Stuff your stockings with poetry

This holiday, why not stuff the stockings with poetry?

Poetry! Who would expect it? And who could forget it?

My book of poems, Transitions: Early Poems, 1979-1989, is personal, earnest, humorous, and accessible. 

Transitions coverIt’s not meant for 12-year-olds, no; but 24- and 36-, not to mention 48- and 60-year olds, among others, can appreciate these 50 chewy poems of love and lust, family and friends, gain and loss. 

And Transitions is affordable: just $13 for the paperback or $10 for the digital version at Amazon. (You can read the enthusiastic reviews there.)

Poetry can be more satisfying than the junk that often get stuffed into stockings: high-cal candy, ha-ha toys, dubious games and vulgarities. Transitions is frank but never gratuitously so. Take “Enfants Terrible,” in which the five-year-old speaker is entertaining a young lady in a mock-tea ceremony: 

When out the front door like a bat from hell shot
my four-year-old brother Bob, wearing only his BVDs
and a diabolical smile. Susie and I squinted into the sun
and saw Bobby squatting like a dog, dropping his drawers,
and, horror of horrors, before I could jump up and summon
Mom, depositing one lump, no, two, three, four lumps on the lawn.

Or another poem about childhood, “Variation on a Theme by Maxim Gorky,” the great Russian writer, which ends with a young boy sitting with an old alchemist:

And in the evening, when all else has failed,
sits with him, hour after fading hour, two
bumps on a courtyard log, two brown owls
blending into the late summer sky’s strange
transparency, into the earth of burdock,
wormwood, nettle. Sits with him unblinking,
little hand in his great blistered hand, watching
the moon rising above it all, jackdaws cawing
and wheeling, linnets, goldfinches, martins
sweeping into the inhuman night.

In these coming-of-age poems, childhood gives way naturally to adolescence. In “Physical,” for example, the fourteen-year-old boy, examined by a physician, imagines that the doctor is in league with the priest and has told him about the boy’s unclean habits:

Had I been suspect? How could
he know? Would it show?
Crossing myself, I crossed
the good physician’s threshold,

sped out into the suburban dusk,
and made bold to think several
impure thoughts about his twin
blonde pubescent daughters.

Later in life, the poet learns of the loss of love, friendship, even life. In “Something for My Cousin,” for example, attending the funeral of a cousin who has committed suicide, he suffers doubts about the consolations of religion:

At the ceremony, her mom, grief- or dumbstruck,
choked up, didn’t argue with her daughter anymore
but sang, with the crowd, the pop psalm “On Eagle’s
Wings,” a modern liturgical manifestation of the need
to believe there’s something out there waiting for us,
after all. In my cousin’s case, it was to be cremation.

Yes, friends and family diminish, doubts surge. But as long as words are left, they can be signs that life and love abound. Here’s the entire “Poem on the Beautiful Hands of Jennifer”:

In the half-light of the marriage bed
you take from under the sheets and show me
your incredibly beautiful hands —
small, slim, tapering into flame —
and hold me then to the heat of your breast,
your heart which is choiring in this milky
light, and tell me with your erotically
articulate fingers how close we can be.
As I unfurl from doubt’s tight fist,
from the fetal dark, it dawns on me
how wholly unclenched and open you are —
your fingers which know so well how to sew
and cook and tease a balky piano into music
and stroke a lover ecstatically, a wand
of subtle light and heat that binds me gently
to you, this early hour of the morning,
in the half-light of the marriage bed.

So, stuff poetry into a stocking this year, won’t you? Or wrap the book under the tree. The light and heat these poems provide may comfort and amaze a long time.

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Give me five good reasons why I should read poetry

Sassy Boy
Sassy boy demands three good reasons!

In my youth, way back when in the misty nineteen fifties, there was a kid who lived down the block who scandalously sassed his single-parent mom. She would ask Jimmy to take out the garbage, or some such mundane and minor job, and Jimmy would respond, “Give me three good reasons why I should!” Mom would generally come up with one or two quick ones, off the top of the head, but stall, and Jimmy would sass, “Ha ha! I told you so!” And of course he refused to do anything at all.

