan, the statistician--
nor is it valid
to discriminate against "business documents and

school-books"; all these phenomena are important. One must make
a distinction
however: when dragged into prominence by half poets, the
result is not poetry,
nor till the poets among us can be
"literalists of
the imagination"--above
insolence and triviality and can present

for inspection, "imaginary gardens with real toads in them,"
shall we have
it. In the meantime, if you demand on the one hand,
the raw material of poetry in
all its rawness and
that which is on the other hand
genuine, you are interested in poetry.
==============================================
I have an anthology of poems by American women that I opened for the first time tonight..thanks to the prompt of this thread. I picked this one because she was one of the few in there that lived much into the 20th century. The topic seemed appropriate to some of the discussion we have had here regarding poetry. I wish I could get the format to show the way it does in the book, and on another website here.
The interesting thing about this woman is that she was twice a Pulitzer prize winner, and this is one of her more highly regarded poems. The form is surprisingly easy to read and the poem reads faster than I expected considering its lengthy lines. I found it interesting and worthy of some debate. The first and last stanzas for me are the heart of the poem, with the middle ones taking more effort to read through. Which I would guess was her intention.
Although I won't be putting it too high on my favorites list, it is interesting enough to cause me to explore more of her work.

Click to expand...

Wow! I just read this one again yesterday! I really liked the end...but then on second and third thought I began wondering what she meant by genuine...b/c I thought what is genuine would be the raw material...
WS

poetinahat said:

.

imaginary gardens with real toads in them --

Click to expand...

Is that her line, b/c she quotes it...I know I've heard it before and it is amazing...

oh and my book with the poem in says the line about school books and business docs is from Tolstoi who said poetry is everything but those, and the line about literalists of the imagination is something Yeats said about Blake...he called him TOO much of a literalist of the imagination.

WS

Luis de Camões, 1524-1580

The poet's name is Luis de Camões (pronounced CA-mow-esh), lived 1524-1580.

He's considered one of Portugal's literary giants. Becuase of my Portuguese ancestory, I was made tacitly aware of his existence while living in the Azores. After discovering this thread, I delved into his work. I found this page, filled with sonnets (though he's best known for his epic work). And below is a poem I singled out as being stunning. There are indelible images here; and Camões has an incredible way with words. Now, that said, this is a translation. I reading the original Portuguese, this may have more impact.

This line in particular is important:

What! of a king all bathed in blood of Moor

It's important because the Moors overran Portugal in the 12th Century and held control for a very long time (there's a noticable Arabic influence on Portuguese culture). So, the poet was conscious of that and wove that into his work. Enjoy the poem below:

On the Death of King Sebastian

His generous visage gashed with heathen blade,
His Royal brow with dust and blood all wan,
Came to the mournful boat of Acheron
The great Sebastian, past into a shade.
The cruel boatman, seeing that undismayed
The King perforce would cross, pronounced his ban,
Vowing that never o'er that stream was man
Ferried, whose funeral rites were still unpaid.
The valorous King, whose anger knew no bounds,
Replied, Oh! false old man, and dost not know
Others by force of gold have passed before?
What! of a king all bathed in blood of Moor
Darest thou to claim that he a tomb shall show?
Claim it of him who comes with fewer wounds.

ddgryphon said:

Somebody else's body pressures theirs

With kisses, like bursts of bloody oxygen,

Until, stunned, they're dragged up,

Drawn from drowning, saved.

Click to expand...

Hey, D. This part reminds me of the end of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by Eliot:

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
--

I really liked the imagery of this poem...it really created clear playful pictures when the subject matter was so dark.

WS

jst5150 said:

The poet's name is Luis de Camões (pronounced CA-mow-esh), lived 1524-1580.

He's considered one of Portugal's literary giants. Becuase of my Portuguese ancestory, I was made tacitly aware of his existence while living in the Azores. After discovering this thread, I delved into his work. I found this page, filled with sonnets (though he's best known for his epic work). And below is a poem I singled out as being stunning. There are indelible images here; and Camões has an incredible way with words. Now, that said, this is a translation. I reading the original Portuguese, this may have more impact.

