Which is the White Man –
the Arab or the Jew,
the Orangeman or the Provo?
Martin Luther King’s dream of inclusion in the grand monochrome
potluck supper of liberty will not be startled awake by the caterwaul
of social scientists,* who deem theory to be reality, or vice versa,
and who dunk their poems in polemic acid,
and who fear comity can mean only the loss
of their coveted sinecures of contention.
Dave Read
*Science, absent empirical truth, is creative writing.
Nobody
is hurt more
by segregation
than everybody whose
heads and hearts lack
knowledge of and esteem for:
Louis Armstrong,
Big Mama Thornton,
Martin Luther King, Jr.,
Willy Mays,
Maya Angelou,
Sonny Rollins,
Toni Morrison,
Paul Robeson,
Duke Ellington,
Sister Rosetta Tharpe,
W.E.B.DuBois,
Rep.John Lewis, R.I.P.,
Aretha Franklin,
John Lee Hooker,
…
Dave Read
The opening paragraph of an article published on the Best American Poetry blog, February 19, 2021, Introducing Emily Dickinson, part 1, ends with this sentence:
“Today the power of her dash is acknowledged as an element of style in any university course in which her work is taught.”
Thus writes David Lehman, noted anthologist and poesyturge.* But Ms. Dickinson, as a non-colored woman of privelege, did not work, nor is her poetry laborious, by any stretch of the imagination.
This illustrates the ultimate incompatibility between what poets do and what scholars do. All a poet wants from yesterday, or from the previous week, even, is the literary analogue to a diving board or a launch pad.
What scholars require is a piece of the past to hang their hat on. Well, a piece torn off and polished with special scholar powder, which may earn the scholar bags of dollars.
*poesyturge = one who does in poetry class what dramaturges do in theatres.
Haiku Exchange 1/22/03 [David Lehman and David Shapiro]
DL by Brian Adams 3
DL to DS
NY Unstuck Exchange (Hi, koo!)
Three drops of blood on
a hill of snow: signal for
rebellion to start.
Two snakes intertwined
around a tree: signal for
couple to have sex.
One touch of Venus
and I will marry the world
with my stiff penis.
I know you knew that
was coming. Of planets I
can’t resist Venus.
How about a new
school of poetics? OK,
but what to call it?
Do you suppose these
haikus will be published and
read on a glad day? [DL, 1 / 20 / 03]
David Shapiro
DS to DL
I have one reader
in mind, but probably she
will be glad elsewhere!
this is my haiku
to the addressee slipped way
beyond the world’s wake!
Call Poetry Mind
Call all else stupidity
Call squirrel there squirrel!
To pronounce squirrel squirrel
In last stanza change accents
Squirrel is still same squirrel!
Oh nominalist
Oh Zeno halfway there, let
her read us one day!
Here I am at school
In front of blue computer
Fairly serene Fool—
[DS, 1 / 21 / 03]
DL to DS
Monocle, Mon Oncle
Good afternoon, my
friend. Um, how would you define
nominalism?
To define the word
in one haiku seems a task
worthy of your skill.
What did Stevens mean
by writing the “clashed edges
of two words that kill”?
This is my haiku
to the world that never sent
one to Emily:
In January
I always think of David
Shapiro’s first book.
[DL, 1 / 21 / 03]
DS to DL
Haiku no explanation but a vision of Wally and the Liberty Dime (coldsnap)
Only the word lives
for the nominalist — words
clash: no cold ideas!
Just two words breaking
in Stevens’ cave, no fire —
just words -– fireflies -–
Thanks for the memries —
the buried 15 yr old
now lost in old years —
Near Plato’s highway
Wallace walks with his wife, but
only words they say!
They go opposite
each other and are happy
Pigeons stay indoors!
That’s what the Times sez!
Pigeons indoors! Spouses! Crimes!
Criminals! Ideas!
Well, David, this is
not the complete Clash or edge
just nominal fee — !
I know that words kill
Because blind History taught
blind Homer they will—-
But haikus could be
little consoled birds inside
warm ferries flying–!
[DS, 1 / 22 / 03]
DL to DS
Time for one more haiku
In my sleep I wrote
haiku of wonder but then
the bird flew away.
Nor raven nor crow
yet that blackbird made circles
in the sky and snow.
No nominalist,
That bird was lordly, a sir,
Yes: Sir Realist.
Stevens and wife walked
to end of street and he turned
left and she turned right.
Two swords that kill do
so with greater skill than two
words that kill, n’est-ce pas?
