No Images -- William Waring Cuney

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1237) No Images She does not know Her beauty, She thinks her brown skin Has no glory. If she could dance Naked, Under palm trees And see her image in the river She would know. But there are no palm trees On the street, And dishwater gives back no images. -- William Waring Cuney

i first heard this poem on the album 'nina simone sings nina' - she
"sang" it without any instrumental accompaniment, her powerful and
distinctive voice bringing a poignancy to the lyrics. her song is
titled 'images.'

i don't know anything of waring cuney other than that he came out of
the harlem rennaissance. nina simone, however, i know a little more
about, and it was with some sadness that i read in the news that she
had passed away.

although nina simone is often referred to as a jazz and blues singer,
she is far too versatile to be squeezed into any category. in her raspy
(and undeniably sexy) voice she did definitive cover versions of some
very popular songs (she nearly moved me to tears with her rendition of
brel's 'ne me quitte pas').

nina simone was a powerful voice in the civil rights struggle, or as
she liked to say "for her people." she wrote and sang some of her best
songs in response to socio-political events in the 60s - 'mississipi
goddam', 'four women', and 'why?' (on the assassination of mlk jr.) to
name a few.

i think it's fair to say that nina was the last of the great black
divas.

vidur

Here's a biography:
  [broken link] http://www.dclibrary.org/blkren/bios/cuneyww.html

Peonies -- Mary Oliver

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1234) Peonies This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart as the sun rises, as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers and they open - pools of lace, white and pink - and all day the black ants climb over them, boring their deep and mysterious holes into the curls, craving the sweet sap, taking it away to their dark, underground cities - and all day under the shifty wind, as in a dance to the great wedding, the flowers bend their bright bodies, and tip their fragrance to the air, and rise, their red stems holding all that dampness and recklessness gladly and lightly, and there it is again - beauty the brave, the exemplary, blazing open. Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath? Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers, with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever? -- Mary Oliver

I'm a little behind on my minstrels reading, so I just got to the poem
by Louis Gluck that Alan sent in (Poem #1224). To borrow from his dead-on
comment, the truly wonderful nature poets "say something beyond description
while still keeping one's description exact".

I recently discovered Mary Oliver at a used book sale, and simply had to
send in one of her poems. A celebrated American poet, she won the Pulitzer
in '84. Some of the poems are exquisite.

'Peonies' is from the book 'New and Selected Poems', which earned her
the National Book Award for poetry. It is perhaps more representative
of her style and themes than 'Wild Geese' is, although the latter is
her most quoted poem (and I see was run on Minstrels some time ago).

I can't really speak for anyone else, but I do wish that I could be
'wild and perfect for a moment', even if I'm 'nothing forever' after.

best,
:v:

[Martin adds]

This is one of those rare poems that packs a little extra punch in both its
opening and its closing lines. Indeed, despite the poised beauty of "wild
and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing forever", I think my
favourite line in a lovely poem is "the green fists of the peonies are
getting ready to break my heart". Poignant, yet as Alan said and Vidur
concurred, an undeniably exact description.

Survivors -- Siegfried Sassoon

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1189) Survivors No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk. Of course they're 'longing to go out again,' These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk. They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died, Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride... Men who went out to battle, grim and glad; Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad. -- Siegfried Sassoon

so i can't get the impending war out of my head these days. so much so
that some nights i don't sleep too well. i don't think i've ever felt
this way before. a couple of months ago i read 'dear mr. president', a
collection of short stories by gabe hudson. it wasn't a great piece of
writing, but it was vivid and energetic in its description of
manifestations of the 'gulf war syndrome.'

i cannot even begin to fathom the trauma of war.

there are numerous poems on war, several superlative ones written at
the time of the great wars by the likes of auden, sassoon, owen, and
others. 'survivors' is one such poem. i particularly like the way in
which it opens with a dispassionate tone - very nonchalant - then toys
with irony, and finally strikes with chilling contempt for the
advocates of war.

what a shame that history has taught us nothing - not even when her
lessons are passed down with such eloquence.

:vb:

Hope -- Edith Sodergran

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1122) Hope I want to let go - so I don't give a damn about fine writing, I'm rolling my sleeves up. The dough's rising... Oh what a shame I can't bake cathedrals... that sublimity of style I've always yearned for... Child of our time - haven't you found the right shell for your soul? Before I die I *shall* bake a cathedral. -- Edith Sodergran

isn't this a great little poem? i think you can almost *feel* the range of
emotions sodergran expresses, emotions anyone who has pursued an elusive
dream can identify with. you want to just give it all up, your every effort
is frustrated, you're almost there... if you could only...  - and you feel
all of this at the same time!

i think all of us need a little hope in our lives. even if it's "false".

someday, i shall bake a cathedral...

-v

editing notes: the *'s around 'shall' in the last line are only there
because i couldn't reproduce the italics. but the ellipses are actually
in the verse. i have to wonder whether the original nordic verse had
them. i don't like them or their placement much, but after thinking
about it, perhaps they do work to visually reinforce the notion of
'hope'.

about the poet: edith sodergran was a swedish poet, who wrote in the
early 1900's.

