ROMAN SPRING

In memoriam Iraida Rivera vda. de Serbiá

The final flooding of the year subsides
and catching us by surprise a new sun rises
on faded brick and soot-stained masonry
miraculously undissolved by age and rain.
This time the drowned earth did not succumb:
The fertile stench of garbage rises; fresh black loam
steams, rainbowed with microscopic life
where light—the winter light withdrawn
from ledge and vaulted arch and dome
—strikes prisms from
the polyhedral
cathedral
of the
flies’
eyes,
and
every rock
and veiny stone
that cracked and split
at ten below in the iron streams
bursts along sparkling seams and sings,
and every briar, brake, and spray
flashes, drips light, spits, sputters, uttering
the resinous green flames of spring.


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AUTHOR'S WORDS

A few months ago, someone writing in the name of an RSS feed mill emailed me and asked for a description of this blog in the form of some "Author's Words." I sent a preliminary version of the following text, and a week later checked the feed mill. The text had not been posted(?). I have checked several times since then, and still--nothing. So I am posting it here, amplified, as an explanation of my poems.

A Euro-American in his seventh decade, I grew up in an environment of reading, and by the time I began to learn to read and write I was convinced that words work magic. And I was determined to learn to produce this magic. Nothing in my subsequent experience has vitiated this vision.

A good poem—potent words in a powerful order—is enchantment, wonder-working, magic. Like music, it moves and transports us; it is a psychic journey without drugs; it expands consciousness and perceptions and the capacity for feeling. Like a movie, it takes us on a mental roller-coaster ride; unlike a movie, it does not depend on graphics and sound effects, but on the verbal equivalents of these things.

Like all art, it provides a specialized pleasure, which we call "esthetic," meaning the satisfaction of a complex of desires--desires for perceptions of order, proportion, and coherence; for pleasurable sensations including (among other things) the pleasurable expenditure of energy and the surprise caused by the unexpected ingenious use of language; and for some degree of correspondence to the world we inhabit. It does this while it invites us to contemplation, all by means of words.

Therefore, the poet must know words and be skilled in choosing and ordering them, and in using all the elements and components of language: ALL the elements: rhythm, intonation, assonance, consonance, onomatopoeia, connotation as well as denotation, grammar, syntax, figurative and rhetorical language, and allusions... because the greater the number of resources well employed, the more powerful the effect--the more intense the esthetic pleasure; and because resources clumsily or ill employed weaken or destroy the desired effect, or create an undesired effect. (You, Dear Reader, should recognize here the long shadow of Edgar Poe.)

And, because he lives among others, the poet must use his power ethically and prudently. The power of words to move people to force social change has been amply documented in our time--very noticeably, in fact, ever since the Renaissance and the Reformation. The power of words to cause serious social--and in individuals, psychological--damage has also been documented. Evidence of this can be found in the history, psychology, and self-help sections of any library or bookstore.  It is the reason that the Roman Catholic Church promulgated the Index Librorum Prohibitorum and the indices that led up to it. (It was not formally abolished until 1966.)

At the time that I began to study English-language literature (I have an advanced degree in the field), the dominant critical philosophy was the New Criticism; its principal method was the analysis and explication of the text. But by the end of the 1960s it was considered old-fashioned by those who had the most access to the media, both academic and anti-academic. These were the writers, creative and otherwise, who were inspired by the anti-academic wing of American modernism--especially William Carlos Williams and his followers in the Beat Generation, and their followers.

With the passage of time, the tendency to depreciate the values of the New Criticism has grown worse, producing a corresponding deterioration in the quality of the reader's experience (the metaphorical roller-coaster ride), to the point that many English-language poems published today by the small presses and little magazines, and enshrined in the popular teaching anthologies, sound and look like translations made by unskillful translators. Or like messages smuggled out of a psychiatric ward.

One either ends up confused, wondering what the point of the piece was, or goes away with the impression that, for the writer and the publisher, any piece of writing deserves to be called a poem if only it expresses what came to be called "politically correct" (that is, fashionable) sentiments in the current jargon and in lines that break off mid-phrase before reaching the right margin of the page. This is glaringly evident in the United States.

But the New-Critical approach is still the most rewarding mode of study for a poet, and is the best guide in the construction of poetic texts on the foundation of whatever the world or the unconscious psyche offers one. Why? Because poems are, first of all, texts.* And because nothing lacking a minimum of coherence can hold the attention of a person of at least average intelligence. A person who takes poems seriously wants to explore the coherence, the internal resonances and correspondences, as well as the verbal magic of effective poems, whether simply as a reader or as a writer in search of models of structure and verbal skill.

