Neruda's Death ... Questioned

Chilean poet, Neruda ... murdered? If true, how terrible ...

{Smiling}

The Spires

I think they're vulgar, those stately spires,
That raise their heads up to the sky-
The boast of bygone, lost empires
That once against the heavens vied.

Like Babel and that wretched tower
That dared in vain God's heaven reach,
As if they held some sovereign power
To flank the Gates and set some breach!

So yes, these ‘modern' symbols pain me-
They seem disdainful, haughty, rude …
And when I see them vaulted vainly,
I shake my head and mumble, dude? 

-jwm

A Dawning of Dying

  

On My First Real Encounter with Death (Very Young)

In my youth I saw a bird’s ravished body
Lying in the silence of a furrow
Its auburn feathers were wilted and shoddy
And ants stripped its flesh and belly thorough

Strange … so strange imagining this bird to be
To have once ascended the vaulted blue
To have woven music in the old oak tree
Or to have plucked from grass the morning dew

And now, alas … struck down from the sky it flew
This bird, this tiny little creature lies
Displaying a sure message in open view
That whatever comes to live also dies

In the quietude of that lonely meeting
I marveled dreadfully that this should be
That death swallows life, and that life is fleeting
And that all will succumb …
                                                          … including me

-jwm

Klawitter's Collection- Runaway Muse

Ever since Ezra Pound and the Imagist movement of the early 20th century, American poetry seems to have almost slipped entirely away from the traditional, lyrical forms we see in poets such as Dickinson and Poe. In today’s world (or in America, at any rate), it is modernism in the form of free verse that seems to dominate contemporary poetry- and this to such a degree that it seems that one seldom sees poetry written around the idea of meter or a rhythmic scheme.

So you could imagine how overwhelmingly delighted I was when I came to read Daniel Klawitter’s chapbook, Runaway Muse. This is a book full of lyrically composed poems that have some of the coolest and most creative rhyme schemes that I’ve come across in a long time. 

Take, for example, the last stanza of one of his poems, Angelic (which plays off of the last word of the previous stanza, ‘fragrance’). Speaking of angels, Klawitter writes:

These heavenly vagrants
Who descend
From sky to stone
Know that even
Our earthbound bones
Cry out to God
With praise
Like poems

The attention given to composition like this is just incredible. What’s immediately impressive is that the poem itself is very reflective of Anacreontic verse (an ancient form of Greek lyrical verse that almost no one uses anymore).

About the stanza itself? ... remember that from ‘fragrance’ Klawitter writes: "These heavenly vagrants / Who Descend / From sky to stone." By using the rhymes ‘fragrance’ and ‘vagrants’ he strings together the two stanza perfectly, and just when the tempo seems to pause between ‘descend’ and ‘stone’ the reader is thrown into a rhythmic crescendo which is beautifully achieved by using alliteration in line 5 (earthbound bones) and between lines 7 and 8 (praise and poems). 

In fact, in a subtle style similar to that of Dickinson’s, Klawitter cleverly develops a rhyme sequence by using words that obliquely rhyme- he starts with stone, then bends the rhythm towards bones, and completes the climatic point with the perfect alliterated word … poems. Stone, bones, poems ... the stanza sounds so nice and fluid, and fun, when read aloud- very good writing.

There are also internal rhythms that our poet effortlessly plays with; rhythms that dedicated Performance poets are very aware of; sonorous, internal rhyme schemes that intentionally contribute to the fluid cohesion of the speech itself- and this without deviating from point or premise. 

Take for example the opening lines of Klawitter's poem, The Gospel According To Barabbas ... notice the internal rhythmic weaving and alliteration that holds the poem together without stealing from the message itself (Barabbas' voice):

Why do you just hang there?
Why don't you MOVE, man?
Break an arm off the cross
And beat those soldiers silly saying:

"I came not to bring peace, but a sword."

How long, O Lord, until you return?

 Rumor has it you are Mother Mary’s illegitimate son.

A son on the run
Betrayed by a snitch!

Ah, you scratched the wrong itch, Messiah.

In this particular work, cadence seems secondary to what the poet wants you to really know (and what Barabbas, a ruthless insurgent in the eyes of Caesar, ultimately acknowledges) - that Jesus, seemingly weak and disheveled, is the epitome of Strength and Life, of Resurrection and of Advent. The poem makes you realize a truth, never openly suggesting it at all- and all of it is remarkably accomplished through the latent, albeit, guiding force of the poem's tempo.

