The Consecration Of Coffee -- Rafael Jesús González

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:

(Poem #1074) The Consecration Of Coffee to Archbishop Oscar A. Romero One day of god drinking coffee in my patio nothing is normal-- not the calla with its penis of gold nor the iris like purple lava a volcano spills. I find in the depths of the cup chasubles embroidered with black moths & red stains-- the sun fires a scintillation of silver bullets & of candles drowned-- there is blood in its shine. I place the cup on its saucer with a most tender care as if it were a chalice & say the litany: Guatemala Nicaragua El Salvador & one side of my heart tastes white & sweet like cane sugar & the other, like coffee, bitter & black. -- Rafael Jesús González

1999.

I rather like this man's vivid brush and rich sense of color. Extremely
rich, kind of like a visual version of Colombian coffee.

Wonderfully evocative - the beauty of South America hiding blood and
violence.  Black moths and red stains to remind you of bullet holes and
splashes of blood from all the people shot in long years of guerilla
warfare, coups and counter coups.

Yes, a lot like a perfect blend of cane sugar and coffee, as the man says.

Suresh.

[Biography]

   Rafael Jesús González

   was born in El Paso, Texas, attended the University of Texas at El
   Paso, Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México, & the University of
   Oregon. Professor of Creative Writing & Literature, he taught at the
   University of Oregon, Western State University of Colorado, Central
   Washington State University, the University of Texas at El Paso, and
   for thirty years at Laney College. His poetry and scholarly articles
   are widely published in reviews & anthologies in the U.S., Mexico &
   abroad; his collection of verse El Hacedor De Juegos / The Maker of
   Games published by Casa Editorial, San Francisco, went into a second
   printing. Also a visual artist, his work has been exhibited at the
   Oakland Museum; the Mexican Museum of San Francisco; & others in the
   U.S., Mexico, and abroad. He was Poet in Residence at the Oakland
   Museum of California and the Oakland Public Library under the Poets &
   Writers "Writers on Site Program" in 1996.

        -- http://www.think-ink.net/rafael/index.htm

The Red Cockatoo -- Po Chü-i

Thanks to John Vinson for introducing me to today's poem

(Poem #1073) The Red Cockatoo Sent as a present from Annam A red cockatoo. Coloured like the peach-tree blossom, Speaking with the speech of men. And they did to it what is always done To the learned and eloquent. They took a cage with stout bars And shut it up inside. -- Po Chü-i

        (Translated by Arthur Waley)

Today's poginant and beautiful poem lends itself to a number of
interpretations. There is, first of all, the surface meaning, a lament for a
bird cruelly caged for no crime other than that of being pleasing - and,
while simplistic, this is a very valid reading of the poem. To call the bird
a metaphor and plunge instantly through it and into the deeper layers of the
poem is to miss a great part of its beauty, for there is a definite pathos
inherent in a caged bird, and Po Chü-i has delineated that pathos simply and
elegantly.

However, the bird *is*, of course, a metaphor, and not a particularly
subtle one at that - indeed, the poem makes the comparison explicit with
"what is always done/ to the learned and eloquent". I am unsure whether the
bars the poet refer to are political, societal or personal (or, indeed, to
the effective cage of Po Chü-i’s own paralysis), but the point is that it
doesn't matter - the situation is universal enough that most readers will
find something to identify with[1].

Apart from the imagery, I like this poem for its elegant minimalism, and for
the contrastive balance of ornamentation and starkness. The delicate
portrayal of the bird 'coloured like the peach tree blossom' provides an
effective contrast to the blunt, almost unpoetic "They took a cage with
stout bars/ And shut it up inside." There is also the indefinable but
palpable feel of a translated poem[2], marking Waley's success in capturing
both the poem's universal message and its Chinese origin.