[DL, 1 / 22 / 03]
Posted by The Best American Poetry on January 22, 2021 at 12:09 PM in Adventures of Lehman, Collaborations, Feature, From the Archive, Haiku Corner | Permalink
Comments
Occidentals pretending to an oriental sensibility may amount to an amusing sideshow. But, these are perilous times; so let us discuss the abomination of poetry made to appear in blackface at the Inauguration.
The talented Ms. Gorman is a tool in the hands of market forces, now in convulsions to reverse the mistake they made with Trump. Let us draw a line between verse written for any purpose other than posterity, and poetry. Godspeed Ms. Gorman in her aspiration to become a poet, and good for her to quote Robert Frost’s accidental Inaugural poem in her own polemical branding exercise.
Posted by: Dave Read | January 23, 2021 at 06:13 AM
Whoa, Dave Read. Do you read these haiku as a pair of “occidentals pretending to an oriental sensibility”? If a Chinese poet were to write a sestina, would he or she be an “oriental pretending to an occidental sensibility.” Dear me, I thought poetic forms were available to all.
As to your second sentence, I hope someone else comments.
Posted by: Tony Paris | January 23, 2021 at 08:25 AM
Yes indeed, Tony Paris, thanks for asking. Regional sensibilities vary by region; what is chic in Paris could land a Riyadh woman in prison. The haiku was developed by people in an inward-looking, if not insular, society. That doesn’t mean Jimi Hendrix couldn’t have been an ace on koto, but, he a guitar fit him to a t.
Today, the haiku is used to trick pupils into thinking they may be poets. Schools don’t use sestina, nor tanka, even, because that would require too much of the poor, benighted teacher.
Incidentally, the syllabic count is the least important aspect of a haiku, which must be a spare and ecstatic expression of man in nature. Anything else is a tercet, to be formal about it. And don’t fret, please, about pretending – it’s not a bad thing.
Posted by: Dave Read | January 23, 2021 at 12:11 PM
Dave Read, you obviously know so much more than I that it is a treat to read your response to my comment, and I don’t mind your condescending tone. That’s how professors should sound, also with pomp and dignity IMHO, especially when speaking to someone whose existence is merely virtual and probably not their intellectual equal.
In particular I didn’t know that syllabic count is the least important aspect of a haiku. That took me by surprise!
Also your idea that “the haiku is used to trick pupils into thinking they may be poets” is a beautifully formulated indictment of the creative writing industry that Kenneth Koch, who taught these two haiku-trading jokers, helped to establish. Have you written at length about this?
Your praise of pretense makes me wonder whether you are someone else pretending to be you. Thanks for your consideration.
Posted by: Tony Paris | January 23, 2021 at 05:22 PM
I’d like to add that I actually like these haiku and I meant “jokers” respectfully.
Posted by: Tony Paris | January 23, 2021 at 05:23 PM
Where high breakers roar
I read the stirring words of
David and David,
and think of Stevens
who’d quell reality for
imagination.
Posted by: Grace Schulman | January 24, 2021 at 07:51 AM
In the early 1970s, I was in one of the first collegiate writing mills, run by the guy who wrote “The Book of Forms;” there were a handful then, and more than 800 now. In the meantime, the ultimate corporate shill, GE-manufactured Reagan, is deemed a statesman, the overgrown adolescent Clinton is idolized, Bush, Bush, Trump. Post hoc ergo propter hoc is a logical fallacy, so how do we account for the sure, steady decline in the ordinary citizen’s ability to parse a sales pitch? I dropped out in the 60s, lucked-out of the draft, finished a BA and did a year of law school, but was too precious, too sensitive a soul, either to buy-in or to sell-out. In my 60s, I’d built up enough scar tissue to wade into the public square. Look what BigPharma loot did to Poetry. There oughta be a law!
I have you on a lofty perch, Tony, for your initial response, and I’m getting a crick in my neck as I seek to speak up to you. I’m so furious at the state of affairs in the world of poetry that I forget to edit for tone. Thank again for your interest. If you’d like to read my stuff, I publish poems here: https://readspoems.com.
Posted by: Dave Read | January 24, 2021 at 08:23 AM
Some of the comments here are rhetorically quote complicated and (maybe deliberately) controversial. But I would just like to say that the use of haiku as a form of correspondence seems inspired to me.
Posted by: Jill Newnham | January 24, 2021 at 10:21 AM
Dear Grace: We’re grateful
to you for your elegant
smart haiku comment!
