Lucifer and Lucy-Fur

Here's a post that has nothing to do with fiction, poetry, or antiques. On Sunday we adopted a new cat through the PetSmart/Animal Shelter program. We walked by the cages and noticed something about the size of a janitor's mop--that shape, that brown. It stretched and yawned, and we saw that it was feline. When she was released from the cage, she waddled out, like a yak, those colors and that furry. Harvey and I turned to each other, said, "Lucifer," simultaneously, and $100 later we were her owners. She turned out to be Lucy (instead of Cinderella's cat) because she is a spayed female (and a ragdoll, not a yak, as first determined) and weighs only 20 pounds.

There is plenty of Lucy fur around, though, as she and the other cat are not yet compatible. The other cat, Loco, weighs maybe 5 pounds, but it's five pounds of pure mania. Right now, they are sitting approximately a foot apart, facing different directions, pointedly ignoring each other like mismatched bookends.

If you have pets, get them neutered. If you want pets, please check at your local animal shelter.

Anne Is So Smart! Read Her Blog on Li Young Lee

I wish I knew how to link a to a site, but Anne Haines (land mammal) has written a very profound, very clear entry on poetics and about Lee and the line. What she says about musical rests and linebreaks is dead on.

So, if you're reading this, immediately stop and find her entry! It is awesome.

If you are interested in Jacob wrestling with the angel, see "A Little East of Jordan" (Emily Dickinson) and "Carrion Comfort" (Gerard Manley Hopkins)--which I did not realize till just this instant must have influenced Dylan Thomas!

Sorry about all the exclamation points, but I am just so happy to read good poetry and to think about poems after 25+ years since my BA, and also after writing nothing longer than a grocery list in the last 7 or 8 years. I know that sounds corny, but corny it will have to be.

Questions in Yeats

How can those terrified vague fingers push
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?
And how can body, laid in that white rush,
But feel the strange heart beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there
The broken wall, the burning roof and tower
And Agamemnon dead.
Being so caught up,
So mastered by the brute blood of the air,
Did she put on his knowledge with his power
Before the indifferent beak could let her drop?

In "Leda and the Swan," there are these questions, then the Cassandra-like interruption (stanzaic and split stanza)in this poem, then the final question.
_______________________

The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

And that, of course, is the great question at the end of "The Second Coming."

________________________

O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?

And there is this question, a direct address, in "Among School Children."

_________________________

Obviously, in these three poems, closing on an interrogative is pretty darned effective. (I've listed the poems in the order where I think the question works best).

I am thinking about ways to close a poem, yet leave it open. I need to think some more about this, but I think that is what Yeats accomplishes here.

Hoops and Heart Failure

Cardinals in OT, Illini in OT. Best day of NCAA Regionals I can remember. Can't wait to see my beloved Louisville take on the Orange Crush. Pitino is a freakin' genius.

Notes on West Virginia--falling out of bounds, shooting 3s and hitting. Best name (and player) Pitsnoggle. Pit-snoggle

Notes on Louisville--Garcia fouled out, Dean cramped up, and O'Bannon owned the free throw stripe.

Henry James, Henry James, Henry James

He sometimes came twice in the twenty–four hours; the moments he liked best were those of gathering dusk, of the short autumn twilight; this was the time of which, again and again, he found himself hoping most. Then he could, as seemed to him, most intimately wander and wait, linger and listen, feel his fine attention, never in his life before so fine, on the pulse of the great vague place: he preferred the lampless hour and only wished he might have prolonged each day the deep crepuscular spell.

Henry James, "The Jolly Corner"

What sentences.

Typo of the Century

NECK: Harsh caryatid bruits bilaterally.

I am definitely going to get a poem out of this one. I can just see two women holding up a wobbly head.

PS For you non-transcriptionists, it should be "carotid."

Ideas on Shakespeare's progression in 3 sonnets: Reckoning, recognizing, ranting

69 (reckoning) 94 (expense--thrift) 129 (expense--spent)

Ideas on Blake's "The Sick Rose" and Celan's "Psalm"

Psalm (translated by Michael Hamburger)

No one moulds us again out of earth and clay,
no one conjures our dust.
No one.
Praised be your name, no one.
For your sake
we shall flower.
Towards
you.

A nothing
we were, are, shall
remain, flowering:
the nothing-, the no one's rose.

With
our pistil soul-bright,
with our stamen heaven-ravaged,
our corolla red
with the crimson word which we sang
over, O over
the thorn.
_____________
Now, that's just not as good a translation as this one:

Psalm (Psalm)
by Paul Celan (translated John Felstiner)

No one kneads us again out of earth and clay,
no one incants our dust. No one.

Blessèd art thou, No One.
In thy sight would
we bloom.
In thy
spite.

A Nothing
we were, are now, and ever
shall be, blooming:
the Nothing-, the
No-One's-Rose.

With
our pistil soul-bright,
our stamen heaven-waste,
our corona red
from the purpleword we sang
over, O over
the thorn.