The Pumpkin -- John Greenleaf Whittier

U.S. Thanksgiving Day guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #1119) The Pumpkin Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun, The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold, Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew, While he waited to know that his warning was true, And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold; Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North, On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth, Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, And the sun of September melts down on his vines. Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West, >From North and from South come the pilgrim and guest, When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board The old broken links of affection restored, When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more, And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before, What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye? What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling! When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin, Glaring out through the dark with a candle within! When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, Our chair a broad pumpkin,--our lantern the moon, Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam, In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter! Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine! And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky Golden-tinted and fair as thy own pumpkin pie! -- John Greenleaf Whittier

thanksgiving is here. quite a big deal for those of us in the united states.
what i love about this holiday, even more than having a 4-day weekend, even
more than getting together with friends and family, is pumpkin pie!

no, really. i mean, why bother with the almost-tasteless turkey and mashed
potatoes. why not just go straight to the pie?!

in fact, i think pumpkin pie is the best thing to come out of america.
seriously. i thought long and hard, and couldn't come up with any other
truly american thing that's even close. pumpkin cheesecake, maybe. but that
still comes second.

so here's a poem that is an ode to *the* pie, written by a 19th century
american poet, john greenleaf whittier. (well, it's obviously much more than
an ode, but it works well as one). i rather like the way the poem traces the
life of a pumpkin from the vine to the oven, touching upon universal themes
of childhood, love and family.

"and the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express,
swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less"

amen.

V-

Love in a Bathtub -- Sujata Bhatt

Guest poem sent in by Vidur

(Poem #843) Love in a Bathtub Years later we'll remember the bathtub the position of the taps the water, slippery as if a bucketful of eels had joined us ... we'll be old, our children grown up but we'll remember the water sloshing out the useless soap, the mountain of wet towels. 'Remember the bathtub in Belfast?' we'll prod each other - -- Sujata Bhatt

alright, so you never ran my submission of that wonderful wonderful
kamala das poem 'the looking glass'. [we did, actually - poem #804 -m.]

but i do feel indian women poets besides eunice (whose work i've
enjoyed ever since i studied under her) deserve better representation
on this list. so here's a delightful little poem by sujata bhatt.

ok, so sujata bhatt doesn't really belong to this genre: but she is of
indian origin and a lot of her work is influenced thus. there's little
comment i have to offer for this poem. i just love the way in which it
captures the essence of growing old together. two people who've shared
their lives, know each other so well and who can enjoy one another
through intimate moments like this from their past. private moments
that are theirs and theirs alone to treasure: 'remember the bathtub in
belfast?'

-vidur

Links:

  A biography and an interview with Bhatt:
    [broken link] http://www.carcanet.co.uk/authors/b/bhatt.html

The Looking Glass -- Kamala Das

Guest poem submitted by Vidur:

(Poem #804) The Looking Glass Getting a man to love you is easy Only be honest about your wants as Woman. Stand nude before the glass with him So that he sees himself the stronger one And believes it so, and you so much more Softer, younger, lovelier. Admit your Admiration. Notice the perfection Of his limbs, his eyes reddening under The shower, the shy walk across the bathroom floor, Dropping towels, and the jerky way he Urinates. All the fond details that make Him male and your only man. Gift him all, Gift him what makes you woman, the scent of Long hair, the musk of sweat between the breasts, The warm shock of menstrual blood, and all your Endless female hungers. Oh yes, getting A man to love is easy, but living Without him afterwards may have to be Faced. A living without life when you move Around, meeting strangers, with your eyes that Gave up their search, with ears that hear only His last voice calling out your name and your Body which once under his touch had gleamed Like burnished brass, now drab and destitute. -- Kamala Das

I noticed that you've run a couple of poems by Eunice De Souza but none by
the other excellent contemporary Indian woman poet, Kamala Das. This is by
far my favourite Kamala Das poem. I'm not terribly good with analyses, but
I'll try to express what I like about the poem.

Kamala Das, like all good poets, displays excellent control over her words.
There's a quiet strength in her verse. And unabashed candour. For instance,
I like the way in which she describes human (male) quirks as defining
intimacy in a relationship. Even though on the surface the poem appears to
encourage submissiveness, it's really about being in control (even with the
melancholic end). This underlying message comes through clearly in the lines
"... so that he sees himself the stronger one / And believes it so" (i.e.,
let him believe what pleases him) and "Gift him ... all your / Endless
female hungers" (the paradox in "gift" and "your hungers" is particularly
good: satisfy *your* needs, it says, and use the essence of being a woman to
do so).

A brief bio of the poet can be found here:
http://www.emory.edu/ENGLISH/Bahri/Das.html

Vidur.