That, coupled with his theological and more philosophical works, is what I appreciate about Klawitter’s writings … their lyrical, musical nature. To take in a subject is one thing- and many modernist writers have done this really well- but to add the metronome of harmony to a subject that fosters one’s ability to absorb the poem and its point is quite another thing. Klawitter does this flawlessly.

And of the topics of these poems? ... the subject matter Klawitter chooses is just as broad spectrum as is his lyrical creativity. From the very serious Comrade to his humorous Who’s The Real Pet, Klawitter takes you through a labyrinth of emotional and imaginative experiences. 

In his tribute poem to Miles Davis (Birth Of The Cool) one feels a distinct jazziness throughout. From his liturgical poem against nihilism I personally felt a sharp, cold rebuke- as if I were flirting with nihilist ideologies! Give Me Your Tired provoked in me fresh feelings of rebellion, the audacity to refuse one more day of oppression- a really good poem.

In short, Runaway Muse is a refreshing book in the world of contemporary poetry. Far from the rote mechanicalism one sees in the attempt to mimic classical forms; and far from the banal, abstract articulations many modernist poets have succumbed to, Runaway Muse is a collection of poems that are infused with vitality and freshness, having a lyrical nature that is both inviting and sincere. 

I’m grateful, as a reader and writer of poetry, to have had the chance to come across such a sublime and delightful collection of poems. I highly recommend getting a copy, if you haven’t already. 

To learn more about our poet and read some of his other works please go to the following link: Daniel Klawitter.

You can also purchase his works, Runaway Muse (mentioned here), and An Epistemology of Flesh (another one of his collections) on Amazon. 

None with Eden Can Strive

John Milton (1608-1674), a total genius, was the very first poet I began to study deliberately. I often wonder if my interest and dedication to poetry would have been different had I not come across, what I believe to be, one of the most awesome references to the Garden of Eden. It was while reading a book written by Edward O. Wilson titled, Consilience: The Unity of Knowledge. Within just 8 lines of verse Milton captured my attention permanently. Concerning those lines, I wrote in a blog post a few years back that ...

"There were no extravagant words employed, and as far as I can remember, Milton almost never even mentioned the Garden. But within 8 lines, and by means of images taken from mythology, Milton expresses what in other words would simply require pages to attain."

Here are those 8 lines below (what do you think):

Not that fair field
Of Enna, where Proserpine gathering flowers,
Herself a fairer flower by gloomy Dis
Was gathered, which cost Ceres all that pain
To seek her through the world; nor that sweet grove
Of Daphne by Orontes, and the inspired
Castalian spring, might with this Paradise
Of Eden strive...

Paradise Lost, Book IV 268 - 275

If it were not for Milton I sometimes wonder whether I would have ever engaged poetry at all. I'm in utter debt to him.

Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev

I first learned of the Russian Symbolist/Romantic poet Fyodor Ivanovich Tyutchev and of his incredible works this previous June.

The imagery he employs is vivid, intense, full of vitality, and ruthlessly mesmerizing- very much the same way that Hilda Doolittle's works are. I love how he toys with and fills traditional forms (ballads, metronomes, rhyme schemes, etc) with these incredibly powerful and incredibly wooing images. The scope and depth of Tyutchev’s talent as a writer and a poet are remarkable.

If you haven’t read his works, especially if you enjoy poetry and good writing, you seriously don’t know the state of deprivation you’re in.

Along with another awesome poet, Christina Rossetti, Tyutchev was born on this day (Rossetti in 1830, Tyutchev in 1803).

This work of Tyutchev’s, translated by Vladimir Nabokov, is a little dark, but impressive to say the least. Please, let me know what you think of it …

Dusk 

Now the ashen shadows mingle,

tints faded, sounds remote.

Life has dwindled to a single

vague reverberating note.

In the dusk I hear the humming

of a moth I cannot see.

Whence is this oppression coming?

I’m in all, and all’s in me.

Gloom so dreamy, so lulling,

flow into my deepest deep,

flow, ambrosial and dulling,

steeping everything in sleep.

With oblivion’s obscuration

fill my senses to the brim,

make me taste obliteration,

in this dimness let me dim.