[1] The following quote is nicely illustrative of the point:
      Arthur Waley sent Russell the translation of a Chinese poem, which he
      had not published. Russell quotes it in his autobiography to convey
      his feelings at the time. [...] The poem speaks of the thoughtless
      cruelty of imprisoning pacifists.
        -- [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/vu3ash/index.htm3.htm

[2] Nick Grundy expressed a similar view when referring to Nabokov's
    translation of Pushkin:
      The obvious advantage those translating from their native tongue have
      is that they can retain the feel of the original - there's something
      peculiarly Russian about this
        -- http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/760.html

    It is interesting to see how people translating from an acquired language
    manage to capture the oft-elusive *feel* of that language and its
associated
    culture. Perhaps some Chinese speaker could comment further on today's
poem.

-martin

  A biography and selection of Po Chü-i's poems:
    http://www.humanistictexts.org/po_chu_i.htm

  An excellent piece on Waley:
    Arthur Waley selected the jewels of Chinese and Japanese literature and
    pinned them quietly to his chest. No one has ever done anything like it
    before, and no one will ever do so again.

    There are now many Westerners whose knowledge of Chinese or Japanese is
    greater than his, and there are perhaps a few who can handle both
    languages as well. But they are not poets, and those who are better
    poets than Waley do not know Chinese or Japanese. Also the shock will
    never be repeated, for most of the works that Waley chose to translate
    were largely unknown in the West, and their impact was thus all the more
    extraordinary.

    Full piece at [broken link] http://www.renditions.org/renditions/sps/s_5.html

  The history of Annam:
    http://www.bartleby.com/65/an/Annam.html

next to of course god america i -- e e cummings

Guest poem submitted by Vivian:

(Poem #1072) next to of course god america i "next to of course god america i love you land of the pilgrims' and so forth oh say can you see by the dawn's early my country 'tis of centuries come and go and are no more what of it we should worry in every language even deafanddumb thy sons acclaim your glorious name by gorry by jingo by gee by gosh by gum why talk of beauty what could be more beaut- iful than these heroic happy dead who rushed like lions to the roaring slaughter they did not stop to think they died instead then shall the voice of liberty be mute?" He spoke. And drank rapidly a glass of water -- e e cummings

Here's one for the Fourth of July [1]. This poem speaks for itself and to us
(or at least to me) now and further comment is perhaps unnecessary. It's
amazing how some things never change -- or maybe life imitates art. Note the
rhymes (especially "beaut"/"mute"!) and that he is playing with sonnets
here.

Vivian.

[1] Sorry, we're late as usual - ed.

Coffee In Heaven -- John Agard

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1071) Coffee In Heaven You'll be greeted by a nice cup of coffee when you get to heaven and strains of angelic harmony. But wouldn't you be devastated if they only serve decaffeinated while from the percolators of hell your soul was assaulted by Satan's fresh espresso smell? -- John Agard

I love coffee and hence I had to check out a poem with a title that read
'Coffee in Heaven'. I love the contrast between a sterile, decaffeinated,
virtuous heaven and a strong espresso hell.

Zen.

Wires -- Philip Larkin

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #1070) Wires The widest prairies have electric fences, For though old cattle know they must not stray Young steers are always scenting purer water Not here but anywhere. Beyond the wires Leads them to blunder up against the wires Whose muscles-shredding violence gives no quarter. Young steers become old cattle from that day, Electric limits to their widest senses. -- Philip Larkin

Have we run Larkin's Wires? It's the antithesis of Lindsay's poem or more
precisely, perhaps, its explanation. I suppose it's the common bovine
imagery that's making me imagine a link, but Larkin's poem can be seen as an
explanation of how the young that Lindsay sorrows for end up this way. It
is, of course, characteristic that Larkin takes the pessimistic view, while
Lindsay offers, if not exactly optimism, a plea to think that way.

Vikram.

[Minstrels Links]

The Lindsay poem Vikram is referring to is
Poem #1069, "The Leaden-Eyed" -- Vachel Lindsay

For other poems by Philip Larkin, see Poet #Larkin on the Minstrels website.

[thomas adds]

Do note the rhyme scheme -- abcd dcba. I don't think I've seen that one
before...