BOOK REVIEW BY AN ANONYMOUS BRITISH REVIEWER IN THE TIMES

BOOK REVIEW BY AN ANONYMOUS BRITISH REVIEWER

IN THE TIMES

An Anthology of French Poetry from Nerval to Valéry, in English Translation. Edited by Angel Flores. Garden City, N. J.: Doubleday Anchor Books, 1958.

After due consideration,
I tried reading a translation
Of French poets from Nerval to Valéry;

And although the Gallic nation
Holds them all in veneration,
I confess that they are not my cup of tea.

Why, it’s as dreadful as the antics
Of the German High Romantics,
And they go about as far—about as deep

In that dark and bulgy wood
Where the moonlight drips like blood
Among trees that clutch at you and creep,

And where flowers that devour
Yawn open by the hour,
And monsters pursue you, and weep.

They were all full of spleen,
If you know what I mean,
And if you read the volume you will see

Forty stanzas of angoisse
Ladled out like vichyssoise
As the entrée to a long course of ennui;

And the endless, sad complainte
That the living are all dead
In the head,
And the dead …
really ain’t.

And their stories: Jules Laforgue
Ended up inside a morgue—
Couldn’t pay for a burial place;

And Stephan Mallarmé
Faded mystically away,
Like his symbols, into some inner space.

Enter Evil: Charles Baudelaire,
Who proclaimed himself the Heir
Of the Devil, after reading Edgar-Poe;

Worst of all, Paul Verlaine,
Like Van Gogh, went insane,
And tried to kill his lover Rimbaud.

(Save for jaunty, debonair
Prince Guillaume Apollinaire,
They are really not the sort you’d want to know.)

Now Baudelaire may have been
Quite a specialist in Sin,
And Rimbaud as Rambonctious as could be,

But after reading this anthology
I can say without apology,
It offers no Illuminations for me.

Author's Note:

The Reader, like the Author, should consider himself free

To side with the Reviewer, or with les poètes maudits.

Image from http://thisrecording.com/today/2009/12/9/in-which-we-begin-to-roar-with-laughter-at-paul-verlaine-and...html

THE POLITICALLY CORRECT "LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD"

The Politically Correct "_Little Red Riding Hood"_ was taken from http://www.danshort.com/pcred/ on 17 May 2010.

This version of the story is not new--it goes back at least to the 70's when the hysteria {hersteria?}was at one of its periodic peaks--but it is still good for a laugh, especially these days, when there is not much to make anyone smile.

I think that the satire is aimed less at modern reform movements such as the ecological, postcolonial, and feminist movements (although their extremes have provided a lot of material for it) than at the attempts to rewrite human culture, in reality a type of censorship... the agenda being to make it impossible for one to say or write--and therefore impossible for one to think--certain things that offend the reformers. In any case, the parody of the jargon is hilariously accurate.

I have made some minor editorial changes, indicated by curly brackets.

There once was a young person named Little Red Riding Hood who lived on the edge of a large forest full of endangered owls and rare plants that would probably provide a cure for cancer if only someone took the time to study them.

Red Riding Hood lived with a nurture giver whom she sometimes referred to as “Mother,” although she didn’t mean to imply by this term that she would have thought less of that person if a close biological link did not in fact exist. Nor did she intend to denigrate the equal value of nontraditional households, and she was sorry if this was the impression conveyed.

One day her mother asked her to take a basket of organically grown fruit and {distilled} mineral water to her grandmother’s house.

“But Mother, won’t this be stealing work from the unionized people who have struggled for years to earn the {exclusive} right to carry all packages between various people in the woods?”

Red Riding Hood’s mother assured her that she had called the union boss and gotten a special compassionate mission exemption form.

“But Mother, aren’t you oppressing me by ordering me to do this?”

Red Riding Hood’s mother pointed out that it was impossible for {wymyn} to oppress other {wymyn} because all {wymyn} were oppressed until all {wymyn} were free.

“But Mother, then shouldn’t you have my brother carry the basket, since he’s an oppressor, and should learn what it’s like to be oppressed?”