I’m gonna try to top Jimmy here, and his mom too, and give you not three but five good reasons why you should read poetry. If I miss the mark, you can sass back, of course. (Leave a comment, any comment, below.)

Let me start by cribbing a simple article from the online magazine Odyssey, whose mission is “to affect positive social change by inviting people to share their perspectives, sharpen their opinions, and participate in meaningful conversations with others surrounding the topics they care about most.” Nothing wrong with that, is there?

In Odyssey, Madison Council suggests that poetry can do these things for you:

  • Make you think.
  • Make you feel.
  • Give you a different perspective on common life events.
  • Invite you to read a text over and over again.
  • Induce you to write your own poems.

She doesn’t provide a whole lot of evidence for these claims, but let me take up where she leaves off, okay? (It’s curious that her article is positioned in the Entertainment section of the mag. Poetry can be entertaining, for sure, but it’s far more than that.)

Thinking. How does poetry make us think, and how is this thinking different from other kinds? Ms. Madison doesn’t supply examples, so let me start with one and see what you think. She starts her article with a quote by Robert Frost, “Poetry is when an emotion has found its thought and the thought has found words,” so let me offer a few lines of a sonnet by Frost called “Into My Own,” the very first poem in his first book A Boy’s Will (1913). It’s about a very willful boy indeed who dreams of running away from home. The poem ends this way:

I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.

They would not find me changed from him they knew —
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

On its face (and Frost had a sly and perhaps even malicious face according to some observers and biographers), the poem suggests that the willful boy is right and everybody else wrong. He has been somehow, vaguely, abused. So he runs away, and it’s they who lose, not he: they who must search for him, must wonder if they’re still loved. It’s he, finally, in that last couplet, which snaps shut like a Venus fly-trap on its prey, who is sure in a godlike way, he the wet-behind-the-ears teen runaway!

How many of us have felt this seething resentment against injustice, however unjust or ill-informed our feelings themselves were? But how many of us have put this feeling, this idea, into words so elegant and double-faced as this? We see that Frost, the adult, is looking back at his young self and justifying him, while also keeping the esthetic and psychological distance that maturation requires. The narrator, in short, knows more than his character. His craft accommodates more than one simplistic point-of-view.

Feeling. Okay, and why not feeling? “Since feeling is first,” as e.e. cummings famously proclaimed, let’s go there, right to the start of the poem:

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers.

A modernist and romantic, cummings would not stress formal matters like syntax (word order, or rhyme scheme, stanza structure, capitalization, punctuation), especially when he is in love. If you don’t abandon yourself to feeling, give way, lose yourself, you will never wholly know the bliss of love, will never lose the rational self that keeps you separate and apart. You will gibber a language like this love song. A modernist poet, you will nevertheless invert  or pervert syntax: “wholly to be a fool / while Spring is in the world / my blood approves.”

Cummings was wildly popular in his day, perhaps, as poets.org says, because of “the simplicity of his language, his playful mode and his attention to subjects such as war and sex.” His writing sent shock waves of recognition through his readers and admirers: yes, that’s what poetry is, something wild, and immediate, and emotional, and joyous, and me!

Louise Glück
Louise Glück is the recipient of the 2020 Nobel Prize in Literature and was the Library of Congress’s poet laureate in 2003–2004.

Different perspective. Louise Glück, who just won the Nobel Prize in literature, has said, “I dislike poems that feel too complete, the seal too tight; I dislike being herded into certainty.” If you’re looking, thus, for something unexpected, something inquiring and exploratory, consider Glück. She knows that completion, our usual sense of completion, may be laced with falseness, often that of nostalgia. So, in “The Past”:

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine,
most intense when the wind blows through it
and the sound it makes equally strange,
like the sound of the wind in a movie —

Yes, sure, this is a nature poem, but nature is neither ennobling nor soothing nor pretty. Do you think a nature poet romps in nature, skips through the daffodils, counts clouds? Not Glück, whose poem ends thus:

Smell the air. That is the smell of the white pine.