  

Please, for the love of God ... let me know what you think.

Rilke's 9th Elegy

Unthinkingly, as I’m leaving for work this morning, I grab a book: The Selected Poetry and Prose of Rainer Maria Rilke. What I forgot, until just a few seconds ago, was that he was born on this day (1875).

I’ve known this poet for a long time, and appreciate the sincere depth of his melancholic insight. His works wreak of existential despair, and bare the same oppressive mark of despondency that plagued Confessional poets such as Plath and Sexton and Berryman.

I would warn anyone who would read Rilke’s works to do so in small doses. His poetic darkness isn’t the kind of darkness we see reflected in works such as Bauldelaire's Les Fleurs du mal (Flowers of Evil). No … Rilke’s darkness is dangerously close to suicidal reflection and flirts with despair’s menacing onslaught (Baudelaire’s darkness is merely that of audacity).

With that said, I will say that I love this poet. In July I composed a list of my top 20 favorite poets, Rilke was my fifth. The poem below (Duino Elegy #9) I carry in my wallet …



Duino Elegy #9

Why, when this span of life might be fleeted away

as laurel, a little darker than all

the surrounding green, with tiny waves on the border

of every leaf (like the smile of a wind): - oh, why

have to be human, and shunning Destiny,

long for Destiny?...

                      Not because happiness really

exists, that precipitate profit of imminent loss.

Not out of curiosity, not just to practise the heart,

that could still be there in laurel...

But because being here is much, and because all this

that's here, so fleeting, seems to require us and strangely

concerns us. Us the most fleeting of all. Just once,

everything, only for once. Once and no more. And we, too,

once. And never again. But this

having been once on earth - can it ever be cancelled?

And so we keep pressing on and trying to perform it,

trying to contain it within our simple hands,

in the more and more crowded gaze, in the speechless heart.

Trying to become it. To give it to whom? We'd rather

hold on to it all for ever... But into the other relation,

what, alas! do we carry across? Not the beholding we've here

slowly acquired, and no here occurrence. Not one.

Sufferings, then. Above all, the hardness of life,

the long experience of love; in fact,

purely untellable things. But later,

under the stars, what use? the more deeply untellable stars?

Yet the wanderer too doesn't bring from mountain to valley

a handful of earth; of for all untellable earth, but only

a word he has won, pure, the yellow and blue

gentian. Are we, perhaps, here just for saying: House,

Bridge, Fountain, Gate, Jug, Fruit tree, Window, -

possibly: Pillar, Tower?... but for saying, remember,

oh, for such saying as never the things themselves

hoped so intensely to be. Is not the secret purpose

of this sly Earth, in urging a pair of lovers,

just to make everything leap with ecstasy in them?

Threshold: what does it mean

to a pair of lovers, that they should be wearing their own

worn threshold a little, they too, after the many before,

before the many to come,... as a matter of course!

Here is the time for the Tellable, here is its home.

Speak and proclaim. More than ever

things we can live with are falling away, for that

which is oustingly taking their place is an imageless act.

Act under crusts, that will readily split as soon

as the doing within outgrows them and takes a new outline.

Between the hammers lives on

our heart, as between the teeth

the tongue, which, in spite of all,

still continues to praise.

Praise this world to the Angel, not the untellable: you

can't impress him with the splendour you've felt; in the cosmos

where he more feelingly feels you're only a novice. So show him

some simple thing, refashioned by age after age,

till it lives in our hands and eyes as a part of ourselves.

Tell him things. He'll stand more astonished: as you did

beside the roper in Rome or the potter in Egypt.

Show him how happy a thing can be, how guileless and ours;

how even the moaning of grief purely determines on form,

serves as a thing, or dies into a thing, - to escape

to a bliss beyond the fiddle. These things that live on departure

understand when you praise them: fleeting, they look for

rescue through something in us, the most fleeting of all.

Want us to change them entirely, within our invisible hearts

into - oh, endlessly - into ourselves! Whosoever we are.

Earth, is it not just this that you want: to arise

invisibly in us? Is not your dream

to be one day invisible? Earth! invisible!

What is your urgent command, if not transformation?

Earth, you darling, I will! Oh, believe me, you need

no more of your spring-times to win me over: a single one,

ah, one, is already more than my blood can endure.

Beyond all names I am yours, and have been for ages.

