Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
A Poem for NPM, Day 10
Today will see another poem that is part of a grander scheme of things, much the same like yesterday’s. It is from Glyn Maxwell’s powerful verse novel (or collection of poems which, read in sequence, tell a coherent story) The Sugar Mile.
The Sugar Mile juxtaposes London during the Blitz with New York on September 10, 2001, one day before the two planes hit the Twin Towers. The poems cut back and forth in time and place, but are still somehow connected. I do not want to give away too much.
(Read fellow poet Christian Wiman’s review of it in The New York Times from September 4, 2005. This makes for a nice plot summary as well. So do have a look.)
On the formal level, this particular poem is a sestina: it consists of seven stanzas; the first six stanzas have six lines each (six sestets) and the seventh and last stanza is made up of three lines (a tercet). There is more to it, though. Each of the first six stanzas has the same six words at the ends of its six lines, but never in the same order. There is even a rule for this mixing up of line-final words. The closing tercet then has to include all of these six words, three of which are at the ends of the three lines.
It appears to be quite complicated at first. So, for a nice and much clearer visual explanation, have a look at the Wikipedia article on sestinas. Once you understand the pattern, it becomes much easier. Naturally.
The following poem is one of the first in The Sugar Mile. Give it a shot. You won’t regret it. Pay attention to the words at the ends of each line and how their mixing is used throughout, and you will understand what this sestina fuss is all about.
Raul Chalking up Specials
Don’t worry, guy, that’s Joe. Joe’s got issues.
He thinks you’re sitting in his spot. Stay there,
guy, what are you crazy, you paid money
to sit, you don’t buy tickets for the bar stool.
Another Bass? It’s kind of he’s like a fixture.
(Is that how you spell asparagas? It’s not…
with a u? That can’t be right. You sure that’s not
some British thing? Okay.) No Joe’s got issues.
(No way. It’s on the house.) Joe was a fixture
way before my time. He was sitting there
the day I started. I gave you the Bar Stool
of Joey Stone! We ought to charge some money
jeezus. (Fennal.) Charge some freakin money.
(With an e? You’re shittin me. It is? No it’s not.)
But hey you’re sitting on Joey Stone’s Own Bar Stool
so I got to believe you, right? Him and his issues.
And he sits there sure, but he also sits over there,
in the window staring, talk about a fixture
he sits there, he’s a lookout, that’s a fixture
of this establishment. People pay good money
to watch him sitting there. If he’s sitting there
it’s a normal day in the city! And if he’s not,
let’s not go there… Hey Joe, you got some issues
need the window treatment? This is the Bar Stool
of, what’s your name? Of… Clint? This is the Bar Stool
of Clint. (It’s on me, Clint.) No Joe’s a fixture.
Yep. And you know, he’s British. He’s got issues
of Britishness. He saw your British money,
you notice that? Just been there? But he’s not –
I mean you wouldn’t know, right? You cool there,
Joe? He’s one of you but he won’t go there.
Another old guy wanting the same bar stool.
Same place you’re headed, right? Like it or not.
Open your eyes one day and you’re a fixture,
sure, and you got a tab instead of money,
and a kid sits in your spot and you got issues,
then you’re a fixture too. You sleeping there,
Joe? Got sleeping issues. At least the bar stool
keeps him awake. (I’m not gonna take your money.)
—Glyn Maxwell
(from: The Sugar Mile. London: Picador, 2005. 8-9.)
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Jennifer Chang, “Pastoral”
Knopf: W. S. Merwin, “Before A Departure in Spring”
Send to 
: 
: 
: 
: 
: 
: 
: 
: 
A Poem for NPM, Day 9
An excerpt from a “novel in verse” is up for today. The verse novel in question is Anne Carson’s Autobiography of Red. As the front flap of the book puts it, an “extraordinary epic poem [that] bridges the gap between classicism and the modern, poetry and prose, with a volcanic journey into the soul of a winged red monster named Geryon.”
Anne Carson herself is a professor of Classics in Montreal—or at least she was at the time of the printing of the book. So she really knows what she is talking about and she does so beautifully.
Off we go into ancient Greece…
V. SCREENDOOR
His mother stood at the ironing board lighting a cigarette and regarding Geryon.
Outside the dark pink air
was already hot and alive with cries. Time to go to school, she said for the third time.
Her cool voice floated
over a pile of fresh tea towels and across the shadowy kitchen to where Geryon stood
at the screen door.