It is my mother’s voice you hear
or is it only the sound the trees make
when the air passes through them

because what sound would it make,
passing through nothing?

Over and over again. Again, an idea from my boyhood. I attended a Catholic high school in suburban Minneapolis, staffed by the Christian Brothers. It was Brother Mark, my junior year, who made each and every one of us boys, however eager or reluctant, memorize poems and step before the class to recite them. These poems included Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73, however unlikely such a theme for lads of seventeen:

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

You probably want to read this sonnet over and over again because its full force and meaning escape you at first reading. Its full force and fury. No, Louise Glück offers no conventional consolations in her poetry, but neither does Shakespeare 400 years earlier. There’s no God in this sonnet, no afterlife, no priestly unctions. The only meaning is the meaning that we as humans make: love is the gift we offer one another, even as the bonds of love, the bones of the human body, break or dissolve. It’s a humanist consolation: love conquering all, perhaps, or perhaps not. In fact, let’s say not, for now, as quoting other sources, whether Renaissance or other, deflects us from this particular gem, which, yes, we must read again.

You too can be a poet! I don’t want to give you ideas that may not be happy ideas. I mean, encourage you to do something you don’t want to do or, frankly, have no talent for. But human beings are creative creatures. We all make things (the word poet comes from “Greek poētēs ‘maker, author, poet,’ variant of poiētēs, from poein, poiein ‘to make, create, compose'”). We all tell stories, we all get ideas. If we compose ourselves and our gifts enough to make these stories or ideas memorable, then we too are poets and make poetry, defined in dictionary.com as “the art of rhythmical composition, written or spoken, for exciting pleasure by beautiful, imaginative, or elevated thoughts.”

Wallace Stevens
Wallace Stevens (October 2, 1879 – August 2, 1955) was an American modernist poet. He was born in Reading, Pennsylvania, educated at Harvard and then New York Law School, and he spent most of his life working as an executive for an insurance company in Hartford, Connecticut. He won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry for his Collected Poems in 1955. — Wikipedia

A more modern definition would shave some of the romantic emphasis cited here. Yes, poetry is rhythmical, as much as rap is rhythmical, but it doesn’t, these days, always contribute, nor should it, to pure pleasure, nor is it always “beautiful, imaginative, or elevated.” Read Shakespeare. Hear Louise Glück. Or Wallace Stevens, for that matter, another humanist or, some would say, nihilist. Writing from your own perspective, ephebe (a humorous Stevensian word, meaning beginner), can you do what he did in 1921 in “The Snow Man,” which ends with a reflection on

… the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

What do you think, finally? Are you convinced you should or might read or write poetry? Or you like to give me some sass back?

 

 

 

 

Notation in music and in verse

Craig Wright
Prof. Craig Wright of Yale teaches a music appreciation course that is available free online.

Professor Craig Wright and Yale University offer a free online classical music appreciation course. In the 3rd lecture, Wright makes a simple but profound comparison between Western classical music and other music, say Eastern music and pop music in the West.

Our classical music is notated, he says. The focus is on the composer, who is the star. He’s like the architect, while the players are, say, carpenters or masons or window installers. When you go to hear pop music, on the other hand, whether rock or jazz, you will rarely see a music stand and printed music. You go to see the band or the ensemble, who are the stars. You talk and laugh and dance while the music plays.

Pop music, which must have come first in any culture or country, is heart and body, rhythm and dance. Classical music replaces heart and body with eye and mind, Wright says. It’s more analytical, rational, demanding of both player and listener. Which is why you need to know something technical about it in order to understand and appreciate.

