[New-Poetry] Re: Bly, the Fierce, Wright, the Strange, Stevens,
the Sage, Gwynn, the Gracious
elemenope at icubed.com
elemenope at icubed.com
Thu Dec 7 21:45:02 EST 2006
This poem is a sequence of cliches:
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses,
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over,
Looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
Wright is trying to write poetry. He seems to have succeeded, in part,
maybe.
Therefore, his self criticism, "I have wasted my life," may very well mean
that he has wasted his time in writing an essentially inauthentic poem.
Wallace Stevens writes in his essay, "The Figure of the Youth as a Virile
Poet":
>There is a life apart from politics. It is this life that the youth as
virile poet lives, in a kind of radiant and productive atmosphere. It is
the life of that atmosphere. There the philosopher is an alien. The
pleasure that the poet has there is a pleasure of agreement with the
radiant and productive world in which he lives. It is an agreement that
Mallarme found in the sound of
La vierge, le vivace et le bel aujourd'hui
and that Hopkins found in the color of
The thunder-purple seabeach plumed purple-of-thunder
The indirect purpose or, perhaps, it would be better to say, inverted
effect of soliloquies in hell and of most celestial poems and, in a general
sense, of all music played on the terraces of the audiences of the moon,
seems to be to produce an agreement with reality. It is the mundo of the
imagination in which the imaginative man delights and not the gaunt world
of the reason. The pleasure isthe pleasure of powers that create a truth
that cannot be arrived at by the reason
alonem a truth that the poet recognizes by sensation. The morality of the
poet's radiant and
productive atmosphere is the morality of the right sensation.
-----
In the 1950s American poetry turned towards an infernal torment. This was
something "new."
By many it was perceived as essential if authenticity was to be achieved.
A certain political
persuasion founded in eternal disatisfaction appropriated to itself this
morbidity.
----
Outside the foregoing, we have certain poets who embody the kind of
sensibility Stevens
acknowledges. Here is a poem by R.S. Gwynn published recently in The New
Criterion:
www.classmates.com
They ask you to revive "your old connections,"
But those you lusted for as pure confections
Have soured and sagged in various directions.
Sign off and thank your stars for past rejections.
------
Of course, the virile poet as youth arrives at a place of good nature,
irony and gracious
intelligence.
R.E.D.
Here is the poem in question. I'm sure you'll appreciate the Marvell
echo, Dave. It was written in 1963. Therefore, Bly was not actually
astonished when Wright recited it that night in the late 1960s.
Richard
Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota
Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
Blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year's horses,
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over,
Looking for home.
I have wasted my life.
--
James Wright
> Message: 8
> Date: Sun, 19 Nov 2006 04:27:48 -0000
> From: "David Bircumshaw" <david.bircumshaw at ntlworld.com>
> Subject: Re: [New-Poetry] RE: Bly, the Fierce, Wright, the Strange To:
"NewPoetry: Contemporary Poetry News & Views"
> <new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu>
> Message-ID: <000501c70b93$133c1070$95c10556 at rayuv8pcloxi9v>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> Dear Serious Richard
>
> you're Wrong, it isn't Wright!
>
> (hoi, what I'm really interested in au moment is finding out how to get
a clockwork Laurel and Hardy, I have my agents commissioned on the
quest, grin)
>
> All the Best
>
> Dave
>
>
>
> ----- Original Message -----
> From: <elemenope at icubed.com>
> To: <new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu>
> Sent: Friday, November 17, 2006 11:19 PM
> Subject: [New-Poetry] RE: Bly, the Fierce, Wright, the Strange
>
>
>> Birc -
>>
>> Jealous of me? It's been my little business to bear witness to many.
But, that's not the point.
>> It's Wright. Are you jealous of Wright?
>>
>> Me? Frankly, I was not jealous of him. Terrified, rather.