Since a poem is a linguistic construct, a work of verbal art, the vehicle of an esthetic experience, it follows that a piece of writing which is primarily the vehicle of an ideology or an exercise for letting off steam will not be a poem, or at least not a very good one. These kinds of writing are psychotherapy or politics, more or less disguised. Of course, we all need some kind and some degree of therapy at times throughout our lives, and political participation is a vital concern of everyone, but these things are not poetry and they only adulterate the poems in which they are substitutes for the poet’s art.

                                    *  *  *  *  *

*  Even the performers who populate the poetry-slam and rapper circuits declaim words that were first written texts--unless they have created and memorized their performances in an exclusively oral fashion. Performers in pre-literate {e. g., Homeric} societies did this, but I doubt that contemporary performers can. Close to 40 years' experience as a teacher has convinced me that the typical Americans who began school after 1960 have very little capacity for, or interest in, remembering anything except their social lives and entertainment preferences. Evidence for this is found in the growing crisis in education, with increasing numbers of school drop-outs and steadily decreasing scores on the standardized exit and entrance examinations across the country--while "reality TV" and celebrity/entertainment websites and blogs proliferate.

Given this situation, it seems reasonable to infer that even such performers as those mentioned above must have recourse to the aid of the written word. So, as long as there are poems, there must be texts of poems.  And as long as there are texts of poems, the norms of the New Criticism will be the most effective standards for evaluating poems.

MESSAGE

Coming for me! I read the message
In letters of fire on my skin,
In lightning on the night sky.

WHITTLING

Speaking of tombstones, like you said,
I don't want one; it's not just the cost, it's . . .
My philosophy of justice.

To sink a stone slab at my head,
Engraved with dates and deeds,
As if to render up accounts
To any stranger who can read,
Would be to weight my spirit down
When it ought to be most free.

My wife used to say,
"People have expectations.
"It's the basis of society."

That's just how people are, you see.
If they think they've known you,
They think they own you.
So even when you're dead and gone,
They still want to judge you on
What you have and haven't done.

I'll tell you a secret, though--one
Better kept than it should be--
Death's a release, from even a good life.

As for me, I've had all a man needs;
I had a wife;
I have children I love, and they love me.
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Image from http://www.thestar.com/travel/northamerica/article/1076911--resting-places-of-the-rich-and-famous

AFTER THE EXILE

After our exile from that holy place,
It seemed that every stony, thorn-bound path
Led back to the high wall and flame of wrath
Implacably convicting us of sin.

And one day as I wandered, questioning
The reason for the Tempter and the Tree,
If knowledge were so high a good, and we
Created to aspire, who was at fault

That we had fallen? Could it be, the thought
Of our being like Him had called forth His ire,
Caused our expulsion by the sword of fire?
Would nothing ever bring Him to relent?

Each day now brought new errors to repent:
Self-centeredness, demanding from each face
An image of itself; and new disgrace
How favor shown to Abel bred Cain's hate. . . .

Again I saw the Angel at the Gate.
His face shone like the Sun. I stopped, in doubt
Whether to go or stay. Then he held out
His arms to me and said, "May I come in?"

And I was opened to receive God's grace.


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A RIDDLE

How I am bound taut, drawn down
by these gigantic hands
to the framework that holds me from below!
The slightest tap upon this rack
can make me quiver into sound.
And when
against the cross-pull of the strands
that come and go
I shudder and vibrate,
the whole body of my world resounds.
Should I lie slack
along all my length
in complete contact with this ground,
nor it nor I would resonate:
There would be no music then.
It is this thing
perversely called a bridge,
that separates
and holds me back
from everything--this hard threshold,
this stumbling block--produces strength,
gives power to strain,
and makes me sing.
Sometimes so vibrant is the pain
that thrills me through, I know
they are stroking me again
(fingers pressing, probing how
to raise my cry up to a scream)
with that delicate, pitiless bow.

How they must be enjoying it now.

(A FIDDLE)

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Image from http://www.betterphoto.com/gallery/dynoGallDetail.asp?photoID=5490813&catID=25&rowNumber=3

A MATTER OF SMALL MOMENT (There Having Been No Announcement)

There having been no announcement,
The work was far advanced 
When I happened on the scene:
 
Some insect shell was underway—
Head, thorax, abdomen, and wings
Silently gliding, sustained by teams
Of ants intently stroking it along.
It almost seemed
The funeral caisson of a king
In mute procession to the tomb,
Or a Venetian war trireme
Measuring the sea.
 
Despite the ants’ tenacity
And the roughness of the ground,
From time to time sharp gusts of wind
Carried away the outer hangers-on
Of an excited throng
Like those that always swarm around 
The edges of great undertakings. 
Feeling the wind beset them, 
They must have just reared up, let go,
And let themselves be swept away.

Those that remained
Did not miss them. Steady and slow,
The small cortege moved on.
 