Posted by: David Lehman | January 24, 2021 at 11:24 AM
Dave Read, I admire your willingness to say things that would earn you derision or worse from the “shaming police” on Twitter. My roommate in college had a copy of “The Book of Forms” by Lewis Turco. May I ask whether you disapprove of these haiku on an a priori basis (because the poets are masquerading) or because the writing wasn’t all that exciting, or what? Just curious. Thanks again.
Posted by: Tony Paris | January 24, 2021 at 11:38 AM
I think my original comment should be an adequate answer, Tony. But to elaborate, sort of, I see the Inaugural poem as both a cynical start to the 2024 campaign – what a desirable demographic the wonderful Ms. Gorman represents, and an especially valuable branding event arranged by whatever market forces represent her. The likes of Robert Frost serve neither purpose – never did, never will! And, I don’t disapprove of the haiku series, nor would I if they were called tercets. I merely took advantage of an opportunity to sound off.
Posted by: Dave Read | January 24, 2021 at 02:44 PM
“In 1976, When She Was Born” [a sonnet by Molly Arden]
Gerhard Richter 1994
Life was dull in 1976.
Dad had to read “Ivanhoe” and write a report.
Sex was not yet Mom’s favorite sport.
The only rhyme that came to mind was “dicks.”
Mom was somewhere north
of the Mass / NH border.
She was just following an order,
not calculating its moral worth.
She was on vacation
feeling unclever
and not happily after ever.
He promised to wait
for her return to the state
of eternal temptation.
See also http://www.coconutpoetry.org/arden1.html
Posted by The Best American Poetry on November 20, 2020 at 01:20 PM in “Coconut”, Molly Arden | Permalink
Comments
How would one distinguish this composition from someone’s diary notes, notes of thoughts and notions to be developed further, as time allows? In other words, where is the artfulness, where is the care to cut away the dross, to reveal a glossy nugget of wisdom, which poetry invented itself to do?
Posted by: Dave Read | November 21, 2020 at 08:13 AM
Dear Dave, Thank you for commenting. You make a cogent case for “artfulness” and the value of the “glossy nugget of wisdom” that we find in, for example, any of three dozen of Robert Frost’s poems, which I love. Yet I enjoy poetry that obeys a different imperative in its goal of giving pleasure, which Wordsworth wrote is the poet’s first obligation. This poem by Moly Arden charmed me, because of its calculated artlessness. It sounds so very random, yet the poem rhymes, it has a formal unity; and in its casual way it is symmetrical (“She” begins stanza four, “He” begins stanza four) and hints at a narrative — of the breakup of a marriage. So I guess I would defend “diary notes” while loving, advocating and teaching the sort of poems that would, I imagine, meet your criteria as well as mine (e.g. The Canonization, The Garden, Tintern Abbey, Tithonus, Prufrock, Sunday Morning). — DL
Posted by: David Lehman | November 21, 2020 at 09:55 AM
Dear Dave, We have described the poles well enough; if we’re not careful, someone will suggest a third way! Thank you for your service, on all of our behalf.
Posted by: Dave Read | November 21, 2020 at 01:20 PM
The Course of a Particular
Today the leaves cry, hanging on branches swept by wind,
Yet the nothingness of winter becomes a little less.
It is still full of icy shades and shapen snow.
The leaves cry . . . One holds off and merely hears the cry.
It is a busy cry, concerning someone else.
And though one says that one is part of everything,
There is a conflict, there is a resistance involved;
And being part is an exertion that declines:
One feels the life of that which gives life as it is.
The leaves cry. It is not a cry of divine attention,
Nor the smoke-drift of puffed-out heroes, nor human cry.
It is the cry of leaves that do not transcend themselves,
In the absence of fantasia, without meaning more
Than they are in the final finding of the ear, in the thing
Itself, until, at last, the cry concerns no one at all.
– Wallace Stevens
Question: What does this poem mean?
a) What it says.
b) That “in the absence of fantasia,” everything amounts to nothing.
c) Nature is indifferent to human beings and their imaginary or deceased gods.
d) When “the nothingness of winter becomes a little less,” it is a positive thing, though the phrasing and the rhyme of “nothingness” and “a little less” make you think things are even bleaker than they were.
e) One grows old and one’s powers decline. (Born in Reading, PA (Oct 2, 1879), died Hartford, CT (Aug 3, 1955).)
f) The “meaning” of any sound depends on the existence of an ear.
Posted by The Best American Poetry on February 03, 2021 at 11:10 AM in Multiple Choice, Poems | Permalink
Comments
All this poem means is that Mr. Stevens now is free to consider the next string of thought that otherwise is too short to be saved. Within the context of institutions that would produce poets, if they could, it means the person seated closest to the blackboard is likely the one whose imagination is too meager for the job.
