Thursday, March 23, 2017

old Twain - a list - because I believed in him and could not think he would deceive a mere boy

What was Mark Twain writing in his old age?  I have to make a list.  It is a complex subject.  He lost interest in books, but he wrote an immense amount of stuff.

I am thinking of approximately 1900 through 1910.  Twain has returned from his successful world tour (written up as Following the Equator, 1898) which make him a mountain of money.  But his daughter died, his wife was ill, his nation won a war and its leaders chose to become the kind of imperial power Twain so despised in Europe, and Twain was finding the limits of being the world’s most famous writer.

For my own sake, some categories:

1.  The so called “dark writings,” a series of dream narratives involving ships on endless journeys, dogs dying in fires, and strange microscopic worlds that look like attempts to cope with trauma.  I read a chunk of this material in a collection titled The Devil’s Race-Track, and wrote a bit about it.  The writing is rough, not just unfinished but unfinishable – stories about endless entrapment present narrative difficulties – but the imagery and vision are original.

2.  Similarly, Twain returned several times to a cluster of ideas that emerged posthumously as The Mysterious Stranger (1916) but can now be read in the three distinct manuscripts that were mashed together to create the “novel.”  In each case, a boyish Satan figure – Satan’s 44th son, or a nephew – comes to town and upends things with his magic powers and view that humans are a kind of animal.

3.  Twain becomes obsessed with Satan, “a sacred character, being mentioned in the Bible” (“The Chronicle of Young Satan,” Mark Twain’s Mysterious Stranger Manuscripts, p. 41), and he becomes a frequent mouthpiece, a suitably distant observer of the follies of mankind.  Adam and Eve are also recurring figures.  Just as the “Mysterious Stranger” story is tied up with Twain’s Hannibal childhood, the satirical use of the Old Testament stories is a return to the Sunday school of sixty years previous.  The Sunday schools I attended in the 1970s do not sound much different that Twain’s from the 1840s.

As long as Twain did not get into sex, as in “Letters from the Earth” (1909), these stories were publishable.  Twain put a letter in Harper’s Weekly in 1905 in the voice of and signed by Satan (“A Humane Word from Satan”).

4.  Twain’s philosophy, most tediously expressed in What Is Man?, a Platonic dialogue about a purely deterministic universe.  This pamphlet, published anonymously, was dull but helpful, since it clearly states the metaphysical position that shows up everywhere in this period.  Reading this, I knew that Twain meant it.  Some of it.

5.  On the other hand, this is the time of Twain’s most active political involvement, writing scathingly and hilariously against American control of the Philippines, Christian missionaries in China, and the Belgian atrocities in the Congo.  All of this in public.  The pamphlet King Leopold’s Soliloquy: A Defense of His Congo Rule (1905) is a terrific piece of rhetoric, an inhumane word from a human Satan.

6.  “The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg” (1899), “The $30,000 Request” (1904) – stories about how money – the possibility of money – ruins lives.  Published in popular magazines, and again in best-selling collections.  Highly effective.  Abolished greed for a time.  Not sure what happened since.

7.  Did everyone else know about Twain’s Sherlock Holmes story, A Double Barreled Detective Story (1902)?  How did the copyright work?  Similarly curious is A Horse’s Tale (1906), much of it from the point of view of Buffalo Bill’s horse, a nasty shocker apparently designed to terrify children.

8.  Once in a while, Twain felt the urge to write a perfect, signature humor piece, just like in the old days.  Something like “Hunting the Deceitful Turkey” (1906):

I followed an ostensibly lame turkey over a considerable part of the United States one morning, because I believed in her and could not think she would deceive a mere boy, and one who was trusting her and considering her honest.

Maybe some kind of allegory in there.

I don’t know why anyone else would read this, but it was helpful to write.  I’ll poke at some of these over the next couple of days.

Tuesday, March 21, 2017

Gorky's Tolstoy, Gorky's Chekhov - He was wonderfully sympathetic at that moment.

Gorky’s Tolstoy and Other Reminiscences (2008) is translator and editor Donald Fanger’s replacement for an older collection title Reminiscences of Tolstoy, Chekhov, and Andreyev.  The Tolstoy section dates from 1919 and made it into English in 1920.  Gorky was a celebrity author.

Is something wrong with the old translations?  Fanger says no, but the old texts were incomplete.  These are the first English translation of the complete texts.  Fanger added some additional biographical portraits of writers and other oddballs Gorky knew, as well as four portraits of Gorky, by Khodasevich and Zamiatin and so on, plus plenty of commentary and notes.  The whole thing is still under three hundred pages.

This is a useful book.

It is easy to find the “Lev Tolstoy” described as “like a novel.”  I don’t know what novels these folks were reading.  The “Leonid Andreyev” portrait is much more like a novel.  The long night where a drunken Andreyev wants to pick up girls while Gorky tries to get him sobered up, that scene appears in a lot of novels.

The Tolstoy memoir is all anecdote and talk from about six months in 1901 and 1902.  The old literary celebrity enjoying the company of the young one.

Suddenly a hare started under our feet.  L. N. jumped up in excitement, his face flushed, and whooped like some ancient animal-hunter.  Then he looked at me with an indescribable smile and laughed a wise, very human little laugh.  He was wonderfully sympathetic at that moment.  (69)

That is not always the case.  “The subjects he talks about most often are God, the peasant, and woman” – just the subjects to drive Gorky crazy.  “About literature he speaks seldom and grudgingly, as if literature were something alien to him” (35).  Still:

One evening, at dusk, squinting, his eyebrows twitching, he read us a version of the scene in “Father Sergius” where the woman goes to seduce the hermit.  He read it clear through, raised his head, closed his eyes, and said with great clarity:

“The old man really could write!”

He said it with amazing simplicity – his delight at the beauty of what he’d written was so sincere – that I will always remember the thrill I felt then, a joy I could find no words for, and one that cost me an enormous effort to control.  (64)

“Lev Tolstoy” is immensely humanizing, remembering that humans are strange beasts.  The subject of “Anton Chekhov,” by contrast, is a saint, a member of a higher species.  In his presence, people’s falseness, posturing, and vulgarity drop away.

He had fine eyes.  When he smiled they became warm and caressing, like a woman’s.  And his laughter, almost soundless, was somehow particularly fine.  Laughing, he was enjoying the laughter, rejoicing.  I don’t know anyone else who could laugh so – if one could put it that way – “spiritually.”  (103)

When Tolstoy praises Chekhov’s story “The Darling” – “with real emotion. There were tears in his eyes” – Chekhov responds with:

For a long time he said nothing.  Finally, with a sigh, he murmured in embarrassment:

“It’s got misprints in it…”  (105)

The portraits are also self-portraits, by contrast, Gorky’s differences from and exasperations with Tolstoy, Andreyev, and Blok revealing his own character.  But he was mostly interested in other people more than himself.  This was true in his own childhood memoir, and even more so here.

What an enjoyable book.

Sunday, March 19, 2017

The grimful glee of Hardy's Later Lyrics

Late Lyrics and Earlier, with Many Other Verses (1922) by Thomas Hardy, his sixth book of lyric poems.  Hardy was something like eighty-two years old.  “Late lyrics” means written since his last book, Moments of Vision from 1917; “earlier” means written before that, mostly in the 1910s; “many other” seems logically redundant and means I know not what.

For context, 1922 is the year of The Waste-Land and Trilce and just a bit before Spring and All, Tulips and Chimneys, and The Duino Elegies.  Hardy has nothing to do with that stuff.  This book has two basic modes, one purely lyric, one narrative – maybe those are the “others.”  All Hardy poems, much like earlier Hardy poems.