This line in particular is important:

What! of a king all bathed in blood of Moor

It's important because the Moors overran Portugal in the 12th Century and held control for a very long time (there's a noticable Arabic influence on Portuguese culture). So, the poet was conscious of that and wove that into his work. Enjoy the poem below:

On the Death of King Sebastian

His generous visage gashed with heathen blade,
His Royal brow with dust and blood all wan,
Came to the mournful boat of Acheron
The great Sebastian, past into a shade.
The cruel boatman, seeing that undismayed
The King perforce would cross, pronounced his ban,
Vowing that never o'er that stream was man
Ferried, whose funeral rites were still unpaid.
The valorous King, whose anger knew no bounds,
Replied, Oh! false old man, and dost not know
Others by force of gold have passed before?
What! of a king all bathed in blood of Moor
Darest thou to claim that he a tomb shall show?
Claim it of him who comes with fewer wounds.

Click to expand...

Before I even read this one thing struck me as VERY ODD...how did someone in Portugal know about English sonnets in the 16th century? Must have done some traveling or something b/c that's weird...I'm going to read this though...thanks so much for sharing something I probably NEVER would have seen or at least not for a long time had you not put it out there for us.
WS

Wow, J. that was intense. Still...those cultures that were also in Portugal sure influenced the literary world of there...I mean, he's referencing Greek/Roman mythology when I know Portugal had their own, as well. Weird...but nice piece. Thanks much.
WS

I have been reading some Keats lately and I think his career, his tragic, early death and his work are all very interesting...his Odes, many of you know, made him famous, put his name in the stars, and here is one that I really like (due to the dense, older english, I recommend reading it slow, letting the images form in your mind before reading on...the music of the piece is better appreciated on later readings):

Ode to Melancholy

No, no! go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf's-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow's mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips;
Ay, in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous
tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

The first stanza is peading for the melancholy-inflicted to not give into suicidal temptations, telling him to foresake any inkling toward taking poison...the second stanza gives him an alternative...while those green april hills are shrouded and it is raining on you, let the beauty of the world warm you until it is gone...even if your mistress is raving mad, ignore that and enjoy the beauty in her eyes...then in stanza three I am really blown away...Melancholy is the Queen in the Temple of Delight dwelling there with and ruling over Joy, Beauty and Pleasure, all of whom disappear time to time except Melancholy...I LOOOVE this becuase it says there is no delight without her, you simply don't see her when the others are around...then if you do give into temptation and kill yourself, you become nothing but her "cloudy trophy."

I think this is brilliant and soooo clear and I love most that it proves great poets are made and not born.

Who hasn't felt that way about melancholy??? We all have...the ideas propounded are nothing new...but he writes about them so beautifully...man this is just great to me, I love it...it's a piece I could read over and over.

WS

Biography of Ogden Nash
Born Frederick Ogden Nash on August 19, 1902 in Rye, New York.

An ancestor, General Francis Nash, gave his name to Nashville, Tennesee.
Raised in Rye, New York and Savannah, Georgia. Educated at St. George's School in Rhode Island and, briefly, Harvard University.
Started work writing advertising copy for Doubleday, Page Publishing, New York, in 1925.

Published first book for children, The Cricket of Caradon in 1925.
First published poem Spring Comes to Murray Hill appears in New Yorker magazine in 1930.

Joins staff at New Yorker in 1932.
Married Frances Rider Leonard on June 6, 1933.
Published 19 books of poetry.
Collaborated, in 1943, in the musical comedy, One Touch of Venus
Elected to the National Institute of Arts and Letters in 1950.
Lived in New York but his principal home was in Baltimore, Maryland, where he died on May 19, 1971. He was buried in North Hampton, New Hampshire.


Okay, I'm embarassed to admit, I've read very little of Ogden Nash...though I'll definitely be reading more. I loved this poem; not only did it capture the feelings parents have about their newborn child, but I loved the title. You feel that way with each one, first or second. I appreciate the lighthearted humor of this poem, the rhyme and meter, and the fanciful vocabulary he uses to describe his child. And who can resist that last line?!

A Two'fer here from me. First, Billy Joel.

