Turn it on.

Hope you enjoyed my attempt at National Poetry Month. It was fun to give exposure to friends who are also talented poets, relive some favorite Renaissance moments, spill about a dirty secret (Stephen Crane's poetry), and push the bounds of defining poetry (E Regina's prayer and speech). I'll try it again next year.

Was busy May Day so didn't blog anything. Longer entries with pics about an almost perfect week away in North Carolina including a Ruskin-esque photo essay to come.

Suffice it to say my "secret" mission was accomplished. I'm on the list and will remain so for 18 months. Beyond that no information is available.

This women's work; or three faces of eve.

All quotations from Elizabeth I, Collected Works eds. Leah S. Marcus, Janel Mueller, and Mary Beth Rose (U of Chicago P, 2000)



1) The Politics of Loving

On Monsieur's Departure

I grieve and dare not show my discontent;
I love, and yet am forced to seem to hate;
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant;
I seem stark mute, but inwardly do prate
  I am, and not; I freeze and yet am burned,
  Since from myself another self I turned

My care is my shadow in the sun—
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands, and lies by me, doth what I have done;
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
  By no means I find to rid him from my breast,
  Till by the end of things it suppressed.

Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft, and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, Love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low;
  Or let me live with some more swet content,
  Or die, and so forget what love e'er meant.
—Elizabetha Regina. ca 1582.




2) Head of the Church

Morning Prayer

My God, my father, and my Savior, as Thou now sendest Thy sun upon the earth to give corporeal light to Thy creatures, vouchsafe also to illuminate my heart and understanding by the heavenly light of Thy Holy Spirit, that I neither think nor say nor do anything unless to serve and please Thee. During this whole day may my principal purpose be to walk in Thy fear, to serve Thee and honor Thee, expecting all luck and prosperity from Thy blessing alone. As for my body and my soul, mayst Thou be my Protector, strengthening me against all the temptations of the devil and of the flesh, preserving me from the encroachments and conspiracies of all my enemies, their accomplices, and adherents. And, good God, inasmuch as there is nothing well begun if one does not persevere, may it please Thee not only to receive me under Thy guidance and protection for this day, but for the whole course of my life, continuing and increasing from day to day the gifst and graces of Thy Holy Spirit in me until I, being united and conjoined with Thy only Son my Savior, may enjoy that blessed life which Thous hast promsied to all Thy elect, through Thy same Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, amen. (1569)




3) The Lioness in Winter

QUEEN ELIZABETH'S ARMADA SPEECH TO THE TROOPS AT TILBURY, AUGUST 9, 1588

[Subscribed] Gathered by one that heard it and was commanded to utter it to the whole army the next day, to send it gathered to the queen herself

My loving people, I have been persuaded by some that are careful of my safety to take heed how I committed myself to armed multitudes, for fear of treachery. But I tell you that I would not desire to live to distrust my faithful and loving people. Let tyrants fear: I have so behaved myself that under God I have placed my chiefest strength and safeguard in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects. Wherefore I am come among you at this time but for my recreation and pleasure, being resolved in the midst and heat of the battle to live and die amongst yo all, to lay down for my God and for my kingdom and for my people mine honor and my blood even in the dust. I know I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king and of a king of England too—and take foul scorn that Parma or any prince of Europe should dare to invade the borders of my realm. To the which rather than any dishonor shall grow by me, I myself will venter my royal blood; I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of your virtue in the field. I know that already for your forwardness you have deserved rewards and crowns and I assure you in the word of a prince you shall not fail of them. In the meantim, my lieutenant general shall be in my stead, than whom never prince commanded a more noble or worthy subject. Not doubting but by your concord in the camp and valor in the field and your obedience to myself and my general, we shall shortly have a famous victory over these enemies of my God and of my kingdom.

Single k.o.

LXXV On Lip the Teacher

I cannot think there's that antipathy
'twixt puritans, and players, as some cry;
Though Lip, at Paul's, ran from his text away,
T'inveigh 'gainst players: what did he then but play?

—Ben Jonson, Epigrams (1616)

How i got over.

On Being Brought from Africa to America

"Twas mercy brought me from my pagan land,
Taught my benighted soul to understand
That there's a God, that there's a Savior too:
Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.
Some view our sable race with scornful eye,
"Their color is a diabolic dye."
Remember, Christians, Negroes, bklack as Cain,
May be refined, and join the angelic train.

  —Phyllis Wheatley, The Poems of Phyllis Wheatley ed. Julian D. Mason, Jr. (U of NC Press, 1966)

William, it was really nothing.

According to lore, William Shakspeare would have been 445 three days ago, having been born April 23, 1564, a day which just happens to be that of England's patron Saint George. Don't believe it. The facts as we know them are well laid out by S. Schoenbaum in Shakespeare's Lives

The parish registers of Holy Trinity record the baptism of the Shakespeare's first son, William, on 26 April 1564: 'Gulielmus filius Johannes Shakspere'. (Oxford UP, 1993): 7–8.