The lyric mode is at this point as song-like as Hardy has ever been.  Many poems seem intended to lend themselves to music, perhaps existing hymns or folksongs.  Many are in some way about music, a theme that runs through the book:

from “The Curtains Now Are Drawn”

    I stand here in the rain,
    With its smite upon her stone,
    And the grasses that have grown
    Over women, children, men,
    And their texts that ‘Life is vain’;
    But I hear the notes as when
        Once she sang to me:
‘O the dream that thou art my Love, be it thine,
And the dream that I am thy Love, be it mine,
And death may come, but loving is divine.’

That is the second stanza; the woman is of course alive in the first.  Hardy poems are full of graves.  These have more singing and playing.  Benjamin Britten picked out “At the Railway Station, Upway” for his Winter Words song settings(1953), in which a boy fiddler at a train station plays a tune that causes a funny reaction in another man on the platform:

    The man in the handcuffs smiled;
The constable looked, and he smiled, too,
    As the fiddle began to twang;
And the man in handcuffs suddenly sang
                With grimful glee:
                ‘This life so free
                Is the thing for me!’
And the constable smiles and said no word
As if unconscious of what he heard;
And so they went on till the train came in
The convict, and boy with the violin.

Again, that is the second stanza.  The first is entirely about the boy.  The convict and constable are introduced as we see here, and a little story pops out, the music mixing with the narrative.

“Grimful glee” is a good description of a number of Hardy stories, including many in this book, narrative poems with plots that could easily have found their way into a theoretical Hardy novel, if he had not given up prose fiction twenty-five years earlier.  “The Chapel-Organist,” for example, in which a sexually promiscuous woman finally offends the church elders to the point that she won’t be allowed to play the organ anymore; she poisons herself and dies at the climax of her final performance.  Ludicrous but Hardy has a way of making the ludicrous tragic.

Another hilarious one, where I almost wish there were a novel, is “A Woman’s Fancy.”  A woman visiting a spa town is mistaken for the runaway wife of a man who just died.  They think she has returned out of guilt.  Because no one will believe her denials, and everyone talks to her about nothing but how pitiful her husband was, she falls in love with him – the dead man – and begins visiting his grave with “a bereaved wife’s sorrow.”  At the end of the poem, she is buried with him – “’Call me by his name on the stone!’”

The last poem in the book, “Surview,” has the poet hearing his own voice in a fire.  The fire chides him for betraying his ideals, and then dies:

    And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,
        And my voice ceased talking to me.

Those are the last lines of the book.  I suppose every book had to be thought of as the last one, the dying of the fire.  Hardy would publish one more book of poems and have another ready when he died.

Friday, March 17, 2017

So outlandish is the look of our poems - H. Leivick thinks of the Yiddish poets

H. Leivick is the Russian among the American Yiddish poets.  The Russian Symbolist; Dostoevsky.  The Dostoevsky comparison comes from his biography.  A dirt poor Ukrainian Jew with a painful but serious yeshiva education, he became a socialist radical enough that he was exiled to Siberia – for life! – at the age of eighteen.  He escaped, eventually, crossing, Siberia, Russia, Europe and the Atlantic to his new life in New York City as a wallpaper hanger and Yiddish poet.

Maybe it is too easy to make a poem on that subject interesting.

from “On the Roads of Siberia” (1919)

On the roads of Siberia
Someone may still uncover a button, a lace
Of my torn shoe,
A leather belt, a shard of a clay mug,
A page of a holy book.

His remnants are on the other side of the world.  His parents are buried “In a small town in a Russian field.”  “What am I doing here, in New York’s Hester Park?” (from “The Sturdy in Me”).  Another poem answers that question:

from “Here Lives the Jewish People” (1923)

I walk for hours in the streets of the Jewish East Side
And imagine in the fiery whiteness before my eyes
Fantastic gates, soaring columns,
Rising from all the dilapidated stands
Upward, to the far and empty New York sky.
Gates – on all their cornices
Glowing, sparkling signs, inscribed:
Here lives the Jewish people.

A glimpse of Leivick’s mystical side, a visionary side.  Years ago I read two of Leivick’s plays, The Golem (1922), a philosophical portrait of the legendary monster, and Shop (1926), a piece of well-detailed union propaganda, both with strong Modernist elements – the political play climaxes in modern dance! – but otherwise not seeming like they were by the same author.  The poems reconcile the differences, or show how many different Leivicks there are.

from “Yiddish Poets” (1930s?)

When I think of us – Yiddish poets,
A sorrow grabs me – sharp, acute;
I want to scream to myself, to pray –
And just then the words grow mute.
 So outlandish is the look of our poems –
Like stalks the locusts have possessed;
One comfort: get disgusted with yourself,
Slink on God’s earth, an alien guest!

The American Yiddish Poetry anthology has facing-page Yiddish, in Hebrew characters, so mostly useless to me, but here I can look at the original lines and laugh at the metaphor.  Here is another good one from the poem:

Sometimes, like frazzled cats, dragging
Their kittens around, distraught,
We drag our poems between our teeth
By the neck through the streets of New York.

The alphabet, the poems, are literally “outlandish” in America.  Leivick never shakes the sense that he is a refugee.  The first poem in his first book is “Somewhere Far Away,” where “a prisoner” searches for the road to “the forbidden land.”  The last poem in this anthology ends with an attempt at closure, a long piece of Yiddish Whitman called “To America” (1955), in which he again mourns “the evil lot / [that] has scattered all Yiddish poets over New-Siberias,” but now accepts his Americanness, and sees himself on America.  “You too, America, walked close with [Abraham and David], / You too, have absorbed in your heart God’s commandment and blessing.”

If I were to write a poem titled “Yiddish Translators” it would be effusively thankful but would also include a polite, urgent request for a Collected Poems of H. Leivick and a number of other American Yiddish poets.

Thursday, March 16, 2017

Words take on sadder and purer tones - Jacob Glatstein and Moishe-Leib Halpern, American poets

I needed to refresh myself in the other great line of Modernist American poets, the ones who did not write in English.  So I poked around in Benjamin and Barbara Harshav’s American Yiddish Poetry: A Bilingual Anthology (1986), which has substantial selections from Jacob Glatstein, Moishe-Leib Halpern, H. Leivick, and four other interesting but lesser poets.  I was really just looking for Leivick, but the book was too interesting.  The poets – the ones I named – all published their first books circa 1920; they’re all immigrants (from Poland, Galicia, and Russia, respectively); they’re all New Yorkers; they’re all secularists but deeply Jewish, working millennia of traditions, stories, and Hebrew literature into their poems.

Glatstein was the language Modernist, writing poems like “If Joyce Had Written in Yiddish,” not included here because it is all multi-language puns, and hardly translatable.

from “We the Wordproletariat” (1937)

The sky, the blue hazard, went out.
You still sit and seek the shadows of a word
And scrape the mold off meanings.
Words take on sadder and purer tones.

The cursed night has got into your bones.

Soon this would become all too true, and events in Europe worsened Glatstein moved to a more directly expressive language suitable for mourning, anger, and despair:

from “Without Jews” (1946)

Without Jews there will be no Jewish God.
If we go away from the world,
The light will go out in your poor tent…
The last Jewish hour flickers.
Jewish God, soon you are no more.

I would love to read more of this later poem – only Part I is in this anthology:

from “Dostoevksy” (1953)

Dostoevsky put God
on his table
Like a bottle of vodka
And guzzled.
He retched and vomited,
Sobered up
And was drawn again to God
As to the bottle.

Moishe-Leib Halpern had more of a journalistic spirit.  His poems are full of characters, slang, politics, and New York.  Energy.

from “My Restlessness Is of a Wolf” (1919)

My restlessness is of a wolf, and of a bear my rest,
Riot shouts in me, and boredom listens.
I am not what I want, I am not what I think,
I am the magician and I’m the magic-trick.

