June 21, 2018

Poets’ Roundtable

Welcome

Ed will not be with us today. I don't think he sent me a poem. 

News and Jabber

I started this section with "another good poet, unknown to me, dies." This led me to Paula Meehan and then to Carolyn Kizer. I had never heard of Macdara, Meehan or Kizer just as I had never heard of poets I discovered and mentioned in the last couple of blog posts. I guess my point is that there are a lot of good poets; poetry is alive and well. And undiscovered. Given the number of ways to get published nowadays, there is also a lot of bad poetry, too much of it discovered.

The following link goes to an article in the Irish Times about Macdara Woods that gives more information about him than his Wikipedia listing.

Macdara Woods

WHEN ALL THIS IS OVER . . .

After all the heads have rolled

and the young insurgents put up against the wall

by the firing squads

when the puppet masters 

have taken their seats in the boardroom

and the bombardiers are sipping drinks

with the chiefs of police

when the journalists change sides again

and the commentators 

redefine what they meant in the first place

and the judges sell their shares

in revolutionary understanding

and the clergy decide

that forgiveness was always forgiven

and educators rediscover

the meaning behind the meaningless

when poets grow tired

of too long battling futility

when arrogant financiers 

have poisoned all the blood banks

and the drug companies

have rendered us venomous

unfit for social consumption

when we see that things have returned again to how they are

we want to believe

that the ruthless men in the big black cars

are lonely as sin

behind their bullet proof glass

and that it means something

that they may have doubts

in the middle of the night like we have

only worse

we pray

because maybe they can do something about it

before the eagle 

stoops and tears their liver out

© 2013, Macdara Woods

From: Irish Times, 2013

Paula Meehan


Paula Meehan is an Irish poet and playwright. Born in Dublin in 1955, Meehan studied at Trinity College, Dublin, and at Eastern Washington University.[1]

Paula Meehan was born in Dublin in 1955, the eldest of six children. She started school at St. Elizabeth's in Kingston upon Thames, England, where her parents had travelled to find work. She subsequently attended a number of primary schools around Dublin. She finished her primary education at the Central Model Girls' School in Gardiner Street.

She began her secondary education at St. Michael's Holy Faith Covent in Finglas but was expelled for organising a protest march against the regime of the school. She studied for her Intermediate Certificate on her own and then went to Whitehall House Senior School, a vocational school, to study for her Leaving Certificate. Outside school she was a member of a dance drama group, became involved in band culture and, around 1970, began to write lyrics. Gradually composing song lyrics would give way to writing poetry.

At Trinity College, Dublin, (1972–77) she studied English, History and Classical Civilization, taking five years to complete her Bachelor of Arts degree. This included one year off, spent travelling through Europe. While a student she was involved in street theatre and various kinds of performance.

After college she travelled again, spending long stretches in Greece, Germany, Scotland and England. She was offered a teaching fellowship at Eastern Washington University where she studied (1981–83) with James J. McAuley in a two-year programme which led to a Master of Fine Arts degree in Poetry. Gary Snyder & Carolyn Kizer were among the distinguished visiting writers to have a profound influence on her work and on her thought. She returned to Dublin in the mid-eighties. Her poem "Seed" was used in the 2010 Leaving Certificate examination as the unseen poem, although (critically) the department misprinted 'useful' as 'useless' which somewhat diminished the meaning of the poem. In September 2013, Meehan was installed as the Ireland Professor of Poetry by President Michael D. Higgins. http://www.irishtimes.com/culture/paula-meehan-named-ireland-professor-of-poetry-1.1526752[2]


OLD SKIN - Poem by Paula Meehan

staggering towards me
I've cast you off

years ago
shrugged you off

left you, put you down at the side of the road
for ravening

by any passing predator
old skin - when your face splits open

in recognition -
you know me now

but not what bar you left me in -
what else would you say but

‘how're ya, me oul skin'


Seed - Poem by Paula Meehan

The first warm day of spring
and I step out into the garden from the gloom
of a house where hope had died
to tally the storm damage, to seek what may
have survived. And finding some forgotten
lupins I'd sown from seed last autumn
holding in their fingers a raindrop each
like a peace offering, or a promise,
I am suddenly grateful and would
offer a prayer if I believed in God.
But not believing, I bless the power of seed,
its casual, useful persistence,
and bless the power of sun,
its conspiracy with the underground,
and thank my stars the winter's ended.