He would remember when he was past forty the dusty almost medieval smell
of the screen itself as it
pressed its grid onto his face. She was behind him now. This would be hard
for you if you were weak
but you’re not weak, she said and neatened his little red wings and pushed him
out the door.
—Anne Carson
(from: The Autobiography of Red. London: Jonathan Cape, 1999. 36.)
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Richard Kenney, “A Pot of Tea”
Knopf: Julia Hartwig, “Tell Me Why This Hurry”
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 8
Better late than never.
Today’s piece is not really a poem, at least not in the conventional sense of the word. It is a song by Bob Dylan, who, conincidentally, received a Special Citation at yesterday’s Pulitzer Prize ceremony, for “his profound impact on popular music and American culture, marked by lyrical compositions of extraordinary poetic power.” Even if he had not received this somewhat half-assed award, you would still find him in this post today.
The song is “Desolation Row” from his 1965 album Highway 61 Revisited. If you have never listened to this album, you ought to get a copy first thing tomorrow. It certainly ranks among my top-five all-time favorite records. The same goes for the song. You will hardly find such incredible songwriting in combination with such great music anywhere else.
But enough blabbering. Let the man’s voice be heard and his words be read. The complete lyrics can be had from Dylan’s official website (by the way, lyrics to all of his songs are available there). The full track can be streamed below. All 11 minutes and 22 seconds of it. As usual, do yourself a favor and read the lyrics while you are listening to the song. Just open them in a new window and play the track below. Immerse yourself in some mid-1960s greatness. (More and more often I get the feeling that I was born in the wrong decade.)
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Caroline Knox, “Line Poem”
Knopf: Edward Hirsch, “Self Portrait” (includes audio recording by Hirsch; the link to that is above the poem’s title)
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 7
After yesterday’s somewhat longer post, it is going to be short and snappy again today. 1992’s Nobel laureate Derek Walcott shall have the honor. Or rather, I shall have the honor of offering one of his poems.
I am talking about the first poem on that website. But do read the others as well, by all means. The language and imagery are what make “The Castaway” such a beautiful work of art. And if you have the time and conviction, have a look at his epic poem Omeros (1990). As the name suggests, it is an homage to Homer and his Odyssey, but set in the Caribbean / West Indies, where Walcott himself comes from.
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Alan Shapiro, “Just” (nice title)
Knopf: David Young, “March 10, 2001″
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 6: Terrance Hayes Special
(This one’s for you, Niner.)
Instead of offering just one poem today, I would like to introduce a poet. Not that he needs introduction per se, as he is already fairly well-established, but even if only one person starts to read his works because of my musings to follow, then it was worth it. The poet in question is Terrance Hayes. (You are probably going to notice throughout the month that I have a knack for African-American poets and their work.)
He was born in 1971 in South Carolina, earned his creative-writing MFA at UPittsburgh, and has been teaching the same at Carnegie Mellon for a number of years now. (In case you are curious, the person right above Hayes on the CMU staff page, Yona Harvey, is his wife.) He has published three collections to date: Muscular Music (1999), Hip Logic (2002), and, most recently, Wind in a Box (2006).
I would very much argue that he is a legitimate heir of Langston Hughes’s, in terms of style as well as in his scope, the choice of thematic elements, and his efforts to place African-Americans in an all-American cultural and historical context. This is especially true for Wind in a Box, a remarkable collection of which I still have vivid memories. I devoured the entire book in just a few hours almost exactly one year ago (on April 10, 2007), having read Hip Logic right before within two days.
Numerous passages from Wind in a Box struck at my core. Here are just two:
When I threatened to run away
my mother said she would take me wherever I wanted to go.from “The Blue Terrance”
or that we were too dumb to run the other way
when we saw the wide white sails of the ships
since given the absurd history of the world, everyone
is a descendant of slaves (which makes me wonder
if outrunning your captors is not the real meaning of Race?)from “Woofer (When I Consider African-American)”
The latter poem, “Woofer,” is also the one I want to draw special attention to today. It was the first Hayes poem I read. That was two years ago during the second round of the Daily Poem Project. Strangely enough, the month the poem appeared on Poetry Daily was also April. I am beginning to think that there must be some supernatural connection between Terrance Hayes, myself, and the fourth month of the year (the first time I encountered Hayes was in April 2006, the first time I read two of his books was in April 2007, and now, in April 2008, I am praising him to high heavens). What is going to happen in April next year, I wonder. More likely, it is all mere coincidence. Also, my vote during the grand finale of DPP2 went to this poem.