You were always right, and your holiest inspiration

is Death, that friendly Death.

Look, I am living. On what? Neither childhood nor future

are growing less.... Supernumerous existence

wells up in my heart.

Blok on the Muse

I mentioned recently how impressive a breed of poets these Russian symbolists were, and named a few. Among those named was Aleksandr Blok, a poet that I’ve now known for some time, and the first Russian symbolist I came to study.

Now although I consider Tyutchev the best of these symbolists- indeed, one of the best poets ever- Blok and his incredibly imaginative works hold a high and privileged place with me. His poetry seems, at times, irrationally defiant and recklessly counterintuitive (To the Muse); and yet at other times his poems gleam of loftiness and holiness and divinity (I Seek Salvation).

Take the poem below … it’s about the Muse- that mythological deity who inspires within the human spirit passionate movements of creativity and the apperception of the sublime and beautiful. This poem depicts her as an irresistible addiction that, once consumed by, causes one to trample on and desecrate sacred traditions and holy things (not at all the idea of her that the Greeks held).

Check it …

 

To the Muse

 

In your hidden memories

There are fatal tidings of doom...

A curse on sacred traditions,

A desecration of happiness;

And a power so alluring

That I am ready to repeat the rumour

That you have brought angels down from heaven,

Enticing them with your beauty...

And when you mock at faith,

That pale, greyish-purple halo

Which I once saw before

Suddenly begins to shine above you.

Are you evil or good? You are altogether from another world

They say strange things about you

For some you are the Muse and a miracle.

For me you are torment and hell.

I do not know why in the hour of dawn,

When no strength was left to me,

I did not perish, but caught sight of your face

And begged you to comfort me.

I wanted us to be enemies;

Why then did you make me a present

Of a flowery meadow and of the starry firmament --

The whole curse of your beauty?

Your fearful caresses were more treacherous

Than the northern night,

More intoxicating than the golden champagne of Aï,

Briefer than a gypsy woman's love...

And there was a fatal pleasure

In trampling on cherished and holy things;

And this passion, bitter as wormwood,

Was a frenzied delight for the heart!

Advice from a Poet

Yes! By far the best- and I mean BEST- advice one could ever give to a poet (and in the form of verse!). The advice comes from American Romantic poet William Cullen Bryant (1794 – 1878), and I highly recommend any poet to read through the whole of this poem.

Thank you, Bryant ...

The Poet

Thou, who wouldst wear the name
Of poet mid thy brethren of mankind,
And clothe in words of flame
Thoughts that shall live within the general mind!
Deem not the framing of a deathless lay
The pastime of a drowsy summer day.

But gather all thy powers,
And wreak them on the verse that thou dust weave,
And in thy lonely hours,
At silent morning or at wakeful eve,
While the warm current tingles through thy veins,
Set forth the burning words in fluent strains.

No smooth array of phrase,
Artfully sought and ordered though it be,
Which the cold rhymer lays
Upon his page with languid industry,
Can wake the listless pulse to livelier speed,
Or fill with sudden tears the eyes that read.

The secret wouldst thou know
To touch the heart or fire the blood at will?
Let thine own eyes o'erflow;
Let thy lips quiver with the passionate thrill;
Seize the great thought, ere yet its power be past,
And bind, in words, the fleet emotion fast.

Then, should thy verse appear
Halting and harsh, and all unaptly wrought,
Touch the crude line with fear,
Save in the moment of impassioned thought;
Then summon back the original glow, and mend
The strain with rapture that with fire was penned.

Yet let no empty gust
Of passion find an utterance in thy lay,
A blast that whirls the dust
Along the howling street and dies away;
But feelings of calm power and mighty sweep,
Like currents journeying through the windless deep.

Seek'st thou, in living lays,
To limn the beauty of the earth and sky?
Before thine inner gaze
Let all that beauty in clear vision lie;
Look on it with exceeding love, and write
The words inspired by wonder and delight.

Of tempests wouldst thou sing,
Or tell of battles--make thyself a part
Of the great tumult; cling
To the tossed wreck with terror in thy heart;
Scale, with the assaulting host, the rampart's height,
And strike and struggle in the thickest fight.

So shalt thou frame a lay
That haply may endure from age to age,
And they who read shall say
"What witchery hangs upon this poet's page!
What art is his the written spells to find
That sway from mood to mood the willing mind!"