The poem just continues as a list, with no resolution.  Any finish, any settled point, would go against his restlessness.

Halpern’s posthumous poems, published in 1934, include a number of poems – rants – addressed to his son.  They are a perfect form for him – conversational, emotional, digressive.

from “My Only Son”

I tell him: Son,
Nowadays even a prince
Has to learn how to do something.
And you – touch wood – you’re already a year-and-a-half
And what will become of you?

The world-weary baby, asked to say the Kaddish for his dead father, says “To hel vit it – dats right.”  In another poem, Halpern worries his son will not have a choice of profession:

from “This I Said to My Only Son at Play – and to Nobody Else”

But it’s not to send you a crate of chocolate
That they register your birthday with precision!
Somewhere a tailorboy – one of the Thirty-Six Just, like you –
Already bends over your soldier’s tunic –
And may his hump accuse him for singing at his work!
Anyway, they are already melting lead for rifles…

Maybe I’ll save H. Leivick for tomorrow.

About a third of Moishe-Leib Halpern’s first book has been translated as In New York: A Selection (1982), which is why I did not think I would revisit him here, but he is so much fun in the later poems.  Halpern is also one of the dual subjects of Ruth Wisse’s Little Love in Big Manhattan (1988), a real plunge into the world of these poets, and a great book.  There are a couple of collections of Glatstein in translation, too.  Maybe I will come across one someday.  In the presence of their poems, these seem to be vital American poets, worthy of far more attention than they get, but the Yiddish, their dying language, has kept them in another, minor, category.  They could use new collections.  I doubt they’ll get them.

Tuesday, March 14, 2017

Carles Riba, Catalan poet, in perhaps pointless translation - other images of such unthought-of meaning

Now, a good try.  A moderately useful book, the Poems of Carles Riba, with poems from 1919 through 1952 translated by J. L. Gili, a longtime champion, translator and publisher of Catalan literature.  Thirty short poems, with Catalan and English, so barely a book, really.

My rummage through poetry circa 1920 has pointed me towards some poets like Riba who first published at the time (1919) but whose more important works came later, perhaps much later.  For Riba, that might mean Les elegies de Bierville (1942), poems written during Riba’s exile in southern France after the Civil War.  The first French translation was just published in January, which also caught my attention – who is this?  Perhaps I will learn French and read that translation, because the English only includes four poems from that book:

from Elegy III

I do not remember it [a park] as I saw it, but as it was imagined,
    a change enriched and made pure by the joy of the sea,
the last cluster in the nocturnal course.  But more
    innocently still other images and of such
unthought-of meaning have been changed, and are cherished
    in the ardour of the two youthful lovers
who in the heart of the immense smoky city admitted us
    into their paradise of light, voluptuousness and adventure.

It helps to know that the poem is written in exile, that I can plausibly place its “inert memories” in the poet’s youth in Barcelona, and the poems all have a detectable Mediterranean flavor – well, lots of sea references – but otherwise the English often slumps into abstract goo.  “Last cluster of the nocturnal course,” huh?  (“l’últim flotó maragdí del rumb nocturn”).

Riba was a formalist.  All of the poems in the book are in classic – or Classical – forms.  Lots of sonnets.  Even tankas.  My understanding is that a good part of Riba’s achievement was exactly his use of these forms in Catalan, a rejuvenation and modernizing of the poetic language.  That is tough – perhaps pointless – to move into another language.  Perhaps the value of reading Riba in English is knowing that he exists.

Some images or ideas survive regardless.  These are the last six lines of a sonnet about a fish:

from Fish in the Fish-bowl

From much further than a memory
the light comes to you; you are
dark underneath the still glory

in which you dwell, your eyes quiet,
as one who, perplexed, contemplates himself
in a mirror that is for ever turning.

De més lluny que d’una memòria,
la llum et visita; tu ets
obscur sota la immòbil glòria

que travesses, amb ulls quiets,
com qui, sense comprendre, es mira
a una mirall que eternament gira.

If I pretend that this is Spanish, it is clear enough what I lose – rhyme, rhythm, all of the internal resonance (quiets / qui, mira / mirall), but I suppose the sense is fine.  What is it like to be a fish?

Carles Riba was also a translator.  His list of translated works is astounding, including The Odyssey in verse – two versions, one early in his life, one late – Hölderlin, Gottfried Keller, Greek tragedies, Poe, Scott.  I will bet that not one reader of Riba’s Sophocles or The Bride of Lammermoor could not have read the plays in some other language.  So the deep commitment was to the experience of the play in Catalan, to whatever beauties and meaning might be available in Catalan and not elsewhere.  Translators into small languages are culture heroes.

Monday, March 13, 2017

Spending the weekend reading (a museum) - under the charm of the Art Institute of Chicago

He might have been a student under the charm of a museum – which was exactly what, in a foreign town, in the afternoon of life, he would have liked to be free to be.  (Henry James, The Ambassadors, Ch. 7)

Chicago was not exactly foreign, given how long I lived there, although it is becoming increasingly so, given how long I have been away.  That’s why I spent as much of the weekend as I could stand – museums are exhausting – in the Art Institute of Chicago, reminding myself of what was in it, learning what was new, and more than anything re-reading the story – stories – the museum was telling.  I treated myself to several hours of intense reading, where the words were art objects and the pages were galleries. Let’s say.  To keep the metaphor going.  That's a 1925 print by Picasso, "Reading," not on display.

The primary story is the Chicago version of the conventional story of Western art history, beginning in Italy and northern Europe as the High Middle Ages turn into the Renaissance and painting becomes the prestige form and a series of rapid innovations in materials (e.g., oil paints), technique (e.g., sweet perspective), and subject (e.g., landscape) are launched.  Each successive gallery is a new adventure.  A secondary form, sculpture, is apparently used to provide obstacles that keep museum-goers alert – careful backing up when looking at a painting – might be a sculpture behind you.

The Chicago collection of early modern art is relatively minor, and getting more so.  How sad to see my favorite Rembrandt of theirs be demoted to “Workshop of.”  Well, the man ran a good workshop.  But the modern collection – the modern French collection – is so good that it shapes the entire story, which becomes not the Whig version of history but the Impressionist version of art history.  Everything before is a step toward Gustave Caillebotte’s Paris Street, Rainy Day and Gallery 201, which is presented by the march of art and the design of the building as an apotheosis.

I have to literally change directions to see what happens next, or I am back in the Middle Ages.  Take the correct exit, and I get late Impressionism, Post-Impressionism, Cubism, the invention of abstract painting in a perfect sequence of Kandinsky paintings, Surrealism and its fragments (sculpture finally becomes a major form), much of this on the magnificent third floor of the new – to me! – Modern wing, full of old favorites surrounded by new company.  Abandon hope and descend a floor to see the end of civilization – certainly the end of beauty – in the nightmarish Contemporary galleries.  Enormously instructive.  And the story – how did we get here­ – makes sense.

Long ago I was able to visit the Art Institute frequently, and for brief periods.  Fifteen minutes.  I would look at a single gallery, or a single painting.  I visited the exquisite Japanese print gallery every month.  I loved the many ways curators pushed against the overreaching story told by the great French collection (e.g., the 18th century weirdness gallery; the 19th century bad taste gallery).  I learned to read lots of different stories.

The first texts I read this time, actually, were on the museum door – “A Best Museum in the World,” per TripAdvisor – “The Best Museum in the World” in 2014!  Deluded!  Ignorant!  Hilarious!  But moving from the Claude Monet gallery through the Vincent van Gogh gallery to the Paul Cézanne gallery, or standing before the giant wall of Joseph Cornells, a cabinet full of smaller cabinets – yes, “A Best.”  I didn’t see anyone struck down by Stendhal’s Syndrome, but the guards are likely on high alert for the symptoms of beauty poisoning.