Red Riding Hood’s mother explained that her brother was attending a special rally for animal rights, and besides, this wasn’t stereotypical {wymyn’s} work, but an empowering deed that would help engender a feeling of community.

“But won’t I be oppressing Grandma, by implying that she’s sick and hence unable to independently further her own selfhood?”

But Red Riding Hood’s mother explained that her grandmother wasn’t actually sick or incapacitated or mentally handicapped in any way, although that was not to imply that any of these conditions were inferior to what some people called “health.” Thus Red Riding Hood felt that she could get behind the idea of delivering the basket to her grandmother, and so she set off.

Many people believed that the forest was a {sinister} and dangerous place, but Red Riding Hood knew that this was an irrational fear based on cultural paradigms instilled by a patriarchal society that regarded the natural world as an exploitable resource, and hence believed that natural predators were in fact intolerable competitors.

Other people avoided the woods for fear of thieves and {"psychopaths"}, but Red Riding Hood felt that in a truly classless society all marginalized peoples would be able to come out {of the woods} and be accepted as valid lifestyle role models.

On her way to Grandma’s house, Red Riding Hood passed a {woodcutter}, and wandered off the path, in order to examine some flowers. She was startled to find herself standing before a Wolf, who asked her what was in her basket. Red Riding Hood’s teacher had warned her never to talk to strangers, but she was confident in taking control of her own budding sexuality, and chose to dialogue with the Wolf.

She replied, “I am taking my Grandmother some healthful snacks in a gesture of solidarity.”

The Wolf said, “You know, my dear, it isn’t safe for a little girl to walk through these woods alone.”

Red Riding Hood said, “I find your sexist remark offensive in the extreme, but I will ignore it because of your traditional status as an outcast from society, the stress of which has caused you to develop an alternative and yet entirely valid world view. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I would prefer to be on my way.”

Red Riding Hood returned to the main path, and proceeded towards her Grandmother’s house. But because his status outside society had freed him from slavish adherence to linear, Western-style thought, the Wolf knew of a quicker route to Grandma’s house.

He burst into the house and ate Grandma, a course of action affirmative of his {natural role} as a predator. Then, unhampered by rigid, traditionalist gender role notions, he put on Grandma’s nightclothes, crawled under the bedclothes, and awaited developments.

Red Riding Hood entered the cottage and said, “Grandma, I have brought you some cruelty-free snacks to salute you in your role of wise and nurturing matriarch.”

The Wolf said softly, “Come closer, child, so that I might see you.”

Red Riding Hood said, “Goddess[es]! Grandma, what big eyes you have!”

“You forget that I am optically challenged.”

“And Grandma, what an enormous, er, what a fine nose you have.”

“Naturally, I could have had it {enhanced} to help my acting career, but I didn’t give in to such {superficial, sexist} societal pressures, my child.”

“And Grandma, what very big, sharp teeth you have!”

The Wolf could not take any more of these species-ist slurs, and, in a reaction appropriate for his accustomed {function in his natural niche in the ecosystem}, he leaped out of bed, grabbed Little Red Riding Hood, and opened his jaws so wide that she could see her poor Grandmother cowering in his belly.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Red Riding Hood bravely shouted. “You must request my permission before proceeding to a new level of intimacy!”

The Wolf was so startled by this statement that he loosened his grasp on her. At the same time, the {woodcutter} burst into the cottage, brandishing an axe.

“Hands off!” cried the {woodcutter}.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” cried Little Red Riding Hood. “If I let you help me now, I would be expressing a lack of confidence in my own abilities, which would lead to poor self-esteem and lower achievement scores on college entrance exams.”

“Last chance, Sister! Get your hands off that endangered species! This is an FBI sting!” screamed the {woodcutter}, and when Little Red Riding Hood nonetheless made a sudden {movement}, he swung the axe and sliced off her head.

“Thank goodness you got here in time,” said the Wolf. “The {juvenile} and {the older female} lured me in here. I thought I was a goner.”

