Lumpy pudding

Judging a poem is like judging a pudding or a machine. One demands that it work. Poetry succeeds because all or most of what is said or implied is relevant; what is irrelevant has been excluded, like lumps from pudding and 'bugs' from machinery. (Wimsatt & Beardsley)

Here we celebrate the excluded, lumpy parts of the pudding!

Nov 8, 2009 3:20pm
From Barry Miles: The Beat Hotel (Google Books)
Ecce Homo - David Gascoyne
Whose is this horrifying face,This putrid flesh, discouloured, flayed,Fed on by flies, scorched by the sun?Whose are these hollow red-filmed eyesAnd thorn-spiked head and spear-stuck side?Behold the Man: He is Man’s Son.Forget the legend, tear the decent veilThat cowardice or interest devisedTo make their mortal enemy a friend,To hide the bitter truth all His wounds tell,Lest the great scandal be no more disguised:He is in agony till the world’s end,And we must never sleep during that time!He is suspended on the cross-tree nowAnd we are onlookers at the crime,Callous contemporaries of the slowTorture of God. Here is the hillMade ghastly by His spattered bloodWhereon He hangs and suffers still:See, the centurions wear riding-boots,Black shirts and badges and peaked caps,Greet one another with raised-arm salutes;They have cold eyes, unsmiling lips;Yet these His brothers know not what they do.And on his either side hang deadA labourer and a factory hand,Or one is maybe a lynched JewAnd one a Negro or a Red,Coolie or Ethiopian, Irishman,Spaniard or German democrat.Behind his lolling head the sky Glares like a fiery cataractRed with the murders of two thousand yearsCommitted in His name and byCrusaders, Christian warriorsDefending faith and property.Amid the plain beneath His transfixed hands,Exuding darkness as indelibleAs guilty stains, fanned by funerealAnd lurid airs, besieged by drifting sandsAnd clefted landslides our about-to-beBombed and abandoned cities stand.He who wept for JersualemNow sees His prophecy extendAcross the greatest cities of the world,A guilty panic reason cannot stemRising to raze them all as He foretold;Across the greatest cities of the world,A guilty panic reason cannot stem,Rising to raze them all as He foretold;And He must watch this drama to the end.Though often named, He is unknownTo the dark kingdoms at His feetWhere everything disparages His words,And each man bears the common guilt aloneAnd goes blindfolded to his fate,And fear and greed are sovereign lords.The turning point of history Must come. Yet the complacent and the proudAnd who exploit and kill, may be denied–Christ of Revolution and of Poetry-The resurrection and the lifeWrought by your spirit’s blood.Not from a monstrance silver-wroughtBut from the tree of human painRedeem our sterile misery,Christ of Revolution and of Poetry,That man’s long journey May not have been in vain.— from Poems 1937-1942

From Barry Miles: The Beat Hotel (Google Books)

Ecce Homo - David Gascoyne

Whose is this horrifying face,
This putrid flesh, discouloured, flayed,
Fed on by flies, scorched by the sun?
Whose are these hollow red-filmed eyes
And thorn-spiked head and spear-stuck side?
Behold the Man: He is Man’s Son.

Forget the legend, tear the decent veil
That cowardice or interest devised
To make their mortal enemy a friend,
To hide the bitter truth all His wounds tell,
Lest the great scandal be no more disguised:
He is in agony till the world’s end,

And we must never sleep during that time!
He is suspended on the cross-tree now
And we are onlookers at the crime,

Callous contemporaries of the slow
Torture of God. Here is the hill
Made ghastly by His spattered blood

Whereon He hangs and suffers still:
See, the centurions wear riding-boots,
Black shirts and badges and peaked caps,
Greet one another with raised-arm salutes;
They have cold eyes, unsmiling lips;
Yet these His brothers know not what they do.

And on his either side hang dead
A labourer and a factory hand,
Or one is maybe a lynched Jew
And one a Negro or a Red,
Coolie or Ethiopian, Irishman,
Spaniard or German democrat.

Behind his lolling head the sky
Glares like a fiery cataract
Red with the murders of two thousand years
Committed in His name and by
Crusaders, Christian warriors
Defending faith and property.

Amid the plain beneath His transfixed hands,
Exuding darkness as indelible
As guilty stains, fanned by funereal
And lurid airs, besieged by drifting sands
And clefted landslides our about-to-be
Bombed and abandoned cities stand.