I know. A songwriter. But I defy you to tell me the lyrics to many of his songs are NOt poetry and could stand alone. Take, for instance, "The Entertainer." A sample:


He has a library of lyrics that concretely fall into poetic verse. So, I'd put him here. I realize some of we older folks would be familiar with him, younger folks may not because he hasn't produced anything commercially in a while.

Second, Paul Simon.

Again, fairly well known, but I'd point to his work on "Graceland" and "Rhythm of the Saints." The latter, especially, contains some visionary stuff. Like this, from the song "Cool Cool River":


Pure magic. When backed by the music, which is haunting and invigorating at the same time, wow. I point to "Saints" because it went relatively unheard, but is perhaps his best work. So, for the younger, it's a good immersion into Paul Simon.

Yusef Komunyakaa

Facing It

My black face fades,
hiding inside the black granite.
I said I wouldn't,
dammit: No tears.
I'm stone. I'm flesh.
My clouded reflection eyes me
like a bird of prey, the profile of night
slanted against morning. I turn
this way - the stone lets me go.
I turn that way - I'm inside
the Vietnam Veterans Memorial
again, depending on the light
to make a difference.
I go down the 58,022 names
half-expecting to find
my own letters like smoke.
I touch the name Andrew Johnson;
I see the booby trap's white flash.
Names shimmer on a woman's blouse
but when she walks away
the names stay on the wall.
Brushstrokes flash, a red bird's
wings cutting across my stare.
The sky. A plane in the sky.
A white vet's image floats
closer to me, then his pale eyes
look through mine. I'm a window.
He's lost his right arm
inside the stone. In the black mirror
a woman's trying to erase names:
No, she's brushing a boy's hair.

I had never heard of this poet. I liked the title. After I read the poem, I decided I wanted to know more of his work so I went here.
I wonder how it would read without punctuation - esp. this part.

My clouded reflection eyes me
Like a bird of prey the profile of night
Slanted against the morning I turn
This way the stone lets me go
I turn that way I'm inside
The Vietnam Veteran's Memorial
Again depending on the light

I like poems that can be made to mean different things depending on the line breaks and the punctuation. It's like a new poem every time you read it. YMMV

THE ENEMY, by Billy Ah Lun.

Lieutenant Calley
Seems to be
A sane & reasonable man
(Sunday. My wife
sips coffee, puts a record
on the turntable)
the newspaper reports
he admits shooting
3 men & a boy
as well as firing
into a ditch.
There were about
70 Vietnamese
men women & children
in the ditch.
Calley remained
Calm, & spoke softly
During his evidence.
(ceasefire ends soon
in the Middle East on
the other side
of the page...
he denied he
had taken part
in killing a group of 3
civilians whose bodies
were found in another
section of the village
(of My Lai)
he admited
striking a vietnamese
in the face with a rifle
butt however denied
that he shot the man
who was dressed as a monk.
Calley remained calm
& spoke softly while
giving his evidence.
He had formed
no intent or conscious
conception
to kill men
women & children
& had concentrated
instead on
what he considered enemy
or enemy sympathisers.
He acted as he was directed
he carried out orders
He does not feel
Even now
that he did wrong is doing so.
Lieutenant Calley
Seems to be a sane
& reasonable man
despite the evidence
of pyschologists &
the contentions of the defence
"if something is dead
you put it in the body count,
anything dead."
The newspaper
also says
the fighting in Laos
is heavy & casualties
are heavy.
The record scratches
In the next room
& and couple are arguing
down the road.
Lieutentant Calley
Remained calm & spoke softly
During his evidence.


Now, some will say this is too wordy or newsy, but that's what appeals to me about it. That's exactly what it is, a dispassionate account of a newspaper article the guy is reading. But the narrator isn't totally absent from the piece, his own world is intruding on the telling. So it is his story.

I'd never read that tho i heard of it and admitedly, knowing the author, thought it would be allegorical to slavery, which it probably is, but the imagery and lines like "The caged bird sings with a fearful trill/
of things unknown but longed for still" are so beautiful even if its just about a caged bird.

Anyway, I liked it, and I think the repetition is probably there to make it sound like one of the chorus to a song ppl sing while they're working in the fields. I'm not very familiar with Angelou, but I know most black artists I've read are very adamant about using old forms from slavery times often in a new way.

WS