Paula Meehan




Carolyn Kizer

Awards[edit]

• Pulitzer Prize for Poetry (1985), for Yin^[10]
• Theodore Roethke Memorial Poetry Prize (1988)
• American Academy of Arts and Letters award
• Award of Honor of the San Francisco Arts Commission
• Borestone Award (six times)
• Pushcart Prize (three times)
• Frost Medal
• John Masefield Memorial Award
• Governor's Award for the best book of the year, State of Washington (1965, 1985)

BY CAROLYN KIZER
for John

At a party I spy a handsome psychiatrist,
And wish, as we all do, to get her advice for free.
Doctor, I’ll say, I’m supposed to be a poet.
All life’s awfulness has been grist to me.
We learn that happiness is a Chinese meal,
While sorrow is a nourishment forever.
My new environment is California Dreamer.
I’m fearful I’m forgetting how to brood.
And, Doctor, another thing has got me worried:
I’m not drinking as much as I should . . .

At home, I want to write a happy poem
On love, or a love poem of happiness.
But they won’t do, the tensions of every day,
The rub, the minor abrasions of any two
Who share one space. Ah, there’s no substitute for tragedy!
But in this chapter, tragedy belongs
To that other life, the old life before us.
Here is my aphorism of the day:
Happy people are monogamous.
Even in California. So how does the poem play

Without the paraphernalia of betrayal and loss?
I don’t have a jealous eye or fear
And neither do you. In truth, I’m fond
Of your ex-mate, whom I name “my wife-in-law.”
My former husband, that old disaster, is now just funny,
So laugh we do, in what Cyril Connolly
Has called the endless, nocturnal conversation
Of marriage. Which may be the best part.
Darling, must I love you in light verse
Without the tribute of profoundest art?

Of course it won’t last. You will break my heart
Or I yours, by dying. I could weep over that.
But now it seems forced, here in these heaven hills,
The mourning doves mourning, the squirrels mating,
My old cat warm in my lap, here on our terrace
As from below comes a musical cursing
As you mend my favorite plate. Later of course
I could pick a fight; there is always material in that.
But we don’t come from fighting people, those
Who scream out red-hot iambs in their hate.

No, love, the heavy poem will have to come
From temps perdu, fertile with pain, or perhaps
Detonated by terrors far beyond this place
Where the world rends itself, and its tainted waters
Rise in the east to erode our safety here.
Much as I want to gather a lifetime thrift
And craft, my cunning skills tied in a knot for you,
There is only this useless happiness as gift.


Carolyn Kizer, “Afternoon Happiness” from Cool, Calm & Collected. Copyright © 2002 by Carolyn Kizer. Reprinted by permission of Copper Canyon Press.

The Current Assignment

Was it a joy? Who did it?

The Next Assignment

I have long used phrases and words from other poets as prompts to get me going. So, I thought why not make an assignment of it. I'll provide you with a source and the assignment is to write a poem prompted by any selection of consecutive words within "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" by Yeats. Here is the poem:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

W. B. Yeats, 1865 - 1939

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee;
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

The Next Meeting

The next meeting will be on Thursday, July 5, 2018. 

Other Jabber

June 7, 2018

Poets’ Roundtable

Welcome

It again seems like such a long time.  As you know, Stanley died this week. The funeral is Friday morning, I think. Details are online and I emailed you a link yesterday. It is somehow appropriate to ponder time in the light of Stanley’s death. He lived a long time, a very long time. We know he was a religious man and unashamed to be so. And so the words of his that I included in one of yesterday’s emails deepened when I found them. I read the final two lines yesterday and only today took the time to read the entire poem. As I went on with these notes, I realized that several things I had no intentions of connecting connected themselves. This is much the way that I write poems, too.

News and Jabber

https://www.commonwealmagazine.org/walt-whitman-poet-democracy

This article by Jose Luis Borges reminded me to go back to the great ones now and then. I haven’t read Whitman for quite a while and never knew that he was such an influence on Neruda, whom you have heard me speak of frequently, let alone so many of the South American writers. I don’t know why Commonweal chose to reprint the article but I’m glad they did.

From that article:  “The literary destiny of Whitman’s followers has been, above all else, to imitate the results of his work, that somewhat popular poetry, that tone that causes him to be less a poet than an orator. But no one has thought about the intimate aspects of Whitman’s experiment. That dream of democracy, what Americans call “the American dream,” was the great dream of Whitman, who believed fervently in the possibility of that experiment. He was a great partisan of democracy and he wanted the hero of his poem to be everyone.

Now then, there was always a hero in epic poetry; Vergil said, “I sing of arms, deeds, and the man”; that is to say, a man is chosen and exalted. Heroes like Achilles, Ulysses, Roland, and El Cid are some examples.

Everyone was the hero of Whitman’s poem since he wrote it in relation to democracy, in relation to an ideal of equality among all men on earth. He invented a personage whom he called “Walt Whitman” who was not the one offered to us by his biographers; a lonely, unhappy man who led a sad life. Instead the other Whitman, the Whitman of the poem, is a sort of magnificent vagabond who travels from no man’s land to the land of everyone.

Does that mean, then, that there are two Whitmans, the friendly savage and the poor, solitary writer, who invented him?