Awash

We have over 200 daffodils here, different varieties, from vermillion to pink centers, most of them blooming. The white crocuses are up, a dozen lightbulbs glowing. Tulip stems, lances of iris, and daylily clumps edge the sidewalk. The canes of the sorbet peonies have just sprung up. The maple trees have crimson buds for leaves. The rosebushes look good--need to prune. Sedum's coming up in rosettes clumped around the fountain. Grape hyacinth are clustered near the house. The redbud's blooming early.

So much for the front yard--now a report from the back: The japonica is in tatters--don't know how it came to be so bedraggled. We may need to replace this. The deck in the back is slumping. The hostas are coming up--not sure about lily of the valley or bleeding hearts, which we'd planned for the shady side yard. Also, I'm not sure about the hydrangeas we transplanted. It's a little early to tell how they'll do. It's mud city in the middle of the yard. I think nothing will work there except a rock garden. Harvey has mentioned this several times before!

I feel like digging today. Maybe it will stop raining soon.

The Stick

Thanks, pal. You know who you are.

Q: You're stuck inside Fahrenheit 451, which book do you want to be?
A: Abby Hoffman's Steal This Book.

Q: Have you ever had a crush on a fictional character?
A: Archie Goodwin in the Nero Wolfe detective series by Rex Stout. I've always loved a wiseacre.

Q: The last book you bought is:
A: Eavan Boland, Against Love Poetry.

Q: The last book you read:
A: Ian McEwen, Atonement

Q: What are you currently reading?
A: Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke. (Highly recommend the footnotes).

Q: Five books you would take to a deserted island:
A:

1) The Bible.
2) Elizabeth Bishop's The Complete Poems ("Crusoe in England" comes to mind).
3) Survivor for Dummies.
4) A sketchbook.
5) A matchbook. (With all that time to practice, I'm sure I could draw Binky).

I am holding the short end of the stick, as I am not inflicting this on anyone else.

Happy Saint Patrick's Day.

Ashbery on the Sonnet

This is one of my favorite poems, and since it is a terrible Monday here, I thought I'd enjoy reading it again, and again, and again.

What Is Poetry?

The medieval town, with frieze
Of boy scouts from Nagoya? The snow

That came when we wanted it to snow?
Beautiful images? Trying to avoid

Ideas, as in this poem? But we
Go back to them as to a wife, leaving

The mistress we desire? Now they
Will have to believe it

As we believed it. In school
All the thought got combed out:

What was left was like a field.
Shut your eyes, and you can feel it for miles around.

Now open them on a thin vertical path.
It might give us--what?--some flowers soon?


John Ashbery

Poetics: Mission Statement

"Make everything as simple as possible, but not simpler." Albert Einstein

Philip Levine, in interview, Paris Review, Summer 2004 issue

This is from the "teaser" on the website.

INTERVIEWER You treat some of the great novelistic themes–war and peace, power and class struggle and oppression in society, the shifts of luck and fortune with time–in your poems, particularly in your long poems.

LEVINE What I regard as novelistic about my work is the telling of tales, which is utterly natural to me, and so is the presentation of characters. The other day when I was testifying in court in a civil disobedience case, the district attorney objected to my presentation because, he said, it was narrative. The judge sustained the objection; I tried to ask him what was wrong with a narrative, but he wouldn’t answer. I was deeply wounded. How can a poet or fiction writer tell the truth in court if he or she can’t present the events in a meaningful sequence, which is what a story is? The message is, Stay out of court.

Ponder this--how can the rhetoric of Q/A help/hurt poem--idea of a poem told as an interrogation (Mark Strand poem as an example) and idea of the same poem as a narrative. Idea of interlocution.

Don't Let Me Anywhere Near Google!

This is what came from "Get a Google Poem."

I keep hearing an obnoxious announcer, myself in my own monotone, and Mike Hammer

POETRY PANTOUM FOR THREE VOICES

OFFER -- you will receive a unique ONE-OF-A-KIND limerick haiku—
Sessile session sesterce sestertium--that's consonance.
It's been harder to write the sex bits sober,
Such as a villanelle or sestina, - Sex,

Sessile session sesterce sestertium--that's consonance.
In order to show you the most relevant results, we have omitted
Anything looser than a villanelle, sestina--Sex?
Well, it's been harder to write the sex bits sober.

In order to show you the most relevant results, we have omitted
Haiku, sonnets, and horsemeat. And
It's been harder to write the sex bits sober,
Found in the poems….It was during this time that I'd

Tried haiku, sonnets, horse meat and
Well, any kind of formal poem (sonnet, villanelle, sestina, etc.) I
Found nothing in the poems. It was during this time that I'd
Been a Household Sex Agent (with tools) in Limerick.

As a kind of formal poem (sonnet, villanelle, sestina, etc.)
I'd been busted for drugs. Now I was back in the states.
Household Sex Agent (with tools). Limerick,
Villanelle, lightning streak--

I'd been busted for drugs. Now I was back in the states,
Panhandling. Hey, you? Free-verse? Villanelle? Sestina?
Villanelle, lightning streak
A sestina, and haiku...