I propose that once a year – perhaps on income tax day – the curators add to the description of each artwork its estimated value.  That’s another story about art.  How much is that Monet gallery worth?  $500 million?  A billion?  Last year a grainstack painting sold for over $80 million, and that room has four of those, plus three prime water lilies and so on.  And they let me – anyone – come in to stick my nose close and examine the brushwork.  Crazy.

Wednesday, March 8, 2017

1917: Stories and Poems from the Russian Revolution - looted wine and revolutionary ostriches

In the versions of Alexander Blok’s “The Twelve” that are not rock operas, the marauding Reds do some looting:

Open up the cellars –
treat the thirsty fellas!

Those lines, from the Dralyuk and Chandler translation found in 1917: Stories and Poems from the Russian Revolution (Pushkin Press, 2016), have a little jolt now because of the highly instructive way this anthology is organized.

The book is a collection of poems, fiction, and whatnots addressing the 1917 revolution.  The pieces are organized thematically – and what themes!  The first section titled “Stolen Wine,” is about the looting and destruction, by smashing or glugging, of wine cellars, some of them massively valuable.  A narrow concern, I first thought, but it was a live political issue, an action filled with symbolic meaning – what is the Revolution doing; what is it for?

And it produced poems, like this terrific fantasy of wine-flooded streets by Marina Tsvetaeva:

The moon in a cloud of wine. – Who’s that? Stop!
Be my comrade, sweetheart: drink up!
Merry stories go round:
Deep in wine – a couple has drowned.  (tr. Dralyuk)

In a Tsvetaeva or Mandelstam collection, I doubt the wine would stand out, but six poems in a row make the point.  And then the image, the issue, recurs throughout the book, as in the Blok poem.  Clever; useful.

These interconnections run through the anthology.  The banner that opens “The Twelve” reappears in Mikhail Prishvin’s “The Blue Banner” – they were published on the same day! – as does the looting theme.  A merchant buys a crate of tea at a bad time to be carrying goods around Petersburg.  The wine cellar theme appears, too, as the merchant dreams himself towards death, marching first “to the wine cellars where the Red Guards are shooting off the drunkards for the third day straight” (194).

The loose, almost conversational Prishvin story is translated by Lisa Hayden, better known here as Lizok.  I know nothing more about Prishvin than is contained in the introductory material.  One of the many benefits of a good anthology – new writers.  Only one piece seemed of purely historical interest, the six pages of apocalyptic religious ranting by Vasily Rozanov.  Good to know such things existed, but six pages was plenty.

Everyone has been reading Teffi lately.  Her pieces are highlights.  “Every bit of him is tightly stuffed, like a leather football, squealing and cracking at the seams, but unable to fly into the air unless it is kicked” (126) – that’s Lenin.

Newspaper boys were nipping about among the queues, together with vendors of sbiten and fried pies.  Michel wanted to try one, but I talked him out of it – such filthy things, smelling of tallow candles.  (134)

The characters are in line, waiting to be guillotined.  Satire so brutal no one wanted to publish it.  But given the circumstances, I am amazed anyone was publishing anything.

Vladimir Mayakovsky, from “To Russia”:

Here I come,
an ostrich from a distant land,
wearing these feathers: stanzas, metres, rhymes.
I foolishly try to bury my head,
dig it into my clinking plumes…
Exotic, outlandish,
I might as well vanish
under the fury of all Decembers.  (tr. James Womack)

I guess I will take the next couple of days off.

Tuesday, March 7, 2017

Blok = blues-rock - Anselm Hollo's "The Twelve" - what the hell come on baby

In January 1918, Alexander Blok banged out “The Twelve,” a twelve-canto idiosyncratic response to the revolution.  I have read four versions recently: from the 1970 Stallworthy and France collection, from the new 1917: Stories and Poems from the Russian Revolution, translated by Boris Dralyuk and Robert Chandler, a stiff, formal version by George Reavey found in Willis Barnstone’s Modern European Poetry anthology (1966), and a wild blues-rock version by Finnish-American beat poet Anselm Hollo (The Twelve & Other Poems, 1971).

A Revolution has hit.  In the first canto, a woman sees a banner with a political slogan and regrets the waste of good cloth.  Meanwhile, twelve revolutionaries wreak havoc.  One of them has a girlfriend who is a prostitute, probably.  He murders her for, you know, fraternization.  He feels bad, but there is revolutionary work to do.  The twelve soldiers are joined by a dog and are led by – this is the famous, mystifying, last line – Jesus Christ.

The most accurate version is – how would I possibly know?  They are all entirely different in places, but the great difference can be seen at the end of Canto XI:

Forward, advance,
    The Working People!  (Reavey)

Forward, and forward again
the working men!  (Stallworthy and France)

I’ll expand the next one:

Their measured tread
rings in your ears.

Soon –
their mortal foe will wake.

And the blizzard dusts their eyes,
day and night,
without halt…

Onward, onward,
working folk!  (Dralyuk and Chandler)

got to keep movin got to keep movin
blues fallin down like hail
& the days & the nights
keep on worrying me

for a hellhound on my trail yes
hellhound
on my trail  (Hollo)

So for some stab at literalness, I guess one of the first three, but for awesomeness, obviously the Hollo.  He has to rearrange the action in the cantos a bit, but the Robert Johnson lyrics – that is all “Hellhound on My Trail” (1937) with two words from Blok (“& nights”) added – are a good fit.

Hollo’s number one trick – not his only trick – is to turn the cantos into songs, to convert Blok into the blues rock of his, Hollo’s, time, ready for Mick Jagger, or in this case Mose Allison:

I am Vanya I’m the man
I’m the man I’m the seventh son

I can talk ‘n I can sing
I sure know how to do that thing

Katya Katya Katyenka  (Canto IV)

In the Canto V, the point of view switches to the jealous, crazed, revolutionary Petya – there’s the disciple’s name:

what the hell come on baby
shake out of that groove
you been playing around baby
you been playing around a lot
been playing around with them lootenants baby

but you never been playing with a plain joe like me  (Canto V)

And in the next Canto, poor Katya is dead.  The lieutenant gets away, I guess.  I have no doubt that part of the inspiration for this version was Hollo’s realization that “The Twelve” is a kind of murder ballad, an all too common classic American form.

I suppose someone unfamiliar with the idiom would find Hollo’s translation pointless, but I found it loud, crackly, and energetic.  Thrilling, but I’m glad it’s not the only one I read.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Damn books, be silent - some Alexander Blok

A year ago I read a cluster of books by the extraordinary generation of Russian Silver Age poets.  I skipped the slightly older Alexander Blok for logistical reasons, now addressed.  I read the other poets write about Blok: “But the talk is what I remember,” writes Anna Akhmatova.

The Twelve and Other Poems, translated by Jon Stallworthy and Peter France (1970), is a workhorse overview.  Fifty poems, covering 1900 to 1918.  Blok’s personality is evident, and some of his subjects: his mysticism, St. Petersburg, a succession of semi-imaginary semi-muses (the Beautiful Lady, the Snow Maiden), bouts of drunken Bohemianism in the company of other great poets, and finally his idiosyncratic embrace of the 1917 Revolution.

I get lost when the poems become too mystical, unless this counts as mysticism:

I am nailed to a bar with liquor.
Been drunk all day.  So what!  I’ve lost
my happiness – gone in a troika
careering into silver mist.

It is easier for me to understand Blok as a Bohemian, a poète maudit, which is not the whole story, but is at least one of his modes:

I want to live, live to distraction:
to make the present live for ever,
make the impersonal human, cover
with flesh whatever now has none!