Anyway, back in 2006, I wrote a short close-reading essay on “Woofer” which you can read just a bit further down at the end of this post. But first, indulge in this fantastic poem (do not forget to come back here when you are done):
Terrance Hayes, “Woofer (When I Consider the African-American)”
I looked around a bit on the internet for some more legitimate material by and about Hayes. Here is what I found:
- profile at the Academy of American Poets – links to several poems in the right sidebar
- short portrait at the Poetry Center at Smith College – includes photos (check out that mohawk) and a few poems
- selection of a few poems from his staff page at Carnegie Mellon (PDF) – mind you, there is a “The Blue Terrance” among them, but it is not the same I quoted from earlier; there are several “blue Terrances” in Wind in a Box
- three poems at the Fishouse – each with an audio recording; you have to check out “The Blue Seuss,” one of my favorites from Wind in a Box
- “New Folk” at Poetry – with a short Q&A
- three poems over at Guernica – rather recent, from this past November
- a review of Wind in a Box – by Peter Blair from the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette
- a five-day journal for the Poetry Foundation – from June 2006
- “Carp Poem” – at the Konundrum Engine Literary Review
- “The Blue Bowie” – from Jubilat 6
- “Serenade” – at Fugue
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Ciaran Carson, “The Assignation”
Knopf: Kenneth Koch, “To Psychoanalysis”
~~~~~
And here goes the slightly revised version of my 2006 essay on “Woofer.” Please read the poem first.
Woofers: New Drums for a New Generation
TERRANCE HAYES has written a beautiful poem about the new African-American self. In order to describe it, he mocks cliché traditions, ridicules stereotypes, and satirically plays with the term “African-American”. All of these methods involve the reader’s experience with race and racism.
Hayes juxtaposes the stereotypical African-American image and the way he sees it by using the formula “When I consider the African-American, I think not of [...], but of [...].” This is a paradox, though. It is impossible for him to state what he does not think of (as it is for everybody); by saying what he did not think of, he had to think of it. This method plays with people’s inevitable associations when they see someone of another race. The racial stereotypes are automatically projected onto that person, and Hayes does exactly that when he (paradoxically) says what he does not think of.
His “not-thoughts” are filled with self-mockery, which indicates that he is basically immune to accusations, such as “we were too dumb to run the other way / when we saw the wide white sails of the ships.” But his “thoughts” are not exactly free of clichés, either. On Thanksgiving, a chicken was “slaughtered” and not a turkey, by a witchdoctor to boot, a clear reference to voodoo. The closest he has “ever come to anything remotely ritualistic” were drums from hi-fi woofers. It is one of the clichés that all African-Americans still connect to their African roots and heritage. That they might have a culture of their own does not come to mind. The “drums drumming from woofers” combine these two cultures. The woofers are the drums of the new generation—again a cliché that African-Americans always listen to loud, thumping music.
Hayes also plays with the term “African-American” itself, raising the question why they are not just called “Americans,” or why people have to be divided into races at all. The girl’s “bi-continental nipples” are a great example of this. They are bi-continental in so far as that she is African and American, but also, on a smaller scale, that one is on each breast. They both belong to the same body, as Africa and America belong to the same world. “Linked by a hyphen filled with blood” is also ambiguous. For one, it points out America’s history of violence and slavery. But since Hayes uses the expression in connection with “the two of us there in the basement,” it can also be a reference to them having sex.
Hayes questions race and racism in a funny way that never loses track of its purpose or its audience. The pickup line he uses in the beginning of the poem — “‘You can return it when I see you again’” — is not only meant for the girl, but also for the reader. Since the line is so original, he can count on the reader to keep going, hopefully beyond the poem as well.
(written on May 30, 2006)
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 5
Today’s poem is a fairly recent one (from 2005). Instead of introducing it too much and spoiling the fun, here it is:
There’s quite a nice symmetry going on. The question mark in stanza 3, line 3 is literally at the poem’s center and acts like a threshold. And I like the fact that Hernandez actually says what many of us probably think, even if it’s a “dark thought.”
