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Posts Tagged ‘poet’

Yesterday I was thinking about how Lewis Carroll’s wry humor was a kind of code targeted directly at kids. No kid could miss that Alice is the only sensible person among a nutty bunch of adults in Wonderland — Caterpillars, Mad Queens, March Hares, and Mad Hatters — who can’t seem to follow the rules of social behavior they always lecture children to follow.

I was thinking particularly of Carroll’s spoof on the moralizing poem about the little busy bee — familiar to children of that day — and how he entertained with verses about a completely irresponsible and self-indulgent reptile.

Instead of admonishing children to be industrious with “How doth the little busy bee improve each shining hour,” he writes, “How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail.” (Click there and watch the delicious Disney version on YouTube. Note how confused Alice looks at hearing the wrong words and how polite she is anyway.)

I realized I could write a post on spoofs of poems after my husband pointed out a second item this morning. It seems that the tree Joyce Kilmer praised in his best-known poem turns out to have been close to where I grew up.

And I can never hear these words by Kilmer — “I think that I shall never see/A poem as lovely as a tree” — without immediately hearing Ogden Nash spoofing Kilmer with “I think that I shall never see/A billboard lovely as a tree/And that unless the billboards fall,/ I’ll never see a tree at all.”

Please help me think of more examples. I’m sure there must be more.

Beacon-Hill-tree

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I love this poem.

For me, the poet is saying that darkness can never completely win; focus on what it can’t touch.

Try to Praise the Mutilated World
Adam Zagajewski

Try to praise the mutilated world.
Remember June’s long days,
and wild strawberries, drops of wine, the dew.
The nettles that methodically overgrow
the abandoned homesteads of exiles.
You must praise the mutilated world.
You watched the stylish yachts and ships;
one of them had a long trip ahead of it,
while salty oblivion awaited others.
You’ve seen the refugees heading nowhere,
you’ve heard the executioners sing joyfully.
You should praise the mutilated world.
Remember the moments when we were together
in a white room and the curtain fluttered.
Return in thought to the concert where music flared.
You gathered acorns in the park in autumn
and leaves eddied over the earth’s scars.
Praise the mutilated world
and the gray feather a thrush lost,
and the gentle light that strays and vanishes
and returns.

cloud-study

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Photo of Patricia McCarthy: Agenda

The editor of a small poetry journal in England was desperate for money to keep the magazine going, so she entered a poem of her own in a contest — and won.

The poem came straight from her mother’s memories of World War I. WW I poems — mostly written by young men in service who never came home — are some of the saddest ever composed.

At the Guardian, Alison Flood has the story on Agenda editor Patricia McCarthy’s win.

“McCarthy, who has published several poetry collections of her own, beat 13,040 other entries to win the anonymously-judged prize. Her winning poem, ‘Clothes that escaped the Great War,’ tells of the plodding carthorse who would take boys away to war, and then return, later, with just their clothes. ‘These were the most scary, my mother recalled: clothes / piled high on the wobbly cart, their wearers gone,’ writes McCarthy. …

“McCarthy said winning the £5,000 prize was ‘just extraordinary.’ “I’ve never even won a raffle. I don’t go in for competitions – the only other time I did was decades back, when I got runner-up,’ she said. ‘But I’m really down on my finances – I edit Agenda, and was really struggling, and thought this was probably better than a gamble on the horses.’ “

More.

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When grandmas recite poetry before you are three, the look on your face probably translates as, “What the heck?”

Here we are testing out Edward Lear’s “The Owl and the Pussycat.”

A week or so ago, Ogden Nash’s “Custard the Dragon” held a certain fascination, but there was ambivalence about the “big, sharp teeth.”

In the spontaneous-story department, we have been working on variations of “The Three Bears” and are edging up on “The Pig Won’t Jump over the Stile.” Stay tuned.

listening to Edw Lear poem

what kind of story is this?

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I think I first heard about poetry slams from Patricia Smith when she was a columnist at the Boston Globe. I went with Kristina to hear her slam some poetry at Cambridge Adult Ed once. It was fun.