That’s the positive expression of the mode.  The negative is perhaps:

           I long to see written
in men’s eyes and in women’s eyes
marks of damnation and election.  (from “Earth’s Heart Is Growing Cold Again”)

If Blok sounds miserable, well, I can’t speak for more than what is in this book, but yes:

Oh, for that grave in the nettles
in which to sleep and forever
forget oneself!  Damn books, be silent;
I never wrote you, never!

That is from “To My Friends,” which is funny.

The results of Blok’s 1909 visit to Italy are amusing given all the pro-Italy propaganda I read recently.  The same sense of beauty and civilization that entranced Goethe and Forster repelled Blok.  He was suspicious of Ravenna (“Sepulchral wastes where the grapes fatten,” from “Ravenna”) and loathed Florence.

Die, Florence, Judas, disappear
in the twilight of long ago!
In the hour of love and in the hour
of death I’ll not remember you.
***
The motorcars snort in your lanes,
your houses fill me with disgust;
you have given yourself to the stains
of Europe’s bilious yellow dust.  (from “Florence,” ll. 1-4)

The next poem in the collection begins “Russia and I, must we suffer one destiny?”  Whatever Blok meant by Russia, he meant it.

You may have noticed some rhymes up above.  I don’t know.  These translations give me a strong sense that Blok was a fascinating person and a weak sense that he was a great poet.  Maybe there are better options now.  Please recommend.

Aside from this book, I scrounged up three more translations of Blok’s great, late poem “The Twelve.”  I’ll look at those tomorrow.

Sunday, March 5, 2017

when the world is mudluscious - looking at early E. E. Cummings

My prejudice was that E. E. Cummings was the author of Modernist Poetry for Dummies, assuming that “dummies” in that series is affectionately self-deprecating.  A lot of typographical fooling around for its own sake.  A voice but not a worldview.  Poems that are often adorable, a word not so often applied to Wallace Stevens.

here is little Effie’s head
whose brains are made of gingerbread
when the judgment day comes
God will find six crumbs (from &, Portraits, III)

But I had only read anthology pieces.  Now I have read Tulips & Chimneys (1923) and & (1925), the first book of real Cummings poem and a subsequent chapbook, and I discover that I was not that wrong.  Moderately wrong.

Tulips & Chimneys begins with what I take as a head-fake, twenty-one regular, rhyming stanzas on the marriage of Earth and Spring, I guess, packed with classical references – “Chryselephantine Zeus Olympian / sceptered colossus of the Pheidian soul” and so on – that is only a bit odd in that there are no spaces after internal punctuation.  “O still miraculous May!O shining girl,” like that.  The second poem is a pre-Raphaelite knockoff with, a little more, and thus more noticeable, punctuation.  Then something that sounds like 1890s Decadence.

It is as if Cummings is quickly moving me through his own development as a poet, the steps that brought him to this:

in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles          far          and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s spring  (from “Chansons Innocentes” I)

And from this point anything can happen.  My attention was usually caught more by poems like "in Just-", with people in them, than descriptions of mood, but perhaps the latter poems just demanded more intense reading:

i was considering how
within night’s loose
sack a star’s
nibbling in-

fin
-i-
tes-
i
-mal-
ly devours

darkness [skip some stuff]
          when over my head a
shooting
star
Bur          s

                  (t
                     into a stale shriek
like an alarm-clock)

I guess this is not so hard in substance but it requires some serious riddle-solving attention just to read the thing.  This time there are calligram-like clues, like “burst” bursting on the page.  Occasionally something took a long  time:

is,fond of tummy plums of tangerines and apples it will,Gorge indistinct
palishflesh of laZilytas tingg OO seberries,it,loves these better than,  (from &, A, VII)

It took me a long time to see “lazily tasting gooseberries.”  I had to work backwards.  I would not say that I read these poems all that well, but I sure looked at them.

The above is one of the many surprisingly explicit sex poems in early Cummings, especially in the little & book.  Anatomical explicitness, obscene words – did the censors not care what poets did? – and a great deal of lustful worship of the female body.

      I bite on the eyes’ brittle crust
(only feeling the belly’s merry thrust
Boost my huge passion like a business

and the Y her legs panting as they press

proffers its omelet of fluffy lust)  (from &, D, III)

Throughout the poem, the metaphorical language is somehow more explicit than if it were clinical.  He overdoes his romanticization of prostitutes, but otherwise brings a new freedom to American poetry.  “I like my body when it is with your / body” (&, D, VII).

I had no idea – making a note to myself – that Cummings wrote so many sonnets.  They often sound like they are from the 17th century, like Cummings is updating Robert Herrick.

it may not always be so;and i say
that if your lips,which i have loved,should touch
another’s,and your dear strong fingers clutch
his heart,as mine in time not far away;  (from “Sonnets – Actualities,” XI)

Revisit these.  Heck, read it all again.

Saturday, March 4, 2017

an abrupt vision of chaos - more strange things I found in The Octopus

The strangeness of The Octopus is what makes it a great book, however great that might be.  Any hack can write a novel defending noble farmers against the greedy railroad.  But Norris, more than a bit of a hack himself, was artist enough to write a Frank Norris novel.

Here are more of the strange things he put in it:

1.  The jackrabbit massacre.  Everyone forms a long line in the field after the wheat harvest, compressing until the jackrabbits are corralled.  Don’t Google this unless you want to see the results:

Inside it was a living, moving, leaping, breathing, twisting mass.  The rabbits were packed two, three, and four feet deep.  They were in constant movement; those beneath struggling to the top, those on top sinking and disappearing below their fellows.  (II.6)

Norris squeezes plenty of irony out of this long, brutal scene.  As with McTeague, I recommend The Octopus to Cormac McCarthy fans.  No, actually, why haven’t McCarthy fans been recommending The Octopus to everyone else?  The scene is more like the slaughter of the passenger pigeons in Cooper’s The Pioneers (1823) than the industrial butchery of the whales in Moby-Dick (1851), but those two examples are sufficient to place Norris in a long, ongoing American fictional tradition.

2.  “Jack-rabbits were a pest that year” – so begins the previous chapter, which is mostly full of the long, complex pursuit of a fugitive train robber, driven to his crimes by the perfidy of the railroad, sure, but gone too far.  The train robbery scene is good, too, but the chase – at one point, there is a bit where two train engines are passing each other on parallel tracks, one going backwards, and there is a shootout between the engines as they pass each other.  Awesome.

…  confusion whirling in the scene like the whirl of a witch’s dance, the white clouds of steam, the black eddies from the smokestack, the blue wreaths from the hot mouths of the revolvers, swirling together in a blinding maze of vapor, spinning around them, dazing them, dizzying them, while the head rang with hideous clamor and the body twitched and trembled with the leap and jar of the tumult of machinery.

Roaring, clamoring, reeking with the smell of powder and hot oil, spitting death, resistless, huge, furious, an abrupt vision of chaos, faces, rage-distorted, peering through smoke, hands gripping outward from sudden darkness, prehensile, malevolent; terrible as thunder, swift as lightning, the two engines met and passed.

That passage is perfect, eminently Norris – his lists, his repetitions, his movement, his clichés.  “An abrupt vision of chaos” – yes, that’s The Octopus at its best.

3.  There is a character who has telepathy.  He can summon people to him – and the people he summons believe he has done it.  He wonders if he can summon his girlfriend from sixteen years ago, who was assaulted, and died.  She is associated with flowers:

Her hands disengaged the odor of the heliotropes.  The folds of her dress gave off the enervating scent of poppies.  Her feet were redolent of hyacinths.  (I.4)

Weird!  And it turns out he can summon her from the dead!  “Realism,” people call this.

Whole subplot should have been cut, honestly.

4.  The wheat farmers fight the railroad; the railroad wins; but the Wheat gets its murderous revenge.  It must be seen to be disbelieved – “… no sound but the rushing of the Wheat that continued to plunge incessantly from the iron chute in a prolonged roar, persistent, steady, inevitable” (II.9).

