[New-Poetry] mo natterin' bout po no matterin'

[Anny Ballardini]

mo natterin' bout po no matterin'And I also like this completely different poem by David Graham, this is the first time I read it.
  ----- Original Message ----- 
  From: David Graham 
  To: NewPoetry 
  Sent: Monday, September 04, 2006 6:07 PM
  Subject: [New-Poetry] mo natterin' bout po no matterin'




  > JforJames at aol.com wrote:
  >> http://www.poetrymagazine.org/magazine/0906/comment_178560.html
  >> American Poetry in the New Century
  >> by John Barr
  >>  
  >> The need for /something/ new is evident. Contemporary poetry's striking 
  >> absence from the public dialogues of our day, from the high school 
  >> classroom, from bookstores, and from mainstream media, is evidence of a 
  >> people in whose mind poetry is missing and unmissed. 

  >> ------------------------------------------------------------------------




  I suspect I've probably posted this poem of mine before.  Here it is again.  It does seem as though we're addicted to mourning poetry's perpetual death. . . .



  On The Reported Death Of Poetry


  . . . it was during the 1950's that poetry last had this religious aura.

             --Joseph Epstein, "Who Killed Poetry?"

  Look, I've brought a little gift for you, 
  Poetry-bit of seashell worn smooth
  as a lip; and more to come, lint 
  on a windowsill, soundings
  of woodthrush at dusk, lawnmowers 
  distant as the music of the spheres. . . . 

  Poetry, only you can tie such bootlaces, 
  only you witness mudflakes 
  shaken off by the dog, snatch of Bach
  fading under the announcer's
  cheerful catastrophes.

  I bring you the swish of a nightgown 
  to the floor, cool drift of cloud 
  over one grave, the moment when
  a boy's liquid nattering
  first coalesces into a sentence.

  I bring you valediction
  and animal blurt, I commend
  you to God in a whirlwind
  and the squirrel-chitter rhythms
  of Thelonious Monk:  Nutty,  Blue 
  Sphere, and Ugly Beauty above all.

  Poetry, you've died so many times, 
  each age preceded by a better, giants 
  of utterance walking profligate earth.  
  You would think we'd tire 
  of the visionary funeral, but here 
  we come to the wake in our shiny 
  black suits, now we loosen our ties
  and, as the first fire of scotch
  warms our throats, begin again
  the old stories, fruit-heavy bough
  and golden stranger at the door.


  ====================================================
  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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