Patricia Smith had too much imagination to be a Globe columnist, but I still remember one of her stories that, if it wasn’t real in the usual sense was real on a level that has meaning for me. She has developed her poetry side since then and has won the awards she deserves.

Today my husband pointed me to an article on another poetry slam guru, Jack McCarthy.

Bryan Marquard writes in an obit in the Globe, “At some 200 lines, Jack ­McCarthy’s first published ­poem appeared in the Boston Sunday Globe in October 1976. Filling a page, ‘South Boston Sunday’ describes a family stroll through the neighborhood of his youth

“He thought the poem would launch his writing career, but that didn’t happen until another October, in 1993, when Mr. McCarthy took his youngest daughter to a poetry slam at the Cantab Lounge in Cambridge. He got up to read and the positive response brought an epiphany: The poet’s voice and the audience’s ears were inseparable.

“ ‘For me, the live audience is really the only audience I ever think about,’ he said by phone when he knew his death was near. “When I put something down on paper and publish it, my highest hope is that someone somewhere will pick it up and read it to a third party. My sense of audience does not stop with the person who reads the poem. I hope the poem goes on to another life.’ …

“ ‘The only ambition he seems to have is to tell the truth as best he can in poems,’ the poet Thomas Lux once wrote of Mr. McCarthy.”

Stephen Dobyns, a respected poet and one of my favorite mystery writers, called him “one of the wonders of contemporary poetry. He writes — and often performs — dazzling narratives full of wit and humor, sadness and hard thinking. He should be cloned.”

Read more about McCarthy here, about Patricia Smith here, about poetry slams here.

Photograph: Peter Vicinanza/file 2007/Boston Globe
Mr. McCarthy became well known after he in the 1998 documentary “SlamNation.”

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Last year around Christmas my husband visited Southeast Asia on business and came back with descriptions of Christmas trees decorated from head to toe with written words on strips of paper.

That got me thinking about a new stealth project, one I hinted at here.

I printed out the quotes below and covered the paper with sticky plastic. I will put one set of quotation strips on our Christmas tree, but the first strips are now posted here and there around town. We’ll see what happens to them.

Feel free to use the lines here for a stealth project of your own, with or without sticky plastic. Or send some other quotes that I can use. If you are really ambitious, you might put strips of poems at the bottom of a poster headed something like “Help Yourself to Poetry” so people will be encouraged to take one.

“The roses had the look of flowers that are looked at.” T.S. Eliot

“The endlessly changing qualities of natural light, in which a room is a different room every second of the day.” Louis Kahn

“God inhabits the praise of his people.”

“Flowers have their agendas.” Mark Jarman

“I’d like to have a hand in things, what’s going on behind the screen.”  Kate Colby

“I don’t know where I’m going but I’m on the way.” Carl Sandburg

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

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Maybe one of my Egyptian relatives will know about this poet. I enjoyed what Abdalla F. Hassan had to say about him in the NY Times, but I wish there had been examples of his poems to share with you. (Sorry, Poets!)

“Along a narrow, leafy road just past a small domed mosque is an electric pole with a handwritten sign showing the path to the country home of the poet Abdel-rahman Elabnoudy. The sign reads Aya and Nour, the names of his daughters.

“Sequestered from the big city, Mr. Elabnoudy, a songwriter, dramatist, social critic and man of verse, lives in a whitewashed home on small plot of land planted with mangoes and date palms in a village in Ismailia Province, along the Suez Canal. A couple of decades ago, he tilled and sowed the earth, and designed a home modeled on the traditional architecture of Abnoud, the Upper Egyptian village of his birth.

“ ‘I am from a village where everyone sings, except the shop owners, who reap the output of the singing at the end of the day,’ said Mr. Elabnoudy, 74, one of the Arab world’s best-known vernacular poets. ‘People work and sing, and with their earnings they would buy simple things like cigarettes and tea.’

“Books and awards line the shelves of his sunny study and reception room. On one wall, below a black-and-white portrait of his father, Mahmoud Elabnoudy, is a photograph of a beaming Abdel-rahman embraced by his mother, Fatma Qandil.