[Minstrels Links]

Other contemporary Indian poets writing in English include

Eunice de Souza:
Poem #603, "Marriages are Made
Poem #682, "Advice to Women

A. K. Ramanujan:
Poem #382, "A River"
Poem #434, "Extended Family"

Nissim Ezekiel:
Poem #516, "The Patriot"
Poem #579, "The Professor"
Poem #714, "Night of the Scorpion"

Vikram Seth:
Poem #650, "All You Who Sleep Tonight"
Poem #754, "Protocols"
Poem #460, "Round and Round"

V.B. Nimble, V.B. Quick -- John Updike

Straying slightly off the theme, Vidur suggested this
delightful poem about scientists:

(Poem #798) V.B. Nimble, V.B. Quick V.B. Wigglesworth wakes at noon, Washes, shaves and very soon Is at the lab; he reads his mail, Swings a tadpole by the tail, Undoes his coat, removes his hat, Dips a spider in a vat Of alkaline, phones the press, Tells them he is F.R.S., Subdivides six protocells, Kills a rat by ringing bells, Writes a treatise, edits two Symposia on "Will man do?," Gives a lecture, audits three, Has the sperm club in for tea, Pensions off an ageing spore, Cracks a test tube, takes some pure Science and applies it, finds, His hat, adjusts it, pulls the blinds, Instructs the jellyfish to spawn, And, by one o'clock, is gone. -- John Updike

Note:
  The title is, of course, a reference to the old nursery rhyme
     Jack be nimble,
     Jack be quick,
     Jack jump over the candlestick.

  FRS: Fellow of the Royal Society - see http://www.royalsoc.ac.uk/

I know we've just run an Updike poem, but this hilarious commentary on the
nature of Science and the Scientist was too good to pass up. Reminiscent of
Cummings' "busy monster manunkind", Updike's portrayal of the energetically
officious scientist is, underneath its humour, a critical look at the
coldbloodedness of science. Notice how most of the experiments described
are, shall we say, detrimental to the continued well-being of their subjects
- the spider, the rat, the aging spore, and even the testtube are casually
discarded in the name of Science.

However, that is a secondary message - the main purpose of the poem, and one
in which it succeeds admirably, is to be funny. The deft caricature of a
scientist's daily routine, the smattering of academic words (not quite
'jargon', but it fulfils much the same purpose), and the sly hints of
self-reference, like the symposia on "Will Man Do?" and the ancient spore
that was 'pensioned off' add up to a delightfully amusing and entertaining
poem. I particularly liked the line "takes some pure/ science and applies
it" - a perfect, nail-on-the-head sort of phrase that made me laugh out
loud.

Other points of note are the pattering metre, which carry the poem along at
a quick but measured pace, and the surprise ending, which was both perfectly
timed and altogether unanticipated.

Biography:

  A chronological biography, complete with pictures, can be found at
  [broken link] http://www.ctel.net/~joyerkes/Item2.html

Links:

  The Updike website:
    [broken link] http://www.ctel.net/~joyerkes/

  The science poems by scientists theme
    Poem #795 Harold P. Furth, 'The Perils of Modern Living'
    Poem #797 Lewis F. Richardson, 'Big Whorls Have Little Whorls'

  Cummings' "pity this busy monster, manunkind", poem #57

  And the previous Updike poems we've run
    Poem #538: 'Back from Vacation'
    Poem #788: 'I Missed His Book, But I Read His Name'

-martin

Protocols -- Vikram Seth

Guest poem submitted by Vidur:

(Poem #754) Protocols What can I say to you? How can I retract All that that fool, my voice, has spoken_ Now that the facts are plain, the placid surface cracked, The protocols of friendship broken? I cannot walk by day as now I walk at dawn Past the still house where you lie sleeping. May the sun burn these footprints on the lawn And hold you in its warmth and keeping. -- Vikram Seth

Vikram Seth needs no introduction. Although he is better known for a certain
volumnious book that fetched him fame and fortune, I find his verse far
better than any of his prose. This poem is from his collection "All You Who
Sleep Tonight", the title poem of which was on this list some time ago.

What I like about the poem is the simple, elegant form, its ability to
convey volumes of emotion with economy of verse and of course, the all too
familiar experience it talks about.

Vidur.

[Minstrels Links]

Poems by Vikram Seth:
Poem #460, "Round and Round"
Poem #650, "All You Who Sleep Tonight"

Vikram Seth is also known for his interpretations of Chinese poets such as
Li Po, Tu Fu and Wang Wei. The former has featured on the Minstrels before:
Poem #504, "About Tu Fu"
Poem #749, "Parting"
Poem #683, "To Tu Fu from Shantung"
Poem #70, "The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter"
(The first three above are translated by Sam Hamill; the fourth by Ezra
Pound).

And finally, other contemporary Indian poets writing in English to have
featured on the Minstrels include Eunice de Souza:
Poem #682, "Advice to Women"
Poem #603, "Marriages are Made"
and Nissim Ezekiel:
Poem #714, "Night of the Scorpion"
Poem #364, "The Patriot"
Poem #579, "The Professor"