In the same way, written poetry is a notated system. Most of us in the West may know poetry primarily through song, whether Bob Dylan’s or David Lee Roth’s. (Gods help us, but there is a difference.) And we don’t have to read music to get the rhythms of the song or the idea of the lyrics. Or course, we also know poetry, or did in my day, by reading and singings songs in our early education, whether these were patriotic hymns or folk music. And by memorizing poems, if that quaint idea is still around. (In Catholic high school, junior year, our Christian Brother English teacher had each of the boys in turn come to the front of the room and recite a poem we had memorized, whether Tennyson’s “Break, break, break, / On thy cold gray rocks, O Sea” or Dylan Thomas’s “Fern Hill”: “Now when I was young and easy under the apple boughs.”

An awful lot of poetry currently being written shows no particular knowledge of meter, rhythm, rhyme, and the other formal niceties of traditional poetry. In itself that’s okay. Most of us don’t write formalist poetry anymore. But all of us who write should know something about those traditions, if only to skirt them successfully, to pay homage as necessary and move on. (Of course, even if we don’t use a formal rhyme scheme, we can use off rhymes or slant rhymes, internal rhymes rather than end-of-line rhymes; and there’s an awful lot of shaping of poetry, still, in tercets, quatrains, and other stanzaic groupings.)

This matter of form and formal notation in poetry comes down ultimately to the question: How can we write poetry unless we read it, poetry of the past and poetry of our time too? So that the poetry we write today becomes part of the great flow of poetry over time, not merely a private or solipsistic exercise? “O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,” as Yeats asked, “How can we know the dancer from the dance?”

It’s difficult in a culture as oral as ours (as narcissistically addicted to sucking and suffering), as “postliterate” as ours (as the Trump reign has been called) to take the time and effort to read and think, gods know. To retire to a “fine and private place,” which is at the same time not (yet) the grave, and there, in the mind, to be content with what we can produce on our own and how we can locate it in the tradition.

 

 

Transitions

Transitions: Early Poems
Cover of the paperback version of Transitions ($12.95 through Amazon).

In my efforts to promote a first book of poetry just published, I drafted a press release and sent it off to a couple of arts groups. Without blowing my own horn or strumming my own lute too much, I have to say that this analytic exercise was illuminating for me.

The collection is called Transitions: Early Poems, 1979–1989, and is available at Amazon in both paperback and epub formats. With a name like Transitions, long the working title for poems I wrote in the 1980s, it shouldn’t be surprising that the poems deal with passages or rites of passage in one’s life. But readers and reviewers have readily discerned the theme of growing up or awakening in these poems.

To quote myself (sorry) in the press release:

As several readers have pointed out … the collection is a coming of age series. The struggles to find a voice are enacted against the background of conforming institutions — church, family, marriage, and academe. “I failed to get tenure at the college where I was teaching,” Zeck says, “and began through the 1980s, when I was in my thirties, a struggle to find out just who I was, unmoored from institutional supports or detaching from them. There were the night sweats, and the day sweats, as John Berryman might have said, and the constant if unconscious need to make something of myself and to make it on my own.”

There’s nothing particularly novel about such a theme. We all struggle, in one way or another, to come of age, to mature, to grow into our own skin. What makes my struggle different, could be, is the confluence of these particular pressures: the church, family, marriage, and academe coming together to produce a collection of particular utterances about the struggle, which results in or enacts a voice and an identity, finally, of my own.

The poems testify to the Catholic puritanism of my upbringing, a streak that runs through my dad’s Polish-American family like a toxic vein. He himself was very reticent about sex, and his father guiltily mourned his bastardy to the end of his life. This kind of childhood was not Blake’s Garden, where the happy childhood is succeeded by “Thou shalt not writ over the door.” The childhood itself was marked by fears and doubts of ever being worthy, of ever escaping the all-seeing eye.