>>
>> R - -
>>
>>
>>
>> > Message: 3
>> > Date: Fri, 17 Nov 2006 06:24:58 -0000
>> > From: "David Bircumshaw" <david.bircumshaw at ntlworld.com>
>> > Subject: Re: [New-Poetry] Bly, the Fierce, Wright, the Strange To:
"NewPoetry: Contemporary Poetry News & Views"
>> > <new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu>
>> > Message-ID: <000901c70a11$1c907720$95c10556 at rayuv8pcloxi9v>
>> > Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>> >
>> > Richard
>> >
>> > I'm jealous: that you saw Wright read. I'm a fan (but not of Bly)
>> >
>> > Best
>> >
>> > Dave
>> >
>> >
>> > ----- Original Message -----
>> > From: <elemenope at icubed.com>
>> > To: <new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu>
>> > Sent: Friday, November 10, 2006 4:46 AM
>> > Subject: [New-Poetry] Bly, the Fierce, Wright, the Strange
>> >
>> >
>> >> Cris,
>> >>
>> >> When this happened, i.e., when Wright spoke that line, I remember
distinctly that a strange mad truth had been uttered. Everybody in
>> the
>> >> hall was looking at him, including Bly. Wright's eyes were black
> ovals,
>> >> fierce, and he was SEATED, at a remove, a distance from everybody,
including Bly. Bly loomed in his Indian poncho across the stage,
> turned
>> >> 90 degrees from the audience toward this man in arctic white shirt,
straight dropped down black tie. There wasn't anything one could do
about
>> >> this man's dilemma, leaning out from our seats unable to touch him.
Wright was a serious character, an electric aura surrounded him like
>> a
>> >> photographic negative. Bly had introduced him as the most
>> significant
>> >> living poet. I remember thinking, "I wonder if Dabney Stuart is
here witnessing this?" I can't prove it but I believe that Bly had
never heard
>> >> the poem before this moment, although he was Wright's champion and
publisher in his magazine, "The Sixties." Bly had explained part
of his
>> >> theory regarding "Leaping Poetry." Upon the stage watched by all
those
>> >> aristocratic Southern women was a potent, defiant demonstration of
>> this
>> >> theory, hanging in the air like a smoke ring of dry ice. Caught Bly
flatfooted.
>> >>
>> >> It was an intense night. Bly also hit us with: "Johnson's Cabinet
Watched
>> >> By Ants." As we say these days, a student of literature might be
>> able
>> >> to
>> >> get their head around one of these figures, but the two of them out
>> up
>> >> there in the spotlights staring at the stage lights hitting them was
simply out of mental reach.
>> >>
>> >> I just remembered (perhaps) the title of Wright's poem:
>> >>
>> >> "Lying In A Hammock On William Duffy's Farm"
>> >>
>> >> RD
>> >>
>> >>
>> >>
>> >> Message: 6
>> >> Date: Wed, 8 Nov 2006 10:44:12 -0500
>> >> From: cheekc <cheekc at muohio.edu>
>> >> Subject: Re: [New-Poetry] Bly, the Fierce, Wright, the Strange
>> >>
>> >>
>> >> indeed Richard,
>> >>
>> >> but what a way to waste it;)
>> >>
>> >> love and love
>> >> cris
>> >>
>> >> On Nov 7, 2006, at 4:58 PM, elemenope at icubed.com wrote:
>> >>
>> >> > I remember when Bly and Wright appeared on the same stage at
Sweetbriar
>> >> > College in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
>> >> > Bly in serape introduced Wright in white shirt black tie as the
greatest
>> >> > living poet.
>> >> > Wright recalled the poem wherein he announces while musing on a
>> lawn
>> >> littered with whatnot that he because of poetry has wasted his life.
>> RD
>>
>>
>> _______________________________________________
>> New-Poetry mailing list
>> New-Poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu
>> http://wiz.cath.vt.edu/mailman/listinfo/new-poetry
>
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 9
> Date: Sun, 19 Nov 2006 09:56:42 +0000
> From: "Roger Day" <rog3r.day at gmail.com>
> Subject: Re: [New-Poetry] In our dark times we need poetry more than
> ever, argues Adrienne Rich
> To: "NewPoetry: Contemporary Poetry News &, Views"
> <new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu>
> Message-ID:
> <fde503480611190156g414bb25fj8d67db94940f326f at mail.gmail.com>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset=ISO-8859-1; format=flowed
>
> For Americans and the West, true. But don't get too cosy in your
duvet-covers - disease and genocide still stalk other bits of our
planet. I hear they've some bad times in Iraq. So, for the Empire and
it's allies, everything's jim-dandy, and I'm whistling while I work this
unseasonable November. For those considered dangerous to the Imperial
well-being, well, welcome to hard times.