He who wept for Jersualem
Now sees His prophecy extend
Across the greatest cities of the world,
A guilty panic reason cannot stem
Rising to raze them all as He foretold;
Across the greatest cities of the world,
A guilty panic reason cannot stem,
Rising to raze them all as He foretold;
And He must watch this drama to the end.

Though often named, He is unknown
To the dark kingdoms at His feet
Where everything disparages His words,

And each man bears the common guilt alone
And goes blindfolded to his fate,
And fear and greed are sovereign lords.

The turning point of history
Must come. Yet the complacent and the proud
And who exploit and kill, may be denied–
Christ of Revolution and of Poetry-
The resurrection and the life
Wrought by your spirit’s blood.

Not from a monstrance silver-wrought
But from the tree of human pain
Redeem our sterile misery,
Christ of Revolution and of Poetry,
That man’s long journey
May not have been in vain.

— from Poems 1937-1942

Nov 8, 2009 3:01pm
The End is Near the Beginning
Yes you have said enough for the time being There will be plenty of lace later on Plenty of electric wool And you will forget the eglantine Growing around the edge of the green lake And if you forget the colour of my hands You will remember the wheels of the chair In which the wax figure resembling you sat Several men are standing on the pier Unloading the sea The device on the trolly says MOTHER’S MEAT Which means Until the end.
David Gascoyne

The End is Near the Beginning

Yes you have said enough for the time being
There will be plenty of lace later on
Plenty of electric wool
And you will forget the eglantine
Growing around the edge of the green lake
And if you forget the colour of my hands
You will remember the wheels of the chair
In which the wax figure resembling you sat

Several men are standing on the pier
Unloading the sea
The device on the trolly says MOTHER’S MEAT
Which means Until the end.

David Gascoyne

Nov 5, 2009 1:36am
Find­ing the names of birds here,of flow­ers, impor­tant, I say I mustknow them, name them,to be ableto call upon where their magicresides for me: in naming themmyself–to lay hold upon what­everquiv­ers inside the bird-​calls,the drip­pingof tail of wing–to know itinside my hand where powerof that sort lives& in my fin­gerswakes and becomesan act oflan­guage.
–Hilda Morley

Find­ing the names of birds here,
of flow­ers, impor­tant, I say I must
know them, name them,
to be able
to call upon where their magic
resides for me: in naming them
myself–to lay hold upon what­ever
quiv­ers inside the bird-​calls,
the drip­ping
of tail of wing–
to know it
inside my hand where power
of that sort lives
& in my fin­gers
wakes and becomes
an act of
lan­guage.

–Hilda Morley

Nov 4, 2009 5:22pm
C.K. Williams - Love: BeginningsThey’re at that stage where so much desire streams between them, so much frank need and want, so much absorption in the other and the self and the self-admiring entity and unity they make— her mouth so full, breast so lifted, head thrown back so far in her laughter at his laughter, he so solid, planted, oaky, firm, so resonantly factual in the headiness of being craved so, she almost wreathed upon him as they intertwine again, touch again, cheek, lip, shoulder, brow, every glance moving toward the sexual, every glance away soaring back in flame into the sexual— that just to watch them is to feel again that hitching in the groin, that filling of the heart, the old, sore heart, the battered, foundered, faithful heart, snorting again, stamping in its stall.

C.K. Williams - Love: Beginnings

They’re at that stage where so much desire streams between them, so much frank need and want,
so much absorption in the other and the self and the self-admiring entity and unity they make—
her mouth so full, breast so lifted, head thrown back so far in her laughter at his laughter,
he so solid, planted, oaky, firm, so resonantly factual in the headiness of being craved so,
she almost wreathed upon him as they intertwine again, touch again, cheek, lip, shoulder, brow,
every glance moving toward the sexual, every glance away soaring back in flame into the sexual—
that just to watch them is to feel again that hitching in the groin, that filling of the heart,
the old, sore heart, the battered, foundered, faithful heart, snorting again, stamping in its stall.

Nov 3, 2009 9:21pm
Infight among the Romantics (source):
“Writing to his publisher in 1820, Lord Byron declared: “No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.” 
For good measure, he described Keats’s work as “neither poetry nor anything else but a Bedlam vision produced by raw pork and opium”.
In turn, Byron got it in the neck from Percy Bysshe Shelley, who described his fellow poet’s work as “mischievous insanity”. Shelley blamed this on Byron’s taste for “disgusting” and “bigoted” Italian women who smelt “so strongly of garlic that an ordinary Englishman cannot approach them”.”
Keats didn’t comment - he was too busy dying…
Keats, d. 1821, at 26
Shelley, d. 1822, at 29
Byron, d. 1824, last man standing, at 36

Infight among the Romantics (source):

“Writing to his publisher in 1820, Lord Byron declared: “No more Keats, I entreat: flay him alive; if some of you don’t I must skin him myself: there is no bearing the drivelling idiotism of the Mankin.”