Friday, March 3, 2017

But that is not literature - No, thank God, it is not - the literature and art theme in The Octopus

The Octopus begins with a poet on a bicycle, but it is mostly about wheat framers fighting the railroad, fighting over freight rates and property.  Weapons include bribery and firearms.  The railroad through the Central Valley makes it profitable to plow up the ranchland for wheat – but profitable for whom?

The poet hopes to write an epic “Song of the West” in “hexameters,” Lord help us.  The other character here is a farmer’s wife who loves Pater and Ruskin and Italy:

His “Song of the West,” which only once, incoherent and fierce, he had tried to explain to her, its swift, tumultuous life, its truth, its nobility and savagery, its heroism and obscenity, had revolted her.

“But, Presley,” she had murmured, “that is not literature.”

“No,” he had cried between his teeth, “no, thank God, it is not.”  (I.2.)

At this point I feared Norris was describing his own novel, but Presley eventually has an epiphany leading him to drop his cornball Nietzsche act.  He “flung aside his books of poems” for “Mill, Malthus, Young, Pushkin, Henry George, Schopenhauer,” finding “not one sane suggestion as to remedy or redress.”  He becomes a proletarian poet, scoring big with something, not in hexameters, called “The Toilers.”

Norris at times regards his poet not as a stand-in but as a warning, something close to a con man.  The visual arts are treated more brutally, though, with artists treated as courtiers, servants to railroad money.  A railroad executive’s San Francisco mansion feature stained glass windows with Wagnerian themes and a series of painted panels representing “the personages in the Romaunt de la Rose, and was conceived in an atmosphere of the most delicate, most ephemeral allegory.  The poet dines at this house near the end of the novel, in the extraordinary II.8., with the courses of the dinner alternating with scenes of another character, a widow of the fight with the railroad, literally starving to death on the San Francisco streets:

A grateful numbness had begun to creep over her, a pleasing semi-insensibility.  She no longer felt the pain and cramps of her stomach, even the hunger was ceasing to bite.
                                                                 ------------
“These stuffed artichokes are delicious, Mrs. Gerard,” murmured young Lambert, wiping his lips with a corner of his napkin”…  [discussion of the “special train” that brings the fresh asparagus]

“Fancy eating ordinary market asparagus,” said Mrs. Gerard, “that has been fingered by Heaven knows how many hands.”

Then back to the dying woman.  This is blunt, but as gripping as earlier scenes with gunplay.  That Julian Lambert fellow, who appears only in this scene, is openly mocked by the narrator – he “posed as an epicure” – and I wonder if he is meant to parody someone.  But otherwise, I wonder if Norris’s use of this incongruous poet character is meant to show a movement towards an authentic art, away from Romanticism and idea-driven works towards journalistic, Zolaesque fiction like The Octopus.  Like the novel contains its own apology, for some reason.

There is another character, one of the farmers, an odd bird, who spends his leisure time reading David Copperfield and eating prunes, “methodically swallowing one prune every time he reached the bottom of the page” (I.5).  That sounds almost allegorical, too.  Literature as health food.  This character begins as a fool and greatly improves, for all the good it does him.  I don’t know.  I’m just trying to puzzle out why this poet is even in this wheat and railroad novel.

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

But the WHEAT remained - Frank Norris's wheat epic, The Octopus

There it was, the Wheat, the Wheat!  (Book II, Ch. 2)

The Octopus (1901) is a novel based on a questionable idea.  It is the first volume in the “Trilogy of the Epic of the Wheat,” three novels that while “forming a series, will be in no way connected with each other save only in their relation to (1) the production, (2) the distribution, (3) the consumption of American wheat.”  That is from Frank Norris’s note that heads the novel, itself another questionable idea, numbered lists about theoretical novels.  Unless that is what the novel is about.  But this novel is about wheat.

But the WHEAT remained.  Untouched, unassailable, undefiled, that mighty world-force, that nourisher of nations, wrapped in Nirvanic calm, indifferent to the human swarm, gigantic, resistless, moved onward in its appointed grooves.  (last page)

Imagine a novel mostly written like that!  It’s not this book, which is a mix of functional best-seller writing of the kind I associate with much later writers of big epics (James Michener, say) punctuated by passages of California lyricism that are inspired by Zola but at this point do not really sound like him, with a number of chapters, long scenes – a big barn-warming party, the pursuit of a dangerous fugitive, a jackrabbit hunt – that are terrific, fast-moving, meaningful, exciting, etc., etc.

Unfortunately, I have not read the two most relevant Zola novels, La Terre (1887), about farming, and La Bête humaine (1890), about railroads – the “octopus” of the title is the railroad – so I do not know to what extent Norris has pilfered them for metaphorical material.  His plot seems unrelated.

This sounds kinda like Zola:

One could not take a dozen steps upon the ranches without the brusque sensation that underfoot the land was alive; roused at last from its sleep, palpitating with the desire for reproduction.  Deep down there in the recesses of the soil, the great heart throbbed once more, thrilling with passion, vibrating with desire, offering itself to the caress of the plow, insistent, eager, imperious.  (I.4.)

Plenty more like that.

The Octopus is one of many novels about the Mussel Slough Tragedy, a property dispute between pioneer wheat farmers in the San Joaquin Valley and railroad representatives that turned violent.  The novel is resolutely on the side of the farmers, who are themselves quite wealthy.  The conflict is mostly between the rich and the super-rich, which dampened the stakes, although there are some side plots that allow a little more ordinary sympathy.

Norris is well aware of the issue.  The railroad is the more or less distant villain, but the novel spends time critiquing the farmers.  This is their leader, “Governor” Magnus:

It was the new era.  He had live to see the death of the old and the birth of the new; first the mine, now the ranch; first gold, now wheat.  Once again he became the pioneer, hardy, brilliant, taking colossal chances, blazing the way, grasping a fortune – a million in a single day.  All the bigness of his nature leaped up again within him.

He is less a farmer than a hands-on commodity speculator, a gambler.

Lots of other things in this novel.  A day or two more.

Tuesday, February 28, 2017

Kipling's Rewards and Fairies - music, history, dying children and another heroic seal - the broad gentle flood of the main tune

Some easier Kipling, Rewards and Fairies (1910).  It’s a book for children, so I hope it’s easier.

What children, though.  In each story a pair of perfect children, from the Kipling point of view, I mean – “Dan had gone in for building model boats” – encounters a figure from history who tells about his encounter with a more important figure from history.  A local shipbuilder tells about Francis Drake, before he was a Sir.  A young smuggler meets President Washington in one story and General Bonaparte in the next.  The children are already sufficiently educated to follow the stories.  So am I, now, somewhat older.

Although a sequel to Puck of Pook’s Hill (1906) and similar on general principles, the fairy aspect is muted.  Just a little touch of “then they woke up” to wave away pointless questions of actuality.

“The Conversion of St Wilfrid” is about a super-intelligent pet seal.  What kind of seal, I don’t know.  His heroism converts the saint.  This is Kipling’s second story about a heroic seal, the other being “The White Seal” from The Jungle Book.  The other that I know of, I mean.  Maybe there are more.  How many writers have written even one.  The frame of this story is extraordinary, with the medieval saint, the Shakespeare fairy and the Kipling children listening to an old church organ played by a professional organist.

The music had turned soft – full of little sounds that chased each other on wings across the broad gentle flood of the main tune.  

As in the story, the combination of beauty and belief is hard to untangle.

“Marklake Witches” also ends with music.  It is almost too sad to read, with a story-teller who is a vivacious teenager who does not know that she is mortally ill, and an auditor, little Una, who does not know that she is a stand-in for Kipling’s daughter who died of pneumonia.  Everyone else in the story knows that the narrator is doomed; only she and Una never figure it out.  She sings a song about a dying flower and thinks that everyone is so deeply affected by the beauty of her performance.