What about you? Free-verse? villanelle? sestina?
The most relevant results, we have omitted some entries
Lightning streak, Basho. From the inner lining of my coat
I'd flash sex as possible kind of formal poem (sonnet, villanelle, sestina),

The most relevant results--we have omitted some entries
Very similar to the 27 already displayed. If you like
Sex as possible kind of formal poem (sonnet, villanelle, sestina,
Dover Beach Tired Sex Bridges)

Very similar to the 27 already displayed--if you like
Sex Agents (with tools) from Limerick,
Dover Beach, Tired Sex, Bridges,
reads my personal ad. Strength's to be found in the tensile

Sex Agents (with tools), from Limerick,
Sestina Dover Beach’s tired sex. A bridge's
advantage--Strength is all to be found in the tensile--
Sessile session sesterce sestertium sestet--those consonants.

Sestina of "Blake/Dover Beach/Tired/Sex/Bridges"
For drugs. Now I am back in the states they
Offer--sessile session sesterce sestertium sestet?
I--well, it's been harder to write the sex bits sober,

Longing for drugs. Now I’m back in the States, they
come towards me in little fugues, and I--
Well, it's been harder to write. The sex bites, sober.
OFFER -- you will receive a unique ONE-OF-A-KIND limerick or haiku
_______________

This was surely fun, and maybe there is a real poem in there. I am really fond of the line "Anything looser than a villanelle."

Transcription Blues/A Dream May Be Possible/Gutless

My ears are ringing, and my vision is blurring. I have transcribed so much today that my biceps are sore. No kidding.

Pet Peeve of Day: Physician dictating while expectorating the shells of sunflower seeds. Same physician whipping x-ray films so loudly that they sound like sawblades.

I have typed "acute" as "a coot," which fits the doctor, if not the symptom. Talk about a Freudian slip...

A local university is beginning a low-residency MFA program here in Kentucky--the first residencies are beginning this summer. I would have a chance (maybe) to be accepted to that program. Although I would like to go to a more established non-residency program, I don't have the money for transportation to many of the programs. Also, I am hesitant about the time commitment to anything other than poetry, and I am hesitant about my background. I had creative writing teachers who were great, but I am so out of the poetry loop (what HAS gone on since 1980?). My heart says go for the best school that will take me. My mind says be practical. My fearful nerves say stay put and keep reading blogs anonymously.

I wonder who I could ask for letters of recommendation. I have not had a creative writing class since the early 1990s, and that was in fiction...

I wish there were an advice column for the lovelorn MFA applicant!

Sincerely yours, Craven in Kentucky

Treasure Time

Yesterday afternoon officially marks the beginning of junking/thrift shop/yard and estate sale season. Harvey and I went with Raleigh (our daughter, age 7) to the thrift store around the corner from our house. I found a copy of Palmer Cox's The Brownies: Their Book (1888) for a dime. That's officially the first bargain of the year. This is the same thrift store where I've discovered 14 Bakelite bracelets for 50 cents each, and a tumbler that matches the Manhattan glassware I collect (only a quarter). I think I have found the place to go when I have a dollar and need cheering up.

H. came back on Friday, very jazzed from going to the Kentucky Artists Market. I was here with our daughter (7) and son (20). Next year, Harvey and I are making plans to go together. I look forward to it.

Their Eyes Were Watching God was on television last night. I have that book somewhere in the attic (still have not unpacked everything). One of the tidbits I remember about Hurston from history class is Alice Walker looking for Hurston's grave, finding it unmarked, and erecting a headstone.

The actors who play Janie and Teacake are really good (sizzle), but the TV movie cuts out too much about the town. I need to check that out again.

I did have this ZNH quote saved somewhere:

You who play the zig-zag lightning of power over the world, with the grumbling thunder in your wake, think kindly of those who walk in the dust. And you, who walk in humble places, think kindly too, of others. . . . Consider that with tolerance and patience, we godly demons may breed a noble world in a few hundred generations or so. Maybe all of us who do not have the good fortune to meet or meet again, in this world, will meet at a barbecue.

Amen to that. I'll bring the coleslaw.

Robert Hayden, Claude Monet, and Failing Eyesight

Monet's "Waterlilies"--Robert Hayden

Today as the news from Selma and Saigon
poisons the air like fallout,
I come again to see
the serene, great picture that I love.

Here space and time exist in light
the eye like the eye of faith believes.
The seen, the known
dissolve in iridescence, become
illusive flesh of light
that was not, was, forever is.

O light beheld as through refracting tears.
Here is the aura of that world
each of us has lost.
Here is the shadow of its joy.

___________
Wondering about Monet painting those great figure-eights of color that swirl over the canvas...

Wondering about Monet's vision clouded by cataracts, and Hayden's own poor eyesight...

Wondering about Monet's lily paintings as a response to WWI...and how this intercuts with the first stanza of the poem...

Wondering about prisms and the "light of the world" in Matthew...

Wondering about the rhythmic brushstrokes and the relationship to form in both pieces...

Wondering whether Monet is paving the way for abstract expressionism...

Therapy Horses

http://svt.se/hogafflahage/hogafflaHage_site/Kor/hestekor.swf

Because we can all use a good play therapy session now and then.

Click on and off the horses and see what happens.