“ ‘It was an exaggerated love,’ he said of his mother. ‘She is present a lot in my poetry, but my father isn’t. She is my true educator.’ …

“Mr. Elabnoudy wrote the songs and the dialogue for the landmark 1969 film ‘Touch of Fear,’ which tells the story of a tyrannical village chief and his demise. The film narrowly passed the censorship authorities and was screened only after Mr. Nasser had seen it and given his approval. …

“Its theme — a mass uprising against tyranny ignited by a senseless death — was what unfolded four decades later to topple a system of authoritarianism established by the military coup-turned-revolution of Nasser and the Free Officers in 1952. Mr. Elabnoudy’s only poem in homage to a leader was written to Nasser 40 years after his death in 1970 and weeks before the 2011 revolution, praising his incorruptibility.

“Mr. Elabnoudy’s ascendancy has endured through six decades. His poem ‘The Square’ … captured the dreams and hopes of a nation during the height of the 18-day revolution. ‘A ruler should never think he understands Egypt,’ he said.”

More.


Photograph of vernacular poet Abdel-rahman Elabnoudy is by Abdalla Hassan

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I’m a sucker for a good title. I even bought a novel once just because I liked the title – Time Will Darken It. (I didn’t like the book, but what a great title!)

So here I am recommending a song by Greg Brown called “Playing the Poet Game.” The other words are good, too. See how you like them.

As wistful as the lyrics are, you could do worse than play the poet game. I know someone who is building a fine reputation as a poet today. It is clearly a better arena than the one he was in before. He was active in politics and got carried away with his enthusiasm for one guy and his fear of what would happen if the other guy won. He broke the law. And paid for it.

Today, his poetry is enriched by his hard life lessons.

Poetry is good for everyone because, at its best, it is first cousin to truth.

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Although I have always bought chrysanthemums in the fall and put them out on the front stoop like everyone else, this year I decided I was tired of them.

I consulted a woman who gardens, someone I see on the commuter train. She said, “How about asters? How about kale?”

So that’s what I’m doing this year. I need a few more, though, because my neighbors’ chrysanthemums do look more substantial.

In coming down rather hard on chrysanthemums, I am reminded of the A.A. Milne poem about the dormouse. Do you remember?

The dormouse’s favorite thing was to lie in bed of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red). But a doctor and a team of experts decided the dormouse was sick, sleeping too much. The doctor prescribed chrysanthemums (yellow and white).

The self-effacing dormouse says wistfully, “I suppose all these people know better than I.” He lets them have their way and they tear up his beloved delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red) and plant chrysanthemums (yellow and white). The dormouse comes up with his own solution.

“The Dormouse lay there with his paws to his eyes,
“And imagined himself such a pleasant surprise:
” ‘I’ll pretend the chrysanthemums turn to a bed
Of delphiniums (blue) and geraniums (red)!’ “

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This Canadian critic doesn’t think much of the aurora borealis or the “noble sorrow of being descended from rugged settlers” as subjects worthy of poetry. That is perhaps why he is rejoicing at the current poetry trends in his country.

Russell Smith writes at the Globe and Mail that Canadian poetry is experiencing a renaissance.

“You know where Canadian literature is excelling? In its poetry. There hasn’t been so much challenging work around – so much that is playful, amusing, dazzling or simply exasperating – for as long as I can remember. Some of this has to do with a new generation of tough-minded editors, some of it has to do with the fading of a certain kind of weepy folksiness, and a lot of it has to do with the Internet. Quite simply, it is easier to read and share poems now, and people are actually doing it.

“Exhibit A: The Walrus magazine, a general-interest journal that bravely publishes poems every month, has been spreading the word online about their ‘readers’ choice’ competition. They asked for submissions of individual poems, then their poetry editor, the truculent Michael Lista, selected his five favourites (blind – that is, he saw no names). Lista has posted the five finalists and is asking for a public vote on the best. (You can vote at the Walrus’s website; voting ends Sept. 30.) The winner gets $1,000. More importantly, the poem will be widely linked to and forwarded, which means it will be read, unlike prize-winning poems of my youth.

“Also unlike the prize-winning poems of my youth – which tended to be about aurora borealis and the great noble sorrow of being descended from rugged settlers – the ones selected for this shortlist are amazingly, some might say frustratingly, dense and intellectual. They are not about birds. (Well, only one is.)” Read more.