‘And what did Dr Break do?’

‘He got up and pretended to look out of the window, but I saw his little fat shoulders jerk as if he had the hiccoughs.  That was a triumph.  I never suspected him of sensibility.’

‘Oh, I wish I’d seen!  I wish I’d been you,’ said Una, clasping her hands.

And this is where Puck ends the story, presumably on the verge of tears himself.  Irony is so sad.

The poems Kipling attaches to his so-called adult stories are often oblique, even cryptic, in their connection to the proses text.  The poems in Rewards and Fairies are clear, direct, and often beautiful –  the old lost road in “The Way through the Woods,” or Father Eddi’s Christmas sermon to an ox and an ass in “Eddi’s Service:”

And when the Saxons mocked him,
    Said Eddi of Manhood End,
‘I dare not shut His chapel
    On such as care to attend.’

Kipling is unafraid of sublime effects, but the generosity of Rewards and Fairies tempers the fear.  It’s a children’s book, sort of.

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Oh! / The differential gear! - that huge mass of Kipling poems

Maybe one more day of incomprehension, to finish off the week.  A different kind of bafflement, though.  I completed, in the page-turning sense, the Verses: Definitive Edition (1940) of Rudyard Kipling, the books that was until very recently served as the 800 page collected poems of Kipling.  It is a strange book, and I am not sure how to use it, other than read it.

The only Table of Contents is alphabetical by title.  The poems themselves are organized, I believe by Kipling, in an order that must have meant something to him but confused me.  Departmental Ditties (1885) starts things off, good, first book, lead spot, but the next book, Barrack-Room Ballads (1892) does not appear for over 300 pages.  In between are chronologically wide-ranging selections with some thematic organization – lots of poems about ships, lots of poems about the Boer War.  But not all of them in one place.  New subjects appear, then it is back to South Africa.  I cannot believe how many poems Kipling wrote about the Boer War.

Kipling was among the world’s best-loved poets.  Did his best readers find this organization useful?  They knew the titles, the subjects – they knew where to look for a poem?

I cannot believe, still, the thirty-page chunk titled The Muse among the Motors, a series of poetic parodies in which the poems, in the style of Horace, Chaucer, etc. are all about automobiles and driving.  Wordsworth:

The Idiot Boy

He wandered down the mountain grade
    Beyond the speed assigned –
A youth whom Justice often stayed
    And generally fined.

He went alone, that none might know
    If he could drive or steer.
Now he is in the ditch, and Oh!
    The differential gear!

I picked one of the more thumping ones, just to make things obvious, but some of them, like the Stevenson / Child’s Garden parody, are sad and lovely, they are all ingenious, and some are perhaps funny, including the fifteen-page Shakespeare parody, “The Marrèd Drives of Windsor” (sample stage direction: Enter FALSTAFF, habited as a motorist).

What amazed me the most, I guess, is that Kipling had time for all of this throwaway verse amidst a production of prose fiction and non-fiction that is itself so vast I do not grasp it.  His sheer facility with verse must have been as great as anyone alive at the time.  And this is what he did with it!  Motoring parodies.

No, he did everything with it.  His short stories are invariably accompanied by poems, often only cryptically related to the story, because the composition of verse was part of how he thought.

I thought the best group of poems were the Barrack-Room Ballads, in which Kipling blends the voices of ordinary servicemen in India with music-hall verse.  They were an unusual invention:

I’ve a head like a concertina, I’ve a tongue like a buttonstick,
I’ve a mouth like an old potato, and I’m more than a little sick,
But I’ve had my fun o’ the Corp’ral’s Guard; I’ve made the cinder’s fly,
And I’m here in the Clink for a thundering drink and blacking the Corporal’s eye.  (from “Cells”)

Kipling’s politics, consistent over his life, are always firmly on the side of the soldier, sailor, and engineer, whatever they might be doing, and deeply skeptical of any decisions made much higher up the chain.  The value he puts on the lives of soldiers – and not just British soldiers – is humane and often moving, although politically a source of its own problems.  Kipling does not look like much of an imperialist to me at this point.  But he always supports the troops.

Not that several hundred pages of ironic, obscure poems are that much help with this question.  Some help.

Friday, February 24, 2017

Dark things are drawn to brighter - Eugenio Montale polishes some Cuttlefish Bones

One more of these, with Eugenio Montale’s first book, Cuttlefish Bones (1925), translated by William Arrowsmith in an edition with far more notes than poetry.

Aren’t cuttlefish invertebrates?  Yes, but they have an “internal shell” that young Eugenio would find in large quantities on the beaches of Liguria.  As Whitman showed, the shore poem contains all poems:

from Seacoasts

Days of tumbling and tossing
like cuttlefish bones in the breakers,
vanishing bit by bit;
becoming
gnarled tree or sea-polished
pebble; melting away
in sunset colors, to dissolve as flesh
and flow back, a spring drunk on sunlight,
devoured by sunlight…
                                            O seacoasts,
this was his prayer, that boy I used to be,
standing by a rusty balustrade,
who died slowly, smiling.  (ellipses in original)

This 1920 poem ends the collection, and Arrowsmith says critics have often argued it is too jolly, like a forced positive ending on an otherwise grim book, an expression of deep pessimism.  About “Maybe one morning,” one of a group of lyrics labeled “Cuttlefish Bones,” Arrowsmith writes that it “was memorized by two generations of school children” and “continue[s] even now to haunt the Italian mind” (213).

Maybe one morning, walking in air
of dry glass, I’ll turn and see the miracle occur –
nothingness at my shoulders, the void
behind me – with a drunkard’s terror.
Then, as on a screen, the usual illusion:
hills houses trees will suddenly reassemble,
but too late, and I’ll quietly go my way,
with my secret, among men who don’t look back.

Strong stuff!  All is an illusion, all is nothingness.  If you are lucky you will get a glimpse behind the veil.  The Italian is, as far as I can tell, musical and beautiful.  I know as a matter of literary history that Montale, like many other poets of his generation, were deliberately trying to “walk in air of dry glass,” by which I mean they were avoiding the baroque excesses and politically suspect decadence of the dominant figure of Gabrielle d’Annunzio.  But the starkness Montale finds is in his imagery and philosophy or temperamental position more than form or language.

Bring me the sunflower, I’ll plant it here
in my patch of ground scorched by salt spume,
where all day long it will lift the craving
of its golden face to the mirroring blue.

Dark things are drawn to brighter…

That’s part of another “Cuttlefish Bone,” another famous one.

Just rummaging through the book, I keep coming across repeated images and motifs.  What complexity.  A sequence about figures on an ancient sarcophagus – “World asleep or world that boasts / life unchanging, who can say?” – embeds a number of them, like the sunflower.  The “Agave on the Cliff” poems are from the point of view of a plant, buffeted by a series of winds:

incapable of breaking into bloom, today I feel
this rootedness of mine
is torture.

This is what I meant by “grim.”

Hopeless to do anything with this book or poet on a first pass.  This is a note to remind myself to try again some time.

Thursday, February 23, 2017

César Vallejo dips his nose in the absurd

César Vallejo, what a mystery to me.  The theme of the week is “in over my head.”  I have read the H. R. Hays translations in Selected Poems (1981, but with translations going back to 1943) a couple of times, mostly with bafflement.  I find him difficult.

Vallejo was a classic smart kid from a small town, in the Peruvian Andes.  Tungsten mining; rough.  Vallejo got away, went to college, then Europe, and became a poet, but he did it the hard way, with time in prison for political activities and a down-and-out Bohemian life in Paris.