Beyond that we can only speculate that he was born in the week prior to the 26th starting on the 25th. Seeking to connect England's national author by birth to its national Saint is sheer wishful thinking. Any student of Shakespeare knows such myth creation would offend him to the very quick.


60

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crookèd eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
  And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand,
  Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

—William Shakespeare, Shakespeare's Sonnets ed. Stephen Booth (Yale UP, 1977)

O death.

Sonnett XVIII: On The Late Massacre in Piedmont

Avenge , O lord, thy slaughter'd Saints, whose bones
  Lie scatter'd on the Alpine mountain cold,
  Ev'n them who kept thy truth, so pure of old
  When all our Fathers worship't Stocks and Stones,
Forget not: in thy book record their groans
  Who were thy Sheep and in their ancient Fold
  Slain by the bloody Piemontese that roll'd
  Mother with Infant down the Rocks. Their moans
Thy vales redoubl'd to the Hills, and they
  To Heav'n. Their martyr'd blood and ashes sow
  O'er all th'Italian fields where still doth sway
The triple Tyrant: that from these may grow
  A hundredfold, who having learnt the way
  Early may fly the Babylonian woe.

—John Milton, Complete Poems and Major Prose Merrit Y. Hughes, ed. (The Odyssey Press, 1957), 167–8.

Screamin' & hollerin' the blues; or, it's like soul man.

I first met Jim Murphy at one of the Vice man's legendary Catfish cum Croquet 'dos. He is a kindred spirit. After all we both got "Strawberry Fields Forever" on THAT FB Living Social quiz.

GIFT AND PRIZE


Manners still intact, smack of poor talk
speaking on our lips—mid-afternoon
rain makes the roof tiles steam across
the empty row of streets. The parkway
is so far and unconnected from us now
that traffic seems to be a sound from
some other century. We may never play
the Charley Patton 78 we found this morning
for sale on two sawhorses and a door.
It's silver-blue sleeve promises a knockout,
but we'll have to put it in our book and wait
to see if what's on the brittle wax still swings.
These gifts are simple, held in one hand
up to the light and rattled hard for soundness.
For the right ones we're ready to break the bank,
as if the mementos we devote our spare time to
collect and endlessly nail up as evidence
were all free for he asking. Paper money,
case of wine, wall of books—all free. Our luggage
sits in the pool of rainwater. We sag on the split
gray lip of a bench, and I have to pull you
close just to feel that you're still there.
Even the green mountains can go to hell.
For the shameless moment, I covet my own life.

—Jim Murphy, The Memphis Sun Wick Poetry Chapbook Series Two Number 8 (Kent State UP, 2000)

And your bird can sing.

Another friendly local poet now decanalizing . . . For all I know he mesmerized the tree frog that landed on the window behind and stuck out the entire reading with the very poem below.

Blackbird


for Timothy


You look into the blackbird's eye
A whole world gathers around you at its center     smiling
How is it possible a simple trap
Could lure something of the world into your small hands


What power does a young boy have
That he might hold
What is most wild   given to flight


I understand the smile feathers bring
The contented moment of holding something in place
Life might be the elusive bird
That flies in the door and out the window


How proud can a father be of his own son with such a firm grip
When he himself has let so many things slip through his
    hands
When   at an early age
The sound of wings frightened  more than calmed


If the blackbird has given up
He is elevated now   in your hands
Lifted to a new height wit each stroke of your fingers


Your touch taking him this far
He might never return to himself
Or the world the same


But sing of his conversion
How his harsh calls were answered with soft words
How the fear of death climbed out of him
Once he gave in


He might sing of how he was held
For a moment one day
When sure he would die
He felt most alive

—Gary Myers, Lifetime Possessions: Poems (Riverstone, 1997)

Winner of the 1997 Riverstone Poetry Chapbooks Award

Congrats!

Out West, we say the picture below represents the "Angle of Repose"





Swinburne had a different tagline for it . . .

The lion sleeps tonight.

A intertextualized poem by the best New England poet I know personally and a favorite former colleague! Also printing this for National Poetry Month (rapidly receding) and as an homage to Joe Posnanski's Literary Ramblings.

Neither Road Taken.

A bright car pulled up where I was walking,
The driver leaning over. I didn't hear his questions,

my arms gesticulated some configuration of streets.

It was winter & ice hung in the branches like a thousand lost
sewing needles descending through the fabric of the afternoon.

It was spring & everything was imminence.
It was summer & the clouds swiftly passed over our heated element.

I told the man I was born beneath the wooden trestle of a train,
that loud noises captured my attention,

not the lefts & rights of destination.

Bearing the white needlepoint of a scar at the base of my neck,
I told him the road to the right was covered in hyacinth,

the one to the left dropped down along the aqueduct to hell.
Choose the oldest, I said to him, choose the oldest.

—Richard Lyons, Fleur Carnivore (The Word Works, 2006)

Winner of the 2005 Washington Prize

Congrats!

Outdoor miner.