One poem, “Something for My Cousin,” testifies to the complacencies of faith purveyed by the church. At the funeral of a first cousin who died by her own hand,

… the goateed priest, half through the mass,
capered to the lectern. Ours, he said, comfortably,
not to question why this dread thing happened
but to know the Lord works in mysterious ways.
Capon! Mumbling of resurrection and eternal life,
he got on with the job, hoisted the chalice, wiped
his dribbling chops, handed out communion, leading
the faithful up faith’s candy-coated mountain.

In “Suburban Sacraments,” an elegy for a youthful friend,

Machinegun-style, our alcoholic pastor spat out the Latin
of the Mass: “Introibo ad altare Dei.” And, hands folded,
Mark and I fired back: “Ad Dei qui laetificat juventutem
meam.” It was not the ideal preparation for life the cataclysm.

But the church and family were not all dregs and disappointments. Humor leavens this bitter loaf, often in things sexual. In “Physical,” the examining Catholic family doctor intones, writing on his chart, “No signs of impurity,” and the kid wonders how the doctor has not seen or suspected his masturbatory habits.

Had I been suspect? How could
he know? Would it show?
Crossing myself, I crossed
the good physician’s threshold,

sped out into the suburban dusk,
and made bold to think several
impure thoughts about his twin
blonde pubescent daughters.

And in “Transitional,” part of “Onan Suite,” the longest poem in the collection, the narrator wonders about the futility of the sacrament of penance. He confesses his lusts, his impurities, and is forgiven, but knows he will once more be “beating off” when he sees the girls in the neighborhood:

I could go on and
on counting the ways,
telling the beads
of my onanistic rosary,

a sly and unrepentant
teenage Catholic boy
who could never quite
make it across.

It’s not only the content, of course, but the form of the poem that gets it across, that makes a bridge, or a transition, for the poet and, he would hope, his readers. In my case, the Latin of the mass and sacraments instilled in me a love of language, a love of form, that became transmuted into a secular but still, in a way, hieratic voice, if only the voice of the fallen priest or angel — and then professor — and then one who had to come up with his own words entirely to profess and convince, without institutional support of any kind.

The large question here is how do any of us make it across, wherever it is we end up going? What kind of transitions can we make, if we’re left largely on our own, the mysteries and terrors of institutions like church and state and family pushing us away not embracing us?

Poems themselves, or other art objects, may become “transitional objects,” in the terms of W. D. Winnicott. They stand for mother and family, of comfort, of home, and at the same time are the means of moving away into one’s own sphere of being and accomplishing. They are home and not home, mother and not mother, finally altogether, if the bearer of these objects is lucky, an other.

I pushed through a difficult boyhood, did well in Catholic school and then at the university (I was too afraid not to), where I earned a B.A. in English and German and a Ph.D. in American literature. Such an education naturally immersed me in language, especially poetry, which proved as rich as, no, richer than, the Latin of the mass and the sacraments. But when I began to teach college, in Detroit, in the 1970s, academe became for me, a reiteration of the authority of church, family, marriage.

No, I didn’t get tenure at Wayne State University, where I taught from 1972 to 1979 (tenure: meaning the ability or capacity to hold on, as for dear life). I was too young, too immature. I didn’t write enough, or enough of the right kind of thing, using the right “methodology” (the totem of the English Department, which yearned for the power and responsibility not to mention salary of the sciences). I didn’t make connections, or pretend friendships, with those in the department who had the power to confer tenure. I did, however, get immersed in the alchemy of language, anxiety, identity, so that when I would try out an academic paper on my colleagues I’d hear back I didn’t know what I was talking about … but sure could write. By the time I was ejected from Wayne, and then after a Fulbright year teaching in Serbia, trying to make a living through freelance business writing, I was ready to remember and record the occasions, and gifts, that led to my being me, including, if I may conclude thus, this love poem to my wife and apologia for the poetic vocation too.

