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Showing posts with label Submitted by: Nisha Susan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Submitted by: Nisha Susan. Show all posts

The Dover Bitch -- Anthony Hecht

Guest poem sent in by Nisha Susan
(Poem #1930) The Dover Bitch
 So there stood Matthew Arnold and this girl
 With the cliffs of England crumbling away behind them,
 And he said to her, 'Try to be true to me,
 And I'll do the same for you, for things are bad
 All over, etc., etc.'
 Well now, I knew this girl. It's true she had read
 Sophocles in a fairly good translation
 And caught that bitter allusion to the sea,
 But all the time he was talking she had in mind
 The notion of what his whiskers would feel like
 On the back of her neck. She told me later on
 That after a while she got to looking out
 At the lights across the channel, and really felt sad,
 Thinking of all the wine and enormous beds
 And blandishments in French and the perfumes.
 And then she got really angry. To have been brought
 All the way down from London , and then be addressed
 As a sort of mournful cosmic last resort
 Is really tough on a girl, and she was pretty.
 Anyway, she watched him pace the room
 And finger his watch-chain and seem to sweat a bit,
 And then she said one or two unprintable things.
 But you mustn't judge her by that. What I mean to say is,
 She's really all right. I still see her once in a while
 And she always treats me right. We have a drink
 And I give her a good time, and perhaps it's a year
 Before I see her again, but there she is,
 Running to fat, but dependable as they come.
 And sometimes I bring her a bottle of Nuit d' Amour.
-- Anthony Hecht
Having recently discovered Anthony Hecht I am alternating between postures
of extreme surprise at others who have not read him and indignation at those
who have and not told me that he exists.

This particular poem is such a satisfying parody with its wide-eyed Holden
Caulfield taunts at Mathew Arnold and mock-earnestness. Hecht has also
written hilarious imitations of Horace's odes as if Horace was a
lotus-eating New Yorker who wrote for Vogue. Hecht's poems do that tricky
dance of being full of literary, even classical allusion and yet being very
accessible and fun. Perepateia for instance is a poem for anyone who likes
to go to the theatre. And the toothsome beauty of the poem is evident even
when one has no clue who ... is.

For the critics of course Anthony Hecht is an important poet because he
wrote about the Holocaust and war.

Nisha

[Links]

We've run Matthew Arnold's "Dover Beach":
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/89.html

A well-written obit:
  http://www.breakoutofthebox.com/AnthonyHecht.htm

Biographical details
  http://www.english.uiuc.edu/maps/poets/g_l/hecht/life.htm

The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one -- June Jordan

Guest poem submitted by Nisha Susan:
(Poem #1724) The Talking Back of Miss Valentine Jones: Poem # one
 well I wanted to braid my hair
 bathe and bedeck my
 self so fine
 so fully aforethought for
 your pleasure
 see:
 I wanted to travel and read
 and runaround fantastic
 into war and peace:
 I wanted to
 surf
 dive
 fly
 climb
 conquer
 and be conquered
 THEN
 I wanted to pickup the phone
 and find you asking me
 if I might possibly be alone
 some night
 (so I could answer cool
 as the jewels I would wear
 on bareskin for you
 digmedaddy delectation:)
 "WHEN
 you comin ova?"
 But I had to remember to write down
 margarine on the list
 and shoepolish and a can of
 sliced pineapple in casea company
 and a quarta skim milk cause Teresa's
 gaining weight and don' nobody groove on
 that much
 girl
 and next I hadta sort for darks and lights before
 the laundry hit the water which I had
 to kinda keep an eye on be-
 cause if the big hose jumps the sink again that
 Mrs. Thompson gointa come upstairs
 and brain me with a mop don' smell too
 nice even though she hang
 it headfirst out the winda
 and I had to check
 on William like to
 burn hisself to death with fever
 boy so thin be
 callin all day "Momma! Sing to me?"
 "Ma! Am I gone die?" and me not
 wake enough to sit beside him longer than
 to wipeaway the sweat or change the sheets/
 his shirt and feed him orange
 juice before I fall out of sleep and
 Sweet My Jesus ain but one can
 left
 and we not thru the afternoon
 and now
 you (temporarily) shownup with a thing
 you says' a poem and you
 call it
 "Will The Real Miss Black America Standup?"

                       guilty po' mouth
                       about duty beauties of my
                       headrag
                       boozeup doozies about
                       never mind
                       cause love is blind

 well
 I can't use it

 and the very next bodacious Blackman
 call me queen
 because my life ain shit
 because (in any case) he ain been here to share it
 with me
 (dish for dish and do for do and
 dream for dream)
 I'm gone scream him out my house
 be-
 cause what I wanted was
 to braid my hair/bathe and bedeck my
 self so fully be-
 cause what I wanted was
 your love
 not pity
 be-
 cause what I wanted was
 your love
 your love
-- June Jordan
Here's a poem which does not fit into the current theme but I send it
because it is a pure unalloyed delight. It was my first June Jordan poem and
now I am scouring the countryside for more.

Alice Walker called her the universal poet. But more exciting is the
description of the unnamed copywriter on the Random House site, "There
aren't any streets or postal holidays named for June Jordan, but she's
cherished by and collaborated with her own share of landmarks: she has
planned a new Harlem with R. Buckminster Fuller, sipped coffee with Malcolm
X, gotten teaching advice from Toni Cade Bambara, co-starred in a film with
Angela Davis, and written an opera with John Adams and Peter Sellars. But no
June Jordan Day. Yet."