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Claire Kageyama-Ramakrishnan, “Terzanelle: Manzanar Riot”
Knopf: Kenneth Koch, “From ‘The Duplications’” (as if they had known about my post from Thursday)
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 4
Today’s poem is one that I have already posted once before, on Christmas Eve of 2006. So I will just copy-paste my exact words from back then.
I feel rather 19th century this time, so here is a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins that I enjoy very much every time I read it. Mr. Hopkins had the gift of writing rhythmic verse and juxtaposing quite strange words combined with alliterations and rhyme. His poetry needs to be read out loud. One has to hear it in order to live it.
Inversnaid
THIS darksome burn, horseback brown,
His rollrock highroad roaring down,
In coop and in comb the fleece of his foam
Flutes and low to the lake falls home.A windpuff-bonnet of fawn-froth
Turns and twindles over the broth
Of a pool so pitchblack, fell-frowning,
It rounds and rounds Despair to drowning.Degged with dew, dappled with dew,
Are the groins of the braes that the brook treads through,
Wiry heathpacks, flitches of fern,
And the beadbonny ash that sits over the burn.What would the world be, once bereft
Of wet and wildness? Let them be left,
O let them be left, wildness and wet;
Long live the weeds and the wilderness yet.—Gerard Manley Hopkins
(Taken from Bartleby.com | http://www.bartleby.com/122/33.html)
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Raymond McDaniel, “Assault to Abjury”
Knopf: Richard Kenney, “Lightning Strikes the Protein-Rich Postcambrian Tide Pool”
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 3
The third day of April asks for the third of my favorite poems. They are not ranked, mind you. Today’s poem is one of the first I encountered by the late New York School poet Kenneth Koch. It is poetic not so much because of the meter and rhyme (there is hardly any), but rather because of its language and the imagery it calls to mind. At one point, I even attempted to translate this into German.
Kenneth Koch, “One Train May Hide Another”
As on the first day, this also includes an audio recording of the poet reading his piece. It is of the slightly longer kind, but definitely worth the trip. Enjoy.
~~~~~
Other poems for April
Poets.org: Jane Mead, “The Origin”
Knopf: Franz Wright, “Bild, 1959″ and “Publication Date”
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for NPM, Day 2
The following poem I hold very dear to my heart because it is this fantastic little piece that got me hooked to the entire genre. Reading and analyzing this poem in class, I saw for the first time what poetry could really do. Before, it was all just dull blabber by some gray-haired old men who could not get over the fact that their wives had either left them or died before they did.
Long story short, my eye-opener was Seamus Heaney, “The Rain Stick” (from The Spirit Level, 1996). By the way, I checked the version of the poem and it is a perfect copy. Every comma, semicolon, hyphen etc. is in the right place; a somewhat important factor in this particular case.
~~~~~
Other poems for April
From yesterday:
The Academy of American Poets, the ones who initiated National Poetry Month over a decade ago, send out a “Poem-A-Day” during April. The first one for this year was Charles Simic, “Secret History”.
The poetry editors over at one of my favorite anglophone publishing houses, Alfred A. Knopf, have been doing the same thing. For some poems, they also provide audio recordings done by the poet. This was the case yesterday: Mary Jo Salter, “A Phone Call to the Future” (the link to the audio file in mp3 format is right above the poem’s title).
You can also subscribe to email newsletters for both the Academy and Knopf’s “poem-a-day.”
[UPDATE]
From today:
Poets.org: Robert Creeley, “The Charm”
Knopf: Frank O’Hara, “Avenue A”
Send to : : : : : : : :
A Poem for National Poetry Month, Day 1
It is April, once again—was there not an April just last year?—and that means National Poetry Month in the U.S. For that reason, I shall post or link to a favorite poem of mine every day until the 30th of this “cruellest of months.”
Opening the field will be a poem I particularly cherish. In fact, this won the very first round of Andrew’s Daily Poem Project (DPP) in 2004. Back then, I voted for it in the final round and I already knew at the stage of its weekly win that this would be my overall winner. (By the way, the fourth DPP is going on right now over at Andrew’s blog (cf. link above). Go check it out.)
So without further ado, here it is (paradoxically, please read on before you click the link):
What is nice about Poetry Archive is that it simultaneously presents the poem and an audio recording of it done by the poet. So please do both at the same time in this case: listen to the recording while you read along; or read along while you are listening to it. Either way should work.
Come back tomorrow for the second installment of daily versified language. I myself am curious what it is going to be.
Send to : : : : : : : :