Poem on the Beautiful Hands of Jennifer

In the half-light of the marriage bed
you take from under the sheets and show me
your incredibly beautiful hands —
small, slim, tapering into flame —
and hold me then to the heat of your breast,
your heart which is choiring in this milky
light, and tell me with your erotically
articulate fingers how close we can be.
As I unfurl from doubt’s tight fist,
from the fetal dark, it dawns on me
how wholly unclenched and open you are —
your fingers which know so well how to sew
and cook and tease a balky piano into music
and stroke a lover ecstatically, a wand
of subtle light and heat that binds me gently
to you, this early hour of the morning,
in the half-light of the marriage bed.

History & Nostalgia

F. Scott Fitzgerald
F. Scott Fitzgerald, the oracle of the Jazz Age and our age too.

There’s a wonderful Sarah Churchwell essay in the New York Review of Books called “The Oracle of Our Unease” about F. Scott Fitzgerald, local boy made good from St. Paul, Minnesota (where my wife and I lived 16 years). The essay explores a facet of Fitzgerald’s work on the so-called “Jazz Age” (a sobriquet he took credit for) that is not much remarked on, the connection between the horrors of WW I, just completed, and the ebullience and drunkenness of the ’20s.

The essay ends in a summary warning at this political and cultural junction:

Fitzgerald became America’s poet laureate of nostalgia because he understood its perils as well as its allure: nostalgia wants to falsify the past, whereas history tries to clarify it. Gatsby, the emblematic American, is destroyed by nostalgia, his dreams of reclaiming paradise shattered by the “hard malice” of Tom Buchanan’s plutocratic power. Gatsby’s incurable faith in the false promise of renewal—“Can’t repeat the past? Why of course you can!”—is America’s. Like Gatsby, we want to recover some idea of ourselves that we’ve lost, to return to the past and find there, intact, our own innocence. Gatsby’s “extraordinary gift for hope” is our own—and ensures we keep willfully forgetting that his great aspirations ended dead in the water.

We’ve all read The Great Gatsby, haven’t we? And I hope we continue to read it in high schools and colleges through the nation. Now, almost 100 years after its publication, it sounds the same alarm about plutocracy and democracy. Do we fight, in wars, in elections, merely to keep the rich in place, atop the pile, piling on, adding to their advantage? Or do we demand a little room to breathe for fellow citizens (like George Floyd) and ourselves?

The air may be rare up there, where even the toilets are gold plated, but down here on the ground, in the trenches, “the mud of Gallipoli,” as T. S. Eliot put it, remembering a friend’s death in WW I, we need to sweat and bleed in the common way to make any progress at all.

Wilfred Owen
Wilfred Owen, British poet and soldier. He died at age 25 one week before the signing of the Armistice.

Or course, conservatives constantly prattle about “the city on the hill,” “American exceptionalism,” “Make America Great Again,” and, most facile of all, “patriotism” — the patriotism of the great dead white men and of course the live ones, most of whom didn’t and wouldn’t go to war themselves (can anyone say “bone spurs”?) but would be glad to send the deplorables and the inexorables to the mud for the sake of the country, sure, and the munitions manufacturers.

They haven’t read (what’s reading?) or haven’t heeded the warning of Wilfred Owen’s poem (what’s poetry?) about the Great War, “Dulce et Decorum Est,” which ends in exhortation of those who have not been to war:

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

Patriotic bullshit. Toxic nostalgia. It’s not sweet, nor is it just, to die for the country. Don’t let ’em tell you that it is. Don’t let ’em wave their flag in your face. Read your history, fight your own fights, and the hell with filial or final piety.

(For an analysis of a more recent misadventure in patriotism and American arms, see Frederic Wehrey’s “This Soldier’s Witness to the Iraq War Lie,” also in the Review of Books.)

Politics

William Butler Yeats
William Butler Yeats in his later years.

The poet William Butler Yeats wrote “Politics” in 1938, on the eve of WW II. It’s a short poem and a provocation, seems to me, in times like these.