For good measure, he described Keats’s work as “neither poetry nor anything else but a Bedlam vision produced by raw pork and opium”.

In turn, Byron got it in the neck from Percy Bysshe Shelley, who described his fellow poet’s work as “mischievous insanity”. Shelley blamed this on Byron’s taste for “disgusting” and “bigoted” Italian women who smelt “so strongly of garlic that an ordinary Englishman cannot approach them”.”

Keats didn’t comment - he was too busy dying…

Keats, d. 1821, at 26

Shelley, d. 1822, at 29

Byron, d. 1824, last man standing, at 36

Oct 28, 2009 12:18am
Dylan Thomas: POEM IN OCTOBER It was my thirtieth year to heavenWoke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour woodAnd the mussel pooled and the heronPriested shoreThe morning beckonWith water praying and call of seagull and rookAnd the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wallMyself to set footThat secondIn the still sleeping town and set forth.My birthday began with the water-Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my nameAbove the farms and the white horsesAnd I roseIn a rainy autumnAnd walked abroad in shower of all my daysHigh tide and the heron dived when I took the roadOver the borderAnd the gatesOf the town closed as the town awoke.A springful of larks in a rollingCloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistlingBlackbirds and the sun of OctoberSummeryOn the hill’s shoulder,Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenlyCome in the morning where I wandered and listenedTo the rain wringingWind blow coldIn the wood faraway under me.Pale rain over the dwindling harbourAnd over the sea wet church the size of a snailWith its horns through mist and the castleBrown as owlsBut all the gardensOf spring and summer were blooming in the tall talesBeyond the border and under the lark full cloud.There could I marvelMy birthdayAway but the weather turned around.It turned away from the blithe countryAnd down the other air and the blue altered skyStreamed again a wonder of summerWith applesPears and red currantsAnd I saw in the turning so clearly a child’sForgotten mornings when he walked with his motherThrough the parablesOf sunlightAnd the legends of the green chapelsAnd the twice told fields of infancyThat his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.These were the woods the river and the seaWhere a boyIn the listeningSummertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joyTo the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.And the mysterySang aliveStill in the water and singing birds.And there could I marvel my birthdayAway but the weather turned around. And the trueJoy of the long dead child sang burningIn the sun.It was my thirtiethYear to heaven stood there then in the summer noonThough the town below lay leaved with October blood.O may my heart’s truthStill be sungOn this high hill in a year’s turning.***************
Croquet on the cliffside lawn at Pennard, Gower when Dylan and Caitlin Thomas were visiting Vernon Watkins in 1937. Photo by Watkins….

Dylan Thomas: POEM IN OCTOBER

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron
Priested shore
The morning beckon
With water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the webbed wall
Myself to set foot
That second
In the still sleeping town and set forth.

My birthday began with the water-
Birds and the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose
In a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived when I took the road
Over the border
And the gates
Of the town closed as the town awoke.

A springful of larks in a rolling
Cloud and the roadside bushes brimming with whistling
Blackbirds and the sun of October
Summery
On the hill’s shoulder,
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning where I wandered and listened
To the rain wringing
Wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me.

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle
Brown as owls
But all the gardens
Of spring and summer were blooming in the tall tales
Beyond the border and under the lark full cloud.
There could I marvel
My birthday
Away but the weather turned around.

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples
Pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning so clearly a child’s
Forgotten mornings when he walked with his mother
Through the parables
Of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks and his heart moved in mine.
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy
In the listening
Summertime of the dead whispered the truth of his joy
To the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide.
And the mystery
Sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds.

And there could I marvel my birthday
Away but the weather turned around. And the true
Joy of the long dead child sang burning
In the sun.
It was my thirtieth
Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood.
O may my heart’s truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year’s turning.

***************

Croquet on the cliffside lawn at Pennard, Gower when Dylan and Caitlin Thomas were visiting Vernon Watkins in 1937. Photo by Watkins….