    César Vallejo is dead, everybody beat him
Without his ever having done anything to them;
They beat him hard with a cudgel and hard
    Likewise with a piece of rope…  (from “Black Stone Upon a White Stone”)

“I prose / These verses” he writes, even though this poem, like many, is a sonnet of some regularity and beauty.  The Trilce poems (1922), many written in prison (“Oh, the four walls of the cell!,” XVIII) make some radical and, soon enough, influential, moves away from regularity.

This torrent frightens me,
Pleasant memory, strong sir, implacable
Cruel sweetness.  It frightens me.
This house makes me feel fine, fine
Place for this not knowing where you are.  (from XXVII)

The poem ends with the appearance of a “sad blond skeleton,” which whistles.  “Rubio y triste esqueleto, silba, silba.”

With some help from Whitman, Baudelaire, and some Spanish-language poets Vallejo concocted a kind of personal surrealism, a mix of imagery and anti-poetic language that however strange it sounds to me is expressive for Vallejo.  He is saying what he is trying to say.

    And if we should dip our noses this way
In the absurd
We shall cover ourselves with the gold of having nothing,
And we would pollinate
The unborn wing of the night, sister
Of that orphan wing of day
Which trying to be a wing still isn’t.  (from XLV)

I know, that moves towards gibberish in translation.  In Spanish, “que a fuerza de ser una ya no es ala.”  It’s cryptic.  Vallejo, in translation – and I include other translators, like James Wright and Thomas Merton – often sounds like a Beat poet, like his poems are meant to be performed, howled a little.

As Vallejo turns, in the 1930s, to poems about the Spanish Civil War, he becomes clearer without losing his surprising imagery.  Having some history helps (helps me, I mean; clearer to me).

A book lay beside his dead belt,
A book was spouting from his dead body.
They raised the hero
And, corporeal and sad, his mouth entered our breath.
We were all sweating, dog tired,
As we traveled the moons were following us;
And the dead man, too, was sweating with sadness.  (from “Little Responsory for a Republican Hero”)

Maybe I just accept more easily the surreal sublimity of Vallejo’s imagery when his subject is so frightening, so big.  Maybe I need to accept that for Vallejo that intensity was everywhere, constant, not just a product of war.

Wednesday, February 22, 2017

There is no confusion – only difficulties - Spring and All, where WCW cuts loose

I’ve been reading William Carlos Williams much like I have been reading Conrad Aiken – why not shovel it all in, up to a point.  I wrote an uncomprehending post about his second book, The Tempers (1913), in which I made two points, first, this stuff hardly sounded like Williams and second, this poet sure likes leaves.

Since then I read Al Que Quiere! (1917) and Sour Grapes (1921) – those are good titles – but did not write about them.  More Williams flavor, and lots more leaves.  I guess a poet as Whitman-like as Williams has no choice.

Now I have hit the pure stuff, the crazy hybrid Spring and All (1923):

Now the grass, tomorrow
the stiff curl of wildcarrot leaf
 One by one objects are defined –
It quickens : clarity, outline of leaf

That’s an almost baldly programmatic bit of Poem I, “By the road to the contagious hospital.”  I had to do a head-to-head comparison to Sour Grapes to see the difference.  Many of the earlier poems are fine as they are:

Complete Destruction

It was an icy day.
We buried the cat,
then took her box
and set match to it.

in the back yard.
Those fleas that escaped
earth and fire
died by the cold.

But others must have still seemed too poetical to Williams.  Sour Grapes opens with “The Late Singer”:

Here it is spring again
and I still a young man!
I am late at my singing.

Then there is a sparrow, grass, the moon, and guess what leaves (“brown and yellow moth-flowers”).  To most of is this sounds pretty plain, but Williams thinks it’s missing something.

The 2011 New Directions reissue of Spring and All has a terrific introduction by C. D. Wright.  Here’s how she describes the change:

The year before, 1922, was high tide in poetry: The Duino Elegies, Trilce, and The Waste Land.  The latter was a head blow to William Carlos Williams…  Then came The Waste Land, all tricked out with Sanscrit and Latin ornaments.  The impact was as useful as it was painful.  Whap.  Now he knew what he was opposing…  (p. viii)

Spring and All is full of nonsense, upside-down chapter titles, misspellings, and general goofiness.  The poems are embedded in a prose manifesto that is written “con brio,” to borrow the title of one of his earliest poems.  It is energetic:

    If I could say what was in my mind in Sanscrit or even Latin I would do so. But I cannot. I speak for the integrity of the soul and the greatness of life’s inanity ; the formality of its boredom ; the orthodoxy of its stupidity. Kill ! kill ! let there be fresh meat…  (Chapter 19, p. 5, ellipses in original)

But the manifesto is at heart not negative or prescriptive but personal, a portrait of the creative self.

  Poetry is something quite different. Poetry has to do with the crystallization of the imagination – the perfection of new forms as additions to nature – Prose may follow to enlighten but poetry –  (p. 78)

The, or a, joke being that Spring and All is mostly prose.  “There is no confusion – only difficulties.”  Maybe.

He who has kissed
a leaf

need look no further –
I ascend

through
a canopy of leaves

and at the same time
I descend

for I do nothing
unusual –   (from XXIV)

No, even for 1923, that’s not true.

Tuesday, February 21, 2017

In a whistling void I stand before my mirror, / Unconcerned, and tie my tie. - Conrad Aiken writes a good one

Conrad Aiken wrote too much poetry, was too imitative, hammered one bad idea too long, and gave his books terrible titles.  Yet, helped by the magic of online scans, I have been read his first five books, from Earth Triumphant (1914) through The Charnel Rose (1918).  Five books in five years!  That is what I mean by too much.  The Jig of Forslin: A Symphony (1916) – that is what I mean by bad titles, and the bad idea, of attributing musical structures to poems, is also visible.  In Nocturne of Remembered Spring: And Other Poems (1917), for example, besides the title poem there is a “Sonata in Pathos,” a “Nocturne in a Minor Key,” and so on.  “I do not wish to press the musical analogies too closely,” Aiken writes in Poetry in June 1919, in a review of one of his own books.  Fair enough.

He was invited to write that review.  “Even so, the variation of tine has not been carried far enough: a little more statement and a little less implication would have been a good thing, for it verges on the invertebrate.”  Accurate.

As for imitative, Aiken was all too adept at picking up whatever was in the air.  Imagism, Spoon River Anthology, T. S. Eliot – to my ear, mostly Eliot.  Aiken’s poems often include a Prufrock or Sweeney-like figure – Forslin, he of the “jig” above, is one of them – introverted, interiorized, old before his time.

You see me: I am plain: and growing baldish.
The clothes I wear are old, but carefully kept.  (“Jig,” I.iiii.)

But starring in a much longer, more repetitive (“symphonic”) poem.  Bloated Eliot, gaseous Eliot.

Useful, though.  Aiken has helped me see what is going on around him.  That is one reason I have been reading his early poems.  The other reason is of course that the poems are often quite good.  “Senlin: A Biography,” a 1918 poem, has a great one.  I have to break the symphony into its component poems.

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning
When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,
I arise, I face the sunrise,
And do the things my fathers learned to do.
Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops
Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,
And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet
Stand before a glass and tie my tie.

The stanzas repeat and develop this mismatch between the ordinary, pointless ritual activity and the narrator’s sense of his place in the cosmos, and similarly his astonishment by mundane natural details that he experiences himself (“Vine leaves tap my window”) and those that he can only imagine (“a sun far off in a shell of silence”), some of which may be contiguous with “god,” who is “immense and lonely as a cloud.”  “Silence” is one of the repeated motifs.

The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,
The stars pale silently in a coral sky.
In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,
Unconcerned, and tie my tie.

I don’t know what happens next with Aiken.  His Collected Poems is a thousand pages long; his Collected Stories is only half as long.  Maybe I will switch to a Selected Poems sometime.  Not yet.