“In our time the destiny of man presents its meanings in political terms.” — Thomas Mann

How can I, that girl standing there,
My attention fix
On Roman or on Russian
Or on Spanish politics,
Yet here’s a travelled man that knows
What he talks about,
And there’s a politician
That has both read and thought,
And maybe what they say is true
Of war and war’s alarms,
But O that I were young again
And held her in my arms.

Yeats wrote this ditty in May 1938 and died the following January. So, yes, the world was on the verge of WW II and Yeats was on the verge of dying. A no longer young man’s thoughts turn to spring, or the springtime of Eros, as signified by the girl he sees on the street.

But is Hitler going to slow down for a girl? Is Donald Trump?

Well, let me rephrase that. Hitler had Eva Braun and his world of hate. Trump has his hatred if minorities and immigrants — and as many women as he can molest and get away with.

We understand why old folks regret their dying, their passing into eternity. In “Sailing to Byzantium” (1928), Yeats wrote, “An aged man is but a paltry thing” unless he invests in soul or sails to Byzantium:

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

Without exaggerating the state of the planet at this time, and gods know it’s bad enough, with floods and hurricanes in one place, fires in another, man the consuming and exploiting animal dominating nature, as if he would gladly wipe it out entirely, I would suggest not sex or politics as the answer to our problem but poetry.

Poetry is the most speculative of the arts. It can range hither and thither, up into the celestial regions, down into hell, searching for the answers to the eternal questions: who are we and what in the devil are we doing on this planet?

Politics is the art of the city (polis), of living together in cities and communities and trying to make a go of it. Sex is, well, you know what sex is, the conjunction of bodies and sometimes minds with them, in celestial and/or diabolical alignment.

So while we decide here in the USA on Trump vs. Biden, this autumn of the Year of Our Lord (if any) 2020, let’s not forget the offices of poetry: why are we here? to what end? and how do we explain this miracle of being?

(But of course poetry is an aspect of Byzantium. The poem that Yeats created praising and parsing politics and Eros is an aspect of the “artifice of eternity.”)

First-book musings

First book about to be published. Don’t expect to get rich or famous. But to give back and so get.

On the eve of my 73rd birthday, in early October, I have published 50 poems, about 100 pages’ worth, via Kindle Direct Publishing, Transitions: Early Poems, 1979–1989. (Available in both paperback and ebook versions from Amazon. You can download a sample of the ebook version free and see a few of the poems. Or just write to me.)

Paperback version of Transitions: Early Poems, 1979–1989.

The book may not soon be a major motion picture, and may not sell in the hundreds of thousands. Still, launching such a boat even at this late date makes me a bit giddy.

The main point, at this point in my life, is neither financial success nor personal validation per se. It’s not to prove that I’m rich, a great poet, or admired by legions. It’s simply to show what I have done with a bit of my life, now that I’m entering the home stretch. And to leave something behind. (The way the astronauts on the moon, I read in today’s New York Times, left bags of poop? Well, poop and footprints and various other detritus, which some would safeguard as historical heritage like earthbound artifacts.)

When my older brother Gerry died a few years ago, of brain cancer, he regretted especially not publishing a book of his photos and illustrations. He was an excellent and zany sketcher of the mythical and impossible. I have a few of his sketches and his notebooks to establish the point, so may show you examples from time to time. (Or some day launch a postmortem collaboration of some kind.) But Gerseybro, as he called himself, regretted not publishing more on his own.

Gerry Zeck’s sketch “Sinister Accident.”

Gerry wanted to make an account, I think, or to settle accounts, it could be. He’d been given this gift, and needed to give back. To show the world, at any rate, what he could do and, in fact, did.

And isn’t that enough?

Naked come we into the world, but it would be a shame to leave without a stitch on, a garment we have woven, however modest, of the gifts we have been accorded and, in our own sweet time, developed. As Lewis Hyde suggests in The Gift: Creativity and the Artist in the Modern World (a book I gave Gerry, and he gave another copy back to me), nothing is so giving, and fulfilling, as giving back.