I have to thank ArtsJournal.com for linking to wonderful stories like this in newspapers I would never see otherwise. (P.S. I personally have nothing against poems about birds.)

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For an artsy, literary treat, take a look at the Project Gutenberg version of painter Marsden Hartley‘s out-of-print book, Adventures in the Arts: Informal Chapters on Painters, Vaudeville, and Poets, dedicated to Alfred Stieglitz.

Hard to resist an introduction like this:

“Sometimes I think myself one of the unique children among children. I never read a fairy story in my childhood. I always had the feeling as a child, that fairy stories were for grown-ups and were best understood by them, and for that reason I think it must have been that I postponed them. I found them, even at sixteen, too involved and mystifying to take them in with quite the simple gullibility that is necessary. But that was because I was left alone with the incredibly magical reality from morning until nightfall …

“I was constantly confronted with the magic of reality itself, wondering why one thing was built of exquisite curves and another of harmonic angles. It was not a scientific passion in me, it was merely my sensing of the world of visible beauty around me, pressing in on me with the vehemence of splendor, on every side. …

“It is because I love the idea of life better than anything else that I believe most of all in the magic of existence.”

(Thank you, Ellen Levy, for sending me the link.)

Art:  Marsden Hartley

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As readers know, I really believe that “one and one and 50 make a million” (a concept articulated by folksinger Pete Seeger). That’s why I can’t resist a recent story from Moscow, where a few writers decided to have a “stroll,” and 10,000 individuals individually decided to follow.

Ellen Barry writes in the NY Times: “It was only four days ago when 12 prominent authors, disturbed by the crackdown on dissent that accompanied President Vladimir V. Putin’s inauguration, announced an experiment. They called it a ‘test stroll’ …

“No one knew quite what to expect on Sunday. But when the 12 writers left Pushkin Square at lunchtime, they were trailed by a crowd that swelled to an estimated 10,000 people, stopping traffic and filling boulevards for 1.2 miles. …  The police did not interfere, although the organizers had not received a permit to march.

“ ‘We see by the number of people that literature still has authority in our society because no one called these people — they came themselves,’ said Lev Rubinstein, 65, a poet and one of the organizers. ‘We thought this would be a modest stroll of several literary colleagues, and this is what happened. You can see it yourself. … I don’t know how this will all end, but I can say that no one will forget it.’ ” Read more.

I can’t help thinking that one and one and 50 have been growing for a long time in Russia and that the 10,000 who joined the march are just the tip of he iceberg.

Photograph: Dmitry Kostyukov for The New York Times

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In case you don’t usually read blog comments and missed the ones on yesterday’s post, the owl poet sent word about two great poetry events coming up soon.

“Just a reminder to your readers that The Massachusetts Poetry Festival begins in Salem this Friday, April 20, and runs through Sunday, April 22. Go online to discover details and to register for a wide variety of sessions.

“Also, the Block Island Poetry Project is sponsoring a weekend on Getting Published, running Friday, April 27, through Sunday, April 29. For details, go to Block Island Poetry Project 2012.”

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Kate Colby, New England poet, is a friend of Suzanne’s.

I struggled with her pithy collection Fruitlands but am now happily into Beauport. Which is not to say I understand everything. But I am loving the spare naturalness of the language.

It hits the same pleasure buttons as deceptively casual-sounding passages in T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, like:

“Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
“Had a bad cold, nevertheless
“Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
“With a wicked pack of cards.”

I don’t know what Eliot is getting at exactly, but I’m crazy about the way that sounds.

Here’s a bit from Beauport that made me smile:

Fashionable Turn-outs in Central Park (1869)

“Those were the days.                  Don’t you think?
“Sunday driving in plein-
“air affairs of gold
“rims and spokes,
“upper-lip-shaped
“lisping, bespoke
“tailcoats.

“No incendiary pamphleteers,
“here, no lady lecturers,
“temperance hoo-hah …”

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in Just-
spring          when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman
whistles          far          and wee
and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it’s
spring …
– from e.e. cummings

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