Oct 27, 2009 11:37pm
Sylvia Plath - ElmFor Ruth Fainlight I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root: It is what you fear. I do not fear it: I have been there.Is it the sea you hear in me,Its dissatisfactions? Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness? Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after itListen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse. All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously, Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,Echoing, echoing. Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons? This is rain now, this big hush. And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.Scorched to the root My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires. Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs. A wind of such violence Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek. The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me Cruelly, being barren. Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her. I let her go. I let her go Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery. How your bad dreams possess and endow me. I am inhabited by a cry. Nightly it flaps out Looking, with its hooks, for something to love. I am terrified by this dark thing That sleeps in me; All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? I am incapable of more knowledge.What is this, this face So murderous in its strangle of branches? - Its snaky acids hiss.It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faultsThat kill, that kill, that kill.

Sylvia Plath - Elm

For Ruth Fainlight

I know the bottom, she says. I know it with my great tap root:
It is what you fear.
I do not fear it: I have been there.

Is it the sea you hear in me,
Its dissatisfactions?
Or the voice of nothing, that was your madness?

Love is a shadow.
How you lie and cry after it
Listen: these are its hooves: it has gone off, like a horse.

All night I shall gallop thus, impetuously,
Till your head is a stone, your pillow a little turf,
Echoing, echoing.

Or shall I bring you the sound of poisons?
This is rain now, this big hush.
And this is the fruit of it: tin-white, like arsenic.

I have suffered the atrocity of sunsets.
Scorched to the root
My red filaments burn and stand, a hand of wires.

Now I break up in pieces that fly about like clubs.
A wind of such violence
Will tolerate no bystanding: I must shriek.

The moon, also, is merciless: she would drag me
Cruelly, being barren.
Her radiance scathes me. Or perhaps I have caught her.

I let her go. I let her go
Diminished and flat, as after radical surgery.
How your bad dreams possess and endow me.

I am inhabited by a cry.
Nightly it flaps out
Looking, with its hooks, for something to love.

I am terrified by this dark thing
That sleeps in me;
All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity.

Clouds pass and disperse.
Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables?
Is it for such I agitate my heart?

I am incapable of more knowledge.
What is this, this face
So murderous in its strangle of branches? -

Its snaky acids hiss.
It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults
That kill, that kill, that kill.

Oct 25, 2009 2:17am
John Berryman: Dream Song 26
The glories of the world struck me, made me aria, once.—What happen then, Mr Bones?if be you cares to say.—Henry.  Henry became interested in women’s bodies,his loins were & were the    scene of stupendous achievement.Stupor. Knees, dear. Pray.All the knobs & softness of, my god,the ducking & trouble it swarm on Henry,at one time.—What happen then, Mr Bones?you seems excited-like.—Fell Henry back into   the original crime: art, rimebesides a sense of others, my God, my god,and a jealousy for the honour (alive) of his country,what can get more odd?and discontent with the thriving gangs & pride.—What happen then, Mr Bones?—I had a most marvelous   piece of luck. I died.

John Berryman: Dream Song 26


The glories of the world struck me, made me aria, once.
—What happen then, Mr Bones?
if be you cares to say.
—Henry.  Henry became interested in women’s bodies,
his loins were & were the    scene of stupendous achievement.
Stupor. Knees, dear. Pray.

All the knobs & softness of, my god,
the ducking & trouble it swarm on Henry,
at one time.
—What happen then, Mr Bones?
you seems excited-like.
—Fell Henry back into   the original crime: art, rime

besides a sense of others, my God, my god,
and a jealousy for the honour (alive) of his country,
what can get more odd?
and discontent with the thriving gangs & pride.
—What happen then, Mr Bones?
—I had a most marvelous   piece of luck. I died.

Oct 24, 2009 5:22pm
One of Denise Levertov’s many beautiful book jackets…
See also, Lumpy Pudding - 1, 2; Ordinary Finds - 1, 2

One of Denise Levertov’s many beautiful book jackets

See also, Lumpy Pudding - 1, 2; Ordinary Finds - 1, 2

Oct 24, 2009 5:15pm

Denise Levertov: That Dog of Art

That dog with daisies for eyes
who flashes forth
flame of his very self at every bark
is the Dog of Art.
Worked in wool, his blind eyes
look inward to caverns and jewels
which they see perfectly,
and his voice
measures forth the treasure
in music sharp and loud,
sharp and bright,
bright flaming barks,
and growling smoky soft, the Dog
of Art turns to the world
the quietness of his eyes.