Thanks for letting me let off steam; what has been allowed to happen to poetry is as criminal as the slaughter of Vietnam, and, roughly, co-terminal to it.
Posted by: Dave Read | February 06, 2021 at 06:37 AM
“What has been allowed to happen to poetry is as criminal as the slaughter of Vietnam, and, roughly, co-terminal to it.” That is a very strong statement. How did this happen? Are you thinking of the lack of reverence for tradition? The dismissal of dead white men? The fate of the canon? The debunking of the idea of genius? The neglect of form, meter, rhyme, and other adjuncts? Is it your sense that the “essence” of poetry has been re-defined to serve a socio-political end?
Posted by: Tony Paris | February 06, 2021 at 10:11 AM
It was easy as pie; the academy decided it wanted to add poetry to the list of cultural artifacts and artistic constructs that it makes bank with. (See Yvor Winters, 1930s). The care and feeding of born poets never was part of the equation; it would be about the minting of taught poets (taut?), who would become just what we have today.
Look at the early funding source of the flagship “creative writing” program at Stanford. Look at what happens to Poetry magazine/foundation in the wake of massive BigPharma money.
Born poets are odd people; academic poetry mills produce polished product, ready for pop culture, which ate culture culture’s lunch, at least since the plastic people* emerged victorious from the 1960s. (*see Frank Zappa)
Donald Hall’s career provides an object lesson in what it takes for a “learned” poet to get around to producing good poems. At his valedictory reading/lecture (UNH, Nov. 2017), he said this: “the best American poetry still is Dickinson and Whitman.”
Thanks to him, nobody has to subject herself to such horrors as Exeter, Harvard, Oxford, Stanford, Michigan (including a stint as an unwitting tool of the CIA at the Paris Review.)
My point is that the academy, at its essence, looks backward and tries to make sense of things. One can make marvelous, entertaining, verse using nothing but wrote material; poets must first set roots in the present, then visit the future, take refuge for a while in the library, mess around looking for company, and, if there’s any good will remaining in the tank, set down instructions for their progeny’s edification.
Also, they need to spend time in the south, or otherwise tan their own hides; a thick skin is more important to a poet than the fancy parchment doled out by deans and others with penchants for pomp, circumstance, and regalia designed for the pleasure of the crown.
You want to be a poet, kid? then, follow Wallace Stevens’ example; find a career that won’t cost your soul, walk to work, and use your mind along the way. The money is in the insurance business; write poems for love, not lucre. It is that simple – am I the only simple-minded man, with Internet access?
Now look, our junior poet laureate is all-in with the NFL*. I rest my case. (reserving the right to revise and add to my remarks, at whim, or by invitation!) *NFL was alongside CIA, FBI, LBJ, et al. on the people’s wall of shame, when poetry was yet an amateur pursuit.
Thanks for the soapbox, Tony.
Posted by: Dave Read | February 08, 2021 at 06:18 AM
Why thanks to Donald Hall?
Posted by: Tony Paris | February 09, 2021 at 08:58 AM
Hall died a poet, after decades trying to fit himself into the scholastic canon, thanks largely to Jane Kenyon’s influence, and to what he learned from Henry Moore. Poets belong in the streets, in the delivery room, in the board room, courtroom, garage – everywhere but the yesterday room, the university.
Posted by: Dave Read | February 10, 2021 at 05:33 AM
and furthermore – search for a posthumous take-down of Donald Hall by Lewis Turco, published in “The Hollins Critic.”
Posted by: Dave Read | February 10, 2021 at 05:38 AM
Aren’t you confusing “The Paris Review” with “Encounter”? I never bought the conspiracy theory that the CIA used Abstract-Expressionism for propagandas purposes. Also, as I understand it, Hall quite his tenured faculty position when he was in his 40s. Maybe David Lehman will clarify. He holds Hall in esteem.
Posted by: Tony Paris | February 10, 2021 at 08:48 AM
Peter Matthiessen created the Paris Review as cover for his CIA work; that’s not a secret anymore. Why wouldn’t they meddle in the art market, is it somebody’s sacred cow?
Aren’t we all free to believe whatever we want about the CIA – it is their primary function to operate in the impossibility of total darkness, and to manipulate the lighting everywhere else. Look how they arranged a Nobel for Pasternak. I wonder if they had a hand in Dylan’s?
I asked Donald Hall his thoughts about Dylan’s Nobel – to summarize his response, which was not at all unkind to the Song and Dance man, “…Phil Roth should have got it, and now he never will.”