It is a song of joy because, unlike Baudelaire and Byron who dramatized their unhappiness in famous volumes, Whitman dramatized his happiness.

There is more than duality, there is a trinity of Whitmans. In the first place he is the newspaperman of the Brooklyn Eagle. Then he becomes the exalted personage in the poem, “Walt Whitman, a cosmos, son of Manhattan, turbulent, carnal, sensual, eating, drinking, engendering.” And finally, the third personage is the reader himself which is why when we read Leaves of Grass we identify ourselves immediately with him.”

I added the bold typeface because this is an aspect of our own poems we often ignore despite its being the core of the experience of out own poems. In the successful poem the rader is conjoined with the writer through the medium of the poem. We swim together in the fishbowl the writer creates. This creates that unformulable residuum that harrows us (in all of Art).

Remarks on the Splat Calculator!

I found this when I needed to find out the velocity of a body after falling 14 feet for a poem I was working on: https://www.angio.net/personal/climb/speed.html.

Mar Lou’s 8-syllable lines  poem?

The Current Assignment

Whose idea was it to write about time? Did you have time? Forget the rest of the endless puns and jokes. Time is something we in this group are probably more aware of in its limitations than most groups of writers. 

TO THINK OF TIME.

1

TO think of time—of all that retrospection,

To think of to-day, and the ages continued henceforward.

Have you guess'd you yourself would not continue?

Have you dreaded these earth-beetles?

Have you fear'd the future would be nothing to you?

Is to-day nothing? is the beginningless past nothing?

If the future is nothing they are just as surely nothing.

To think that the sun rose in the east—that men and women 

were flexible, real, alive—that every thing was alive,

To think that you and I did not see, feel, think, nor bear our part,

To think that we are now here and bear our part.

2

Not a day passes, not a minute or second without an accouche-

ment,

Not a day passes, not a minute or second without a corpse.

The dull nights go over and the dull days also,

The soreness of lying so much in bed goes over,

The physician after long putting off gives the silent and terrible 

look for an answer,

The children come hurried and weeping, and the brothers and 

sisters are sent for,

Medicines stand unused on the shelf, (the camphor-smell has long 

pervaded the rooms,)

The faithful hand of the living does not desert the hand of the 

dying,

The twitching lips press lightly on the forehead of the dying,

The breath ceases and the pulse of the heart ceases,

The corpse stretches on the bed and the living look upon it,

It is palpable as the living are palpable.

The living look upon the corpse with their eyesight,

But without eyesight lingers a different living and looks curiously 

on the corpse.

3

To think the thought of death merged in the thought of materials,

To think of all these wonders of city and country, and others taking 

great interest in them, and we taking no interest in them.

To think how eager we are in building our houses,

To think others shall be just as eager, and we quite indifferent.

(I see one building the house that serves him a few years, or 

seventy or eighty years at most,

I see one building the house that serves him longer than that.)

Slow-moving and black lines creep over the whole earth—they 

never cease—they are the burial lines,

He that was President was buried, and he that is now President 

shall surely be buried.

4

A reminiscence of the vulgar fate,

A frequent sample of the life and death of workmen,

Each after his kind.

Cold dash of waves at the ferry-wharf, posh and ice in the river,

half-frozen mud in the streets,

A gray discouraged sky overhead, the short last daylight of 

December,

A hearse and stages, the funeral of an old Broadway stage-driver,

the cortege mostly drivers.

Steady the trot to the cemetery, duly rattles the death-bell,

The gate is pass'd, the new-dug grave is halted at, the living alight,

the hearse uncloses,

The coffin is pass'd out, lower'd and settled, the whip is laid on 

the coffin, the earth is swiftly shovel'd in,

The mound above is flatted with the spades—silence,

A minute—no one moves or speaks—it is done,

He is decently put away—is there any thing more?

He was a good fellow, free-mouth'd, quick-temper'd, not bad-

looking,

Ready with life or death for a friend, fond of women, gambled,

ate hearty, drank hearty,

Had known what it was to be flush, grew low-spirited toward the 

last, sicken'd, was help'd by a contribution,

Died, aged forty-one years—and that was his funeral.

Thumb extended, finger uplifted, apron, cape, gloves, strap, wet-

weather clothes, whip carefully chosen,

Boss, spotter, starter, hostler, somebody loafing on you, you loafing 

on somebody, headway, man before and man behind,

Good day's work, bad day's work, pet stock, mean stock, first out,

last out, turning-in at night,

To think that these are so much and so nigh to other drivers, and 

he there takes no interest in them.

5

The markets, the government, the working-man's wages, to think 

what account they are through our nights and days,

To think that other working-men will make just as great account 

of them, yet we make little or no account.

The vulgar and the refined, what you call sin and what you call 

goodness, to think how wide a difference,

To think the difference will still continue to others, yet we lie 

beyond the difference.