>
> Roger
>
> On 11/19/06, Bob Grumman <bobgrumman at nut-n-but.net> wrote:
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> Gotcha. Makes sense. From that perspective, I agree.
>>
>>
>> Good grief, I'm not starting to make sense, am I?!
>>
>> --Bob
>> _______________________________________________
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>>
>>
>>
>
>
> --
> http://www.badstep.net/
> "Hello Cleveland! Hello Cleveland!"
>
>
> ------------------------------
>
> Message: 10
> Date: Sun, 19 Nov 2006 10:43:54 -0600
> From: David Graham <grahamd at ripon.edu>
> Subject: [New-Poetry] In our dark times
> To: "NewPoetry: Contemporary Poetry News &"
> <new-poetry at wiz.cath.vt.edu>
> Message-ID: <19D3535B-4E5C-4439-80FC-D0B13C574C10 at ripon.edu>
> Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1"
>
> I have great respect for Adrienne Rich and read her always with
> interest. Her essay linked below is worth pondering, and is much more
intelligent and subtle than any "we live in dark times" summary-- the
phrase is quoted from Brecht, in any event, and Rich's argument is not
that we live in dark times so much as an apology for the value of poetry
in any times.
>
> Here's a relevant paragraph from Rich:
>
> "I'm both a poet and one of the "everybodies" of my country. I live with
manipulated fear, ignorance, cultural confusion and social
> antagonism huddling together on the faultline of an empire. I hope never
to idealise poetry -- it has suffered enough from that. Poetry is not a
healing lotion, an emotional massage, a kind of linguistic aromatherapy.
Neither is it a blueprint, nor an instruction manual, nor a billboard.
There is no universal Poetry, anyway, only poetries and poetics, and the
streaming, intertwining histories to which they belong. There is room,
indeed necessity, for both Neruda and César Valléjo, for Pier Paolo
Pasolini and Alfonsina Storni, for both Ezra Pound and Nelly Sachs.
Poetries are no more pure and simple than human histories are pure and
simple. And there are colonised poetics and resilient poetics,
transmissions across frontiers not easily traced."
>
> Still, the idea that we live in particularly dire times, historically
speaking, is so common that it does deserve a skeptical glance. I agree
with Bob Grumman on this, which I hope doesn't dismay him too much.
>
> I also hope that he doesn't mind agreeing with Robert Frost, who, way
back in 1935, smack dab in the middle of that famously low, dishonest
decade, expressed his own skepticism as follows:
>
> "But speaking of ages, you will often hear it said that the age of the
world we live in is particularly bad. I am impatient of such talk. We
have no way of knowing that this age is one of the worst in the world's
history. Arnold claimed the honor for the age before this. Wordsworth
claimed it for the last but one. And so on back through literature. I
say they claimed the honor for their ages. They claimed it rather for
themselves. It is immodest of a man to think of himself as going down
before the worst forces ever mobilized by God."
> --Robert Frost. "Letter to The Amherst Student." 25 March 1935.
> -----
>
> The risk of much self-consciously political poetry, as I believe Rich
well knows, is just this: it is immodest. It makes a claim for the
*poet* that overshadows other matters.
>
>
>
> On Nov 18, 2006, at 4:12 PM, <JforJames at aol.com> <JforJames at aol.com> wrote:
>
>> http://books.guardian.co.uk/print/0,,329635373-110738,00.html
>>
>> Legislators of the world
>> Commentary In our dark times we need poetry more than ever, argues
Adrienne Rich
>>
>> Adrienne Rich
>> Saturday November 18, 2006
>>
>
> ==========================================
> David Graham
> grahamd at ripon.edu
> Home Page:
> http://www.ripon.edu/faculty/GrahamD/index.html
> Poetry Library:
> http://www.ripon.edu/faculty/GrahamD/poetrylib.html
> ==========================================
>
>
>
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