But I could not dismiss them so.
They made me think
Of all the launchings I have seen:
Ships, missions to the moon, balloons. . . .
 
Outfitted in yellow, red, and blue,
Brass bands blare martial music
While dancers prance in Mardi-Gras costumes;
Flags flap and crackle in the wind,
And ribbons stretch, and streamers stream;
The vendors of souvenirs, soft drinks, and ice cream
Pop up everywhere;
Phileas Fogg and the Wizard of Oz 
Usurp the atmosphere.
 
And then the tiny gondola swings
Beneath a silken dome that swells and nods
Like some old Narnian Monopod
Just come to life and visibility; 

Ropes creak and strain.
The crowd falls still.
The frail ship and its cargo sway
Upward, and slowly shrink away.
 
And we turn back to work again,
For all our momentary transport,
Earthbound—yet not quite the same.
 
Balloons, Oz, Phileas Fogg,
And Monopods!
And gondolas and triremes—
 
Incongruities fit for the Renaissance,
That delighted in such things:
For the well-designing ministers and kings
Who took advantage of
The occasions and displays of state
To awe the bumptious populace,
That always managed anyway
To turn authoritarian shows
Into subversive play.
 
Perhaps of all the things we boast 
To set us off from other creatures,
This is the most peculiarly human way
Of behaving. It is our nature
To turn a strictly purposed thing
Back on itself and make it say
Something entirely different, and mean more
Than we had thought before—
To make stern shows of iron and fire
Into objects of desire
That captivate and tease us on.
 
It may be this, as much as calculation,
That will save us from the fate
Of the socially more advanced—
From the relentless and complete
Totalitarian organization
Of the six- and the four- and the two-legged ants.

Image from http://wwwdelivery.superstock.com/WI/223/4128/PreviewComp/SuperStock_4128R-8425.jpg

BETWEEN THE LINES ("WOMAN" The Subtext)

I'm the "Princess" Story Book,
Full of things so fine —
You really have to study  me 
If you want to read between my  lines!
 
I'm the lovey-dovey dove,
Singing and flirting! — You be
The tree I perch in. Shush! Don't move!
Everybody's listening and looking at me!
 
I'm the garden spiderweb
All spangled and diamonded with dew....
The corner where I display myself,
That's you.
 
I'm the black orchid, I'm the blue rose —
I beautify any spot
In which I pose.
You? The pot.
 
I'm the green green green green grass,
I am so pretteeee!
You be the dandy lyin' weed
— What do you mean, you "don't agree"?
 
I can be anything! Do anything, I can!
Because I am Woman! You hear me?
—What do you mean, you don't want to be
What I say?

Aw, you ain't no man, 
Anyway.

GRAFFITI

"The Critic and the Lawyer but behold
The baser side of literature and life."
Byron, Don Juan, X: 14: 1-2

Sincerity's no guarantee
Of art--of poetry least of all.
Sincerity's what the confessor hears,
It's what the nurse and medic see,
Or worse. I sometimes feel
The greatest sincerity's what we read
On restroom walls:
"I want to . . ." "Call me . . ."
"Whoever reads this is a queer . . ."

Call it ignorance; call it rage,
The major symptom of our age;
Call it, if you will, sheer lust
Perverted and fertilized by disgust,
It shows the basest need
Constrained by fear, and thus
It is sincere, even when in part
Unconscious.

But . . . art?

Anonymous, it trumpets need
While it evades responsibility,
Through secrecy in public,
As lawyers cheat in private,
Yet magnify the law:
"The Law exists apart."
"The Law exacts awe."
"Law does not swerve."

(Conversely, like graffiti,
Like all means which have been
Self-elevated into ends,
The law remains erect
Long after those means it was meant to serve
Are not.

So law does not respect
The sticky issues of the human heart,
Which usually turn out to be,
On close examination, rather raw--
The raw material, in fact, of art.)

True practitioners and those who know,
On the other hand, elaborate from need,
But know that need is not enough
Without the skill to take the rough
And mold and change and make it flow
Into some stubborn form or passing wave
That startles while it captivates,
Releasing us as it enslaves.

But even so,
Like law, it's a necessity--
I mean art merely,
Not sincerity.
It helps us live with one another
And with ourselves--if not like brothers,
At least in a natural sort of order
While we remain, oh so sincerely,
Selfish, unloving, cowardly.
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Image from http://nothingbuttalent.net/blog/wp-content/uploads/2010/07/toilet-graffiti01.jpg

ABOVE THE EAVES

Slight acrobat, it

Darts, veers, and pirouettes

On the edge of sight,

Teeters for a split-

Second on the tip

Of a wing and dis-

Appears—

                      Not play, not display,

But insight—skill

Intent on survival,

That makes us feel

The top of the sky

Is far away.