Via the deniselevertov Tumblr…

Oct 22, 2009 11:21pm
On the Same Page by David BromigeWhere one of us at leastWould soonest not beAlone with the worldIts microbes & mafiasBut in a durableBubble not unlikeThat in a spirit levelBuilt of that luxury,Imagination, with its timeTo happen in uninterrupted byWhat any jerk remarks asReality the indisputableAid in putting othersDown. A poem,For instance, calledWhat It Means To MeIs going down your throatWholesale & piecemealBecause I believe, youMust understand, inOther minds. That was noPoem, merelyOne reaction to suchThreat? A poem,Such a bubble, bawble,Two of us namedYou & I breathe inFor a spell. HowHard it is , to forgiveBeing tricked. Thus laterWe will deny beingTaken in, having learnedNothing. DenyComplicity in our ownBamboozlement. DenyPicking up an infectiousNotion by an act ofWill. Deny & die.
Photo of David Bromige by Christopher Bromige, c. 1986

On the Same Page by David Bromige

Where one of us at least
Would soonest not be
Alone with the world
Its microbes & mafias
But in a durable
Bubble not unlike
That in a spirit level
Built of that luxury,
Imagination, with its time
To happen in uninterrupted by
What any jerk remarks as
Reality the indisputable

Aid in putting others
Down. A poem,
For instance, called
What It Means To Me
Is going down your throat
Wholesale & piecemeal
Because I believe, you
Must understand, in
Other minds. That was no
Poem, merely
One reaction to such
Threat? A poem,
Such a bubble, bawble,

Two of us named
You & I breathe in
For a spell. How
Hard it is , to forgive
Being tricked. Thus later
We will deny being
Taken in, having learned
Nothing. Deny
Complicity in our own
Bamboozlement. Deny
Picking up an infectious
Notion by an act of
Will. Deny & die.

Photo of David Bromige by Christopher Bromige, c. 1986

Oct 21, 2009 6:46pm
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry
Came loud—and hark, again ! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits
Abstruser musings : save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
‘Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,
This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;
Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
   But O ! how oft,

How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come !
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams !
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,
For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike !

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought !
My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,
And in far other scenes ! For I was reared
In the great city, pent ‘mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

The Frost performs its secret ministry,

Unhelped by any wind. The owlet’s cry

Came loud—and hark, again ! loud as before.

The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,

Have left me to that solitude, which suits

Abstruser musings : save that at my side

My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.

‘Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs

And vexes meditation with its strange

And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood,

This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood,

With all the numberless goings-on of life,

Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame

Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ;

Only that film, which fluttered on the grate,

Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.

Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature

Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,

Making it a companionable form,

Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit

By its own moods interprets, every where

Echo or mirror seeking of itself,

And makes a toy of Thought.

   But O ! how oft,

How oft, at school, with most believing mind,

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,

To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt

Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,

Whose bells, the poor man’s only music, rang

From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day,

So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me

With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear

Most like articulate sounds of things to come !

So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,

Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams !

And so I brooded all the following morn,

Awed by the stern preceptor’s face, mine eye

Fixed with mock study on my swimming book :

Save if the door half opened, and I snatched

A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up,

For still I hoped to see the stranger’s face,

Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,

My play-mate when we both were clothed alike !

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,

Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm,

Fill up the intersperséd vacancies

And momentary pauses of the thought !

My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart

With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,

And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,

And in far other scenes ! For I was reared

In the great city, pent ‘mid cloisters dim,

And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.

But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze

By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags

Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,

Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores

And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear

The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible

Of that eternal language, which thy God

Utters, who from eternity doth teach

Himself in all, and all things in himself.

Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould

Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee,

Whether the summer clothe the general earth

With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing

Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch

Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch

Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall

Heard only in the trances of the blast,

Or if the secret ministry of frost

Shall hang them up in silent icicles,

Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

Oct 20, 2009 11:05pm
Philip Whalen, Oct. 20, 1923 - 2002…

Philip Whalen, Oct. 20, 1923 - 2002…

Oct 20, 2009 7:56pm
Robert Pinsky: Ginza Samba
A monosyllabic European called SaxInvents a horn, walla whirledy wah, a kind of twistedBrazen clarinet, but with its column of vibratingAir shaped not in a cylinder but in a coneWidening ever outward and bawaah spoutingInfinitely upward through an upturnedSwollen golden bell rimmedLike a gloxinia floweringIn Sax’s Belgian imaginationAnd in the unfathomable matrixOf mothers and fathers as a genius gravenHumming into the cells of the bodyOr cupped in the resonating grailOf memory changed and exchangedAs in the trading of brasses,Pearls and ivory, calicos and slaves,Laborers and girls, twoCousins in a royal familyOf Niger known as the Birds or Hawks.In Christendom one cousin’s childBecomes a “favorite negro” ennobledBy decree of the Czar and foundsA great family, a line of generals,Dandies and courtiers including the poetPushkin, killed in a duel concerningHis wife’s honor, while the other cousin sailsIn the belly of a slaveship to the portOf Baltimore where she is rapedAnd dies in childbirth, but the infantWill marry a Seminole and in the nextChorus of time their child fathersA great Hawk or Bird, with many followersAmong them this great-grandchild of the JewishManager of a Pushkin estate, blowingHis American breath out into the wigglyTune uncurling its triplets and sixteenths—the GinzaSamba of breath and brass, the reedVibrating as a valve, the aether, the unimaginableWires and circuits of an ingenious boxHere in my room in this house builtA hundred years ago while I was elsewhere:It is like falling in love, the atavisticImperative of some oneVoice or face—the skill, the copper filament,The golden bellful of notes twirling throughTheir invisible element fromRio to Tokyo and back again gatheringSpeed in the variations as they tunnelThe twin haunted labyrinths of stirrupAnd anvil echoing here in the hearkeningInstrument of my skull.
- © Robert Pinsky.

Robert Pinsky: Ginza Samba

A monosyllabic European called Sax
Invents a horn, walla whirledy wah, a kind of twisted
Brazen clarinet, but with its column of vibrating
Air shaped not in a cylinder but in a cone
Widening ever outward and bawaah spouting
Infinitely upward through an upturned
Swollen golden bell rimmed
Like a gloxinia flowering
In Sax’s Belgian imagination

And in the unfathomable matrix
Of mothers and fathers as a genius graven
Humming into the cells of the body
Or cupped in the resonating grail
Of memory changed and exchanged
As in the trading of brasses,
Pearls and ivory, calicos and slaves,
Laborers and girls, two

Cousins in a royal family
Of Niger known as the Birds or Hawks.
In Christendom one cousin’s child
Becomes a “favorite negro” ennobled
By decree of the Czar and founds
A great family, a line of generals,
Dandies and courtiers including the poet
Pushkin, killed in a duel concerning
His wife’s honor, while the other cousin sails

In the belly of a slaveship to the port
Of Baltimore where she is raped
And dies in childbirth, but the infant
Will marry a Seminole and in the next
Chorus of time their child fathers
A great Hawk or Bird, with many followers
Among them this great-grandchild of the Jewish
Manager of a Pushkin estate, blowing

His American breath out into the wiggly
Tune uncurling its triplets and sixteenths—the Ginza
Samba of breath and brass, the reed
Vibrating as a valve, the aether, the unimaginable
Wires and circuits of an ingenious box
Here in my room in this house built
A hundred years ago while I was elsewhere:

It is like falling in love, the atavistic
Imperative of some one
Voice or face—the skill, the copper filament,
The golden bellful of notes twirling through
Their invisible element from
Rio to Tokyo and back again gathering
Speed in the variations as they tunnel
The twin haunted labyrinths of stirrup
And anvil echoing here in the hearkening
Instrument of my skull.

- © Robert Pinsky.

Oct 15, 2009 12:37pm
ANDRÉE REXROTH
Died October 1940
Now once more gray mottled buckeye branches Explode their emerald stars, And alders smoulder in a rosy smoke Of innumerable buds. I know that spring again is splendid As ever, the hidden thrush As sweetly tongued, the sun as vital — But these are the forest trails we walked together, These paths, ten years together. We thought the years would last forever, They are all gone now, the days We thought would not come for us are here. Bright trout poised in the current — The raccoon’s track at the water’s edge — A bittern booming in the distance — Your ashes scattered on this mountain — Moving seaward on this stream.
- Kenneth Rexroth
Image: Composition by Andree Rexroth

ANDRÉE REXROTH

Died October 1940

Now once more gray mottled buckeye branches
Explode their emerald stars,
And alders smoulder in a rosy smoke
Of innumerable buds.
I know that spring again is splendid
As ever, the hidden thrush
As sweetly tongued, the sun as vital —
But these are the forest trails we walked together,
These paths, ten years together.
We thought the years would last forever,
They are all gone now, the days
We thought would not come for us are here.
Bright trout poised in the current —
The raccoon’s track at the water’s edge —
A bittern booming in the distance —
Your ashes scattered on this mountain —
Moving seaward on this stream.

- Kenneth Rexroth

Image: Composition by Andree Rexroth

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