More poems at:
http://www.randomhouse.com/boldtype/1197/jordan/

More on June:
http://www.junejordan.com/
http://www.poetryforthepeople.com/
[broken link] http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=66

Nisha.

Why so Pale and Wan? -- John Suckling

Guest poem submitted by Nisha Susan:
(Poem #1687) Why so Pale and Wan?
 Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
        Prithee, why so pale?
 Will, when looking well can't move her,
        Looking ill prevail?
        Prithee, why so pale?

 Why so dull and mute, young sinner?
        Prithee, why so mute?
 Will, when speaking well can't win her,
        Saying nothing do 't?
        Prithee, why so mute?

 Quit, quit for shame! This will not move;
        This cannot take her.
 If of herself she will not love,
        Nothing can make her:
        The devil take her!
-- John Suckling
I thought I would add my bit to the poems-one-has-been-moved-to-memorize
theme. Great theme by the way.

This poem is great fun and just terribly useful which is not something one
can say about many poems. This poem is as good as a spanner in the house. If
it cannot make a friend in the romantic doldrums laugh, the friend is
currently beyond redemption.

Suckling is one  of the Cavalier poets, the poets of the court of Charles I.
His writing is marked for its witty but ultra-casual style. This lyric poem
is from his play Aglaura which had two endings (one tragic and one happy)
but didn't quite make it in the box office. There has been much speculation
about whether Suckling was someone who wrote in semi-serious vein to hide
his sharp, social insights and rejection of ritual or someone who was never
serious about the craft of writing.

More about the good man:
  http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/suckling/

Nisha.

To Mrs. Professor in Defense of My Cat's Honor and Not Only -- Czeslaw Milosz

Guest poem submitted by Nisha Susan:
(Poem #1598) To Mrs. Professor in Defense of My Cat's Honor and Not Only
 My valiant helper, a small-sized tiger
 Sleeps sweetly on my desk, by the computer,
 Unaware that you insult his tribe.

 Cats play with a mouse or a half-dead mole.
 You are wrong, though: it's not out of cruelty.
 They simply like a thing that moves.

 For, after all, we know that only consciousness
 Can for a moment move into the Other,
 Empathize with the pain and panic of a mouse.

 And such as cats are, all of Nature is.
 Indifferent, alas, to the good and the evil.
 Quite a problem for us, I am afraid.

 Natural history has its museums,
 But why should our children learn about monsters,
 An earth of snakes and reptiles for millions of years?

 Nature devouring, nature devoured,
 Butchery day and night smoking with blood.
 And who created it?  Was it the good Lord?

 Yes, undoubtedly, they are innocent,
 Spiders, mantises, sharks, pythons.
 We are the only ones who say: cruelty.

 Our consciousness and our conscience
 Alone in the pale anthill of galaxies
 Put their hope in a humane God.

 Who cannot but feel and think,
 Who is kindred to us by warmth and movement,
 For we are, as he told us, similar to Him.

 Yet if it is so, then He takes pity
 On every mouse, on every wounded bird,
 Then the universe for him is like a Crucifixion.

 Such is the outcome of your attack on the cat:
 A theological, Augustinian grimace,
 Which makes difficult our walking on this earth.
-- Czeslaw Milosz
I found an anthology called "The Poetical Cat" recently and peeped in with
quite a bit of suspicion. It might have turned out to be one of those mulchy
last-minute-gift collections. But happily, it was a set of witty and
unfamiliar cat poems from across the world. And it had this lovely Milosz.

It is easy to be a Milosz fan. You can approach any one of his poems weighed
down by angsty questions of "What goes by the name of poetry in this
millenium? What is the role of poetry? Have the criteria for great poetry
changed? Is greatness itself unfashionable?". Then the intelligence, heart
and elegance of Milosz's poems make great writing tangible again. And this
is despite my gratitude for being born in an age when there is the
cleverness of Wendy Cope or the madness of  Ondaatje's Elimination Dance.

In this poem Milosz takes the tiresome squabble between cat people and
non-cat people and actually uses it to critique Christian morality. And this
elevated argument is woven with such grace that it is embarrassing to think
of the mechanics of writing. You are forced to think that this poem was
born, like mangoes were born.

My favourite thing about Milosz is that every poem has a big, robust, fully
flowered idea holding it together. This is of course obvious in classics
like "Ars Poetica" [1]. He is unafraid of taking a stand and equally
unafraid of being in two minds about the Big Questions. In "A Poem For the
End of the Century" [2] he angrily condemns our ability to forget suffering
in pursuit of the feel good factor. In "Conversation with Jeanne" [3] he
does a neat volte face and argues in favour of the beauty of the moment. His
craft is so extraordinary that the poems in conjunction only comfort all of
us who swing from righteous indignation to happy amnesia.

Here is a nice bio of the Nobel Prize winner:
 [broken link] http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/milosz/bio.html

And lots of poems:
http://wings.buffalo.edu/info-poland/web/arts_culture/literature/poetry/milo
sz/poems/link.shtml

Nisha Susan.

[1] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1545.html
[2] [broken link] http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/milosz/mil2.html
[3] [broken link] http://www.ibiblio.org/ipa/milosz/mil1.html