“No, I think I’m the real victim, here,” said the {woodcutter}. “I’ve been dealing with my anger ever since I saw her picking those protected flowers earlier. And now I’m going to have such a trauma. Do you have any aspirin?”

“Sure,” said the Wolf.

“Thanks.”

“I feel your pain,” said the Wolf, and he patted the woodchopper on his firm, {tight backside}, gave a little belch, and said “Do you have any {natural, organic antacid}?”

MORE HAIKU

Heat presses on my skin,
Sweat trickles, summer rain on glass.
A mosquito wants to drink.


A night wind stirs the oaks,
The pale moon rounds a ledge of cloud...
Torn shadows streaming past.


Midnight, clear and chill,
An empty winding road... Black mountains
Move to hide the moon.

ILLUMINATION

I floated down, trailing my luminous clouds
into the hot dusty square, and landed among people
who were happily wallowing in the dirt
with their dogs, pigs, and chickens.
They stopped rolling over each other
and began to throw stones, shouting
that I was dragging bloody rags and that I stank.
As the crowd surged toward me,
I picked up a stone, threw it,
and fled down a narrow, dirty alley.

REGRESSIVE SONNET

W. S., to himself


Your old catastrophes queued to recur,
And vital fire contracted to a hole,
Can you go back in dreams to what you were,
And try anew the unenacted role?

Dead pleasures fading to a wasted blur,
Desire perversely lives, a glowing coal
That stale regret but pricks you on to stir,
Revision of the past your only goal.

So little left could hardly come to less:
The clinging succubus that made you prey,
And yet possesses you, makes you regress;

The sleepless demon that forced you to say
"Yes" when you meant "No," "No" when you meant "Yes,"
Still makes a day of night, a night of day.





Portrait of Shakespeare from http://quotationsbook.com/quotes/author/photos/6633


x

THIS IS JUST TO SAY (to My Ex-Girlfriend)

I have moved
you
out of my
life

which you were 
probably thinking you had

taken over

Forgive me
you were disastrous
so mean
and so cold

FOUR HAIKU

Recently I happened to see a group of translations of Japanese haiku in a textbook, and was reminded that there had been a great vogue for haiku when I was an undergraduate. Like many others, I tried my hand at writing haiku, but I thought then, and have continued to think, that the requirement of limiting oneself to five- and seven-syllable lines is unrealistic for the English language.

According to the two basic-Japanese textbooks that I have seen, English grammar is very different from the Japanese, and so are the time values of English syllables (and therefore English rhythms), and so is English intonation; and the times that I have heard Japanese spoken confirm this judgement. Because of these differences, the five- and seven-syllable lines of haiku in English sound excessively constrained---I would even say mannered, affected.

At different times I experimented with restrictions such as five, seven, and five words, and later five, seven, and five grammatical parts of speech (infinitives and phrases like "out of" counting as one part), but I did not find them satisfactory.

Then I hit on writing lines that approximated trimeter, tetrameter, and trimeter--and I liked the results. The form suggests the brevity of Japanese haiku, but not the artificial truncation required by syllabic haiku in English, and it appropriately awakens echoes of English lyric poetry just as Japanese haiku are intended to evoke well established Japanese literary associations.

Should anyone object that the results are not really haiku, I remind them that syllabic haiku in English are not really haiku either, but mechanical imitations. They are more abbreviated in relation to their language and culture than the Japanese; and they lack--because native speakers of English, writers as well as readers, lack--the cultural values and the associations, especially those of Buddhism, essential to the Japanese tradition.

The following poems are examples of natural-sounding haiku in English.

Below the thorny stem,
Fallen petals make another
Rose, a broken fan.
3.ii.10

Less than a minute’s rain!
Among the pebbles on the beach
The small drops darken, then fade.
3.ii.10

A full moon overhead:
Oculus lighting a cobalt dome,
Or just a perfect pearl?
5.ii.10

Creek water swift and clear,
Shifting sand-ripples under my feet,
Which of us travels farther?
5.ii.10

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.


_____________________________________
Image from http://dalesman.files.wordpress.com/2008/08/001.jpg

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.