No blind spots in the leopard's eyes

Can only help to jeopardize

The lives of lambs, the shepherd cries

An afterlife for a silverfish

Eternal dust less ticklish

Than the clean room, a houseguest's wish

He lies on his side, is he trying to hide?

In fact it's the earth, which he's known since birth

Face worker, a serpentine miner

A roof falls, an underliner

Of leaf structure, the egg timer

—Graham Lewis/Colin Newman, Chairs Missing (Harvest, 1978)

Cotton song.

A 2fer.

Cotton Song

Come, brother, come. Lets lift it;
come now, hewit! roll away!
Shackles fall upon the Judgment Day
But lets not wait for it.
God's body's got a soul,
Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll!
Cotton bales are the fleecy way,
Weary sinner's bare feet trod,
Softly, softly to the throne of God,
"We aint agwine t wait until th Judgment Day!
Nassur; nassur,
Hump.
Eoho, eoho, roll away!
We aint agwine to wait until th Judgment Day!"
God's body's got a soul,
Bodies like to roll the soul,
Cant blame God if we dont roll,
Come, brother, roll, roll!

—Jean Toomer, Cane

Cane is a great but little known modernist Masterpiece out of the Harlem Renaissance. But is it a novel, a prose poem? A melange? A Bad CBS melodrama? Check it out; you won't regret it.

After lunch (A Veranda platter: two ribs and BBQ sausage on a stick and a slice of Chef Tyler's Rock Bottom chicken with avocado sauce wrap; darn I waited too long for a Turkey leg—next year Jay!)

Wandered around some more, saw a lot of nice art, but eventually left empty-handed. Three more shows to attend.

Gas pours fuel on the fire. Did a nice Heartbreakers cover, "The Waiting."



This little fella was practicing his hippy hop for Bonnaroo right down to a faceplant on the asphalt producing a cut lip.



Bill Davis was definitely in the District! Here he performs the rare "Spinout"!




Jeff of Jeff and Jeff with his favorite go go dancer!



Jeffrey C. Rockin' the Gibson as the show closes on the CDAF. But is it a Les Paul or an SG? Think this was his Dickie Betts' impression . . .

Go little book.

Please indifferent reader you

into whose hand this book

may fall without hope already

drawn to essays even with so

light a sketch of character life

No key or familiar footing in

respect to a private philology

no a priori philosophy before

we go free as fresh love half-

enchanted for finding out may

prove fallibilism to be fallible

Susan Howe, Pierce-Arrow (New Directions, 1999), 119.

Little wing.

"Easter Wings"

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
Though foolishly he lost the same,
Decaying more and more,
Till he became
Most poore:
With thee
Oh let me rise
As larks, harmoniously,
And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne:
And still with sicknesses and shame
Thou didst so punish sinne,
That I became
Most thinne.
With thee
Let me combine
And feel this day thy victorie:
For, if I imp my wing on thine
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.



From George Herbert, The Temple (1633)

Richard cory.

In honor of National Poetry Month, I thought I'd post a few poems by one of my favorite lesser known poets, Stephen Crane. Yeah, The Red Badge of Courage Guy. Thanks to Project Gutenburg for loading up an E-text of War Is Kind (1915) from which I have "fairly" used two representative poems.

* * *

A man said to the universe:
“Sir, I exist!”
“However,” replied the universe,
“The fact has not created in me
“A sense of obligation.”


* * *

Love met me at noonday,
—Reckless imp,
To leave his shaded nights
And brave the glare,—
And I saw him then plainly
For a bungler,
A stupid, simpering, eyeless bungler,
Breaking the hearts of brave people
As the snivelling idiot-boy cracks his bowl,
And I cursed him,
Cursed him to and fro, back and forth,
Into all the silly mazes of his mind,
But in the end
He laughed and pointed to my breast,
Where a heart still beat for thee, beloved.

* * *

Interesting stuff, which I was fascinated by as a 17 year old college freshman. I bought a copy of Cornell's 1972 edition of the complete poems at The Coop. They spoke to my querying, existentialist soul. Isn't every teenager an angsty intellectual is some ways? I loved the combination of tradition (dramatic monologues, allegory) and innovation (free verse) that Crane espoused. It's funny the parallels between he and Thomas Hardy. Both most famous for novels, especially ones full of dramatic irony and sylvan naturalism, and both less well known Modernist or at least proto-Modernist poets. Don't forget that Hardy that Eminent Victorian's second most famous poem is about the sinking of the Titanic and was written in 1915 more than 40 years after his first published novel!

Somehow Crane was always prescient from a screed on newspapers to this snippet which might bring Blackwater or KBR to mind:

The impact of a million dollars
Is a crash of flunkys,
And yawning emblems of Persia
Cheeked against oak, France and a sabre,
The outcry of old beauty
Whored by pimping merchants
To submission before wine and chatter.

That's just spooky.

Can't offer the Poem a Day thing. For that visit a friend's blog. But I might pop off with another poem or three ere May is nigh.