To think how much pleasure there is,

Do you enjoy yourself in the city? or engaged in business? or 

planning a nomination and election? or with your wife and 

family?

Or with your mother and sisters? or in womanly housework? or 

the beautiful maternal cares?

These also flow onward to others, you and I flow onward,

But in due time you and I shall take less interest in them.

Your farm, profits, crops—to think how engross'd you are,

To think there will still be farms, profits, crops, yet for you of 

what avail?

6

What will be will be well, for what is is well,

To take interest is well, and not to take interest shall be well.

The domestic joys, the daily housework or business, the building 

of houses, are not phantasms, they have weight, form,

location,

Farms, profits, crops, markets, wages, government, are none of 

them phantasms,

The difference between sin and goodness is no delusion,

The earth is not an echo, man and his life and all the things of 

his life are well-consider'd.

You are not thrown to the winds, you gather certainly and safely 

around yourself,

Yourself! yourself! yourself, for ever and ever!

7

It is not to diffuse you that you were born of your mother and 

father, it is to identify you,

It is not that you should be undecided, but that you should be 

decided,

Something long preparing and formless is arrived and form'd in you,

You are henceforth secure, whatever comes or goes.

The threads that were spun are gather'd, the weft crosses the warp,

the pattern is systematic.

The preparations have every one been justified,

The orchestra have sufficiently tuned their instruments, the baton 

has given the signal.

The guest that was coming, he waited long, he is now housed,

He is one of those who are beautiful and happy, he is one of those 

that to look upon and be with is enough.

The law of the past cannot be eluded,

The law of the present and future cannot be eluded,

The law of the living cannot be eluded, it is eternal,

The law of promotion and transformation cannot be eluded,

The law of heroes and good-doers cannot be eluded,

The law of drunkards, informers, mean persons, not one iota 

thereof can be eluded.

8

Slow moving and black lines go ceaselessly over the earth,

Northerner goes carried and Southerner goes carried, and they on 

the Atlantic side and they on the Pacific,

And they between, and all through the Mississippi country, and 

all over the earth.

The great masters and kosmos are well as they go, the heroes and 

good-doers are well,

The known leaders and inventors and the rich owners and pious 

and distinguish'd may be well,

But there is more account than that, there is strict account of 

all.

The interminable hordes of the ignorant and wicked are not 

nothing,

The barbarians of Africa and Asia are not nothing,

The perpetual successions of shallow people are not nothing as 

they go.

Of and in all these things,

I have dream'd that we are not to be changed so much, nor the 

law of us changed,

I have dream'd that heroes and good-doers shall be under the 

present and past law,

And that murderers, drunkards, liars, shall be under the present 

and past law,

For I have dream'd that the law they are under now is enough.

And I have dream'd that the purpose and essence of the known 

life, the transient,

Is to form and decide identity for the unknown life, the permanent.

If all came but to ashes of dung,

If maggots and rats ended us, then Alarum! for we are betray'd,

Then indeed suspicion of death.

Do you suspect death? if I were to suspect death I should die 

now,

Do you think I could walk pleasantly and well-suited toward 

annihilation?

Pleasantly and well-suited I walk,

Whither I walk I cannot define, but I know it is good,

The whole universe indicates that it is good,

The past and the present indicate that it is good.

How beautiful and perfect are the animals!

How perfect the earth, and the minutest thing upon it!

What is called good is perfect, and what is called bad is just as 

perfect,

The vegetables and minerals are all perfect, and the imponderable 

fluids perfect;

Slowly and surely they have pass'd on to this, and slowly and surely 

they yet pass on.

9

I swear I think now that every thing without exception has an 

eternal soul!

The trees have, rooted in the ground! the weeds of the sea have!

the animals!

I swear I think there is nothing but immortality!

That the exquisite scheme is for it, and the nebulous float is for it,

and the cohering is for it!

And all preparation is for it—and identity is for it—and life and 

materials are altogether for it!

Dru Martin’s Poem

• I submit chicken three different ways...

• 
  

• Tick Tock

• 
  

• time

• is

• marking

• existence

• 
  

• this

• infinite

• moment

• ends

• 
  

• this

• is

• mankinds

• excuse

And Ed Ahearn’s poem:

Changing Time

In a season gardens are overrun with weeds.

In a decade gravestones are mossy.

In a generation tarmacs are home to trees.

In two generations our names are not seen.

In a man’s lifetime his home is debris.

In a century a breakwater rejoins the sea.

Our posturing seems quite temporary.

The Next Assignment

I have been looking for a little more joy lately. So, the next assignment is to write a poem that deals in some way, any way, with joy, its presence, its absence, where to find it, where to lose it, etc.

The Next Meeting

The next meeting will be on Thursday, June 21, 2018

Other Jabber