What a treat! Erin Stranyak of the American University of Paris put together this mini-documentary on a wonderful bilingual poetry reading series in Paris, Ivy Writers Paris, which was founded by the American poets Jennifer K. Dick and Michelle Noteboom.
Sit in on a reading by watching the video below, and join us on January 18th for the next reading, featuring Guy Bennett & Philippe Beck.
523
Sweet—You forgot—but I remembered
Every time—for Two—
So that the Sum be never hindered
Through Decay of You—
Say if I erred? Accuse my Farthings—
Blame the little Hand
Happy it be for You—a Beggar's—
Seeking More—to spend—
Just to be Rich—to waste my Guineas
On so Best a Heart—
Just to be Poor—for Barefoot Vision
You—Sweet—Shut me out—
…because I've fallen into some kind of Lacanian wormhole with no sign of emerging anytime soon*, here's the Aragon poem he quotes on the first page of The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis (Seminar XI):
Vainement ton image arrive à ma rencontre
Et ne m'entre où je suis qui seulement la montre
Toi te tournant vers moi tu ne saurais trouver
Au mur de mon regard que ton ombre rêvée
Je suis ce malheureux comparable aux miroirs
Qui peuvent réfléchir mais ne peuvent pas voir
Comme eux mon æil est vide et comme eux habité
De l'absence de toi qui fait sa cécité
In vain your image comes to meet me
And does not enter me where I am who only show it
Turning towards me you can find
On the wall of my gaze only your dreamt-of shadow.
I am that wretch comparable with mirrors
That can reflect but cannot see
Like them my eye is empty and like them inhabited
By your absence which makes them blind.
| (26) |
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| by Emily Dickinson | ||
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It's all I have to bring today – |
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Isn't that the nicest name for a place? That's where we're heading today, where we've headed more summers than not, up to the Berkshires for a weekend of music and theatre and art.
So for today's Friday poetry, something tree-ish and musical, by my dear friend Charlotte's husband, the poet Robert Kelly. This is taken from Fire Exit.
70.
Tree in the window of the particular
what kind? sycamore she thought
its white bark blamed with ivy
broken syntax trying to tell you
an orchestra is always ending something
you leap onto the bare stage
and everyone can see you but me
because I was born blind in a bible
only words fit my teeth
nothing to see
but the dissolving alphabet
whose residue is everything I touch.
I was re-reading Joseph Mitchell's article "Up at the Old Hotel" the other day, about a restaurant on Fulton Street, in a building that used to be a hotel right behind the ferryhouse of the Fulton Ferry, the primary ferry moving between Brooklyn and Lower Manhattan. "On account of the Ferry, Fulton Street was like a funnel; damned near everything headed for Brooklyn went through it."
Ferries to Brooklyn of course made me think of Whitman.
So here's Whitman (another native Long Islander), "Crossing Brooklyn Ferry" (1856)
| FLOOD-TIDE below me! I watch you face to face; |
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| Clouds of the west! sun there half an hour high! I see you also face to face. |
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| Crowds of men and women attired in the usual costumes! how curious you are to me! |
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| On the ferry-boats, the hundreds and hundreds that cross, returning home, are more curious to me than you suppose; |
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| And you that shall cross from shore to shore years hence, are more to me, and more in my meditations, than you might suppose. |
5 |
The impalpable sustenance of me from all things, at all hours of the day; |
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| The simple, compact, well-join’d scheme—myself disintegrated, every one disintegrated, yet part of the scheme: |
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| The similitudes of the past, and those of the future; |
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| The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings—on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river; |
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| The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away; |
10 |
| The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them; |
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| The certainty of others—the life, love, sight, hearing of others. |
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| Others will enter the gates of the ferry, and cross from shore to shore; |
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| Others will watch the run of the flood-tide; | |
| Others will see the shipping of Manhattan north and west, and the heights of Brooklyn to the south and east; |
15 |
| Others will see the islands large and small; | |
| Fifty years hence, others will see them as they cross, the sun half an hour high; |
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| A hundred years hence, or ever so many hundred years hence, others will see them, |
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| Will enjoy the sunset, the pouring in of the flood-tide, the falling back to the sea of the ebb-tide. |
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It avails not, neither time or place—distance avails not; |
20 |
| I am with you, you men and women of a generation, or ever so many generations hence; |
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| I project myself—also I return—I am with you, and know how it is. |
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| Just as you feel when you look on the river and sky, so I felt; |
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| Just as any of you is one of a living crowd, I was one of a crowd; |
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| Just as you are refresh’d by the gladness of the river and the bright flow, I was refresh’d; |
25 |
| Just as you stand and lean on the rail, yet hurry with the swift current, I stood, yet was hurried; |
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| Just as you look on the numberless masts of ships, and the thick-stem’d pipes of steamboats, I look’d. |
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| I too many and many a time cross’d the river, the sun half an hour high; |
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| I watched the Twelfth-month sea-gulls—I saw them high in the air, floating with motionless wings, oscillating their bodies, |
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| I saw how the glistening yellow lit up parts of their bodies, and left the rest in strong shadow, |
30 |
| I saw the slow-wheeling circles, and the gradual edging toward the south. |
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| I too saw the reflection of the summer sky in the water, |
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| Had my eyes dazzled by the shimmering track of beams, |
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| Look’d at the fine centrifugal spokes of light around the shape of my head in the sun-lit water, |
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| Look’d on the haze on the hills southward and southwestward, |
35 |
| Look’d on the vapor as it flew in fleeces tinged with violet, |
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| Look’d toward the lower bay to notice the arriving ships, |
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| Saw their approach, saw aboard those that were near me, |
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| Saw the white sails of schooners and sloops—saw the ships at anchor, |
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| The sailors at work in the rigging, or out astride the spars, |
40 |
| The round masts, the swinging motion of the hulls, the slender serpentine pennants, |
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| The large and small steamers in motion, the pilots in their pilot-houses, |
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| The white wake left by the passage, the quick tremulous whirl of the wheels, |
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| The flags of all nations, the falling of them at sun-set, |
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| The scallop-edged waves in the twilight, the ladled cups, the frolicsome crests and glistening, |
45 |
| The stretch afar growing dimmer and dimmer, the gray walls of the granite store-houses by the docks, |
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| On the river the shadowy group, the big steam-tug closely flank’d on each side by the barges—the hay-boat, the belated lighter, |
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| On the neighboring shore, the fires from the foundry chimneys burning high and glaringly into the night, |
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| Casting their flicker of black, contrasted with wild red and yellow light, over the tops of houses, and down into the clefts of streets. |
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These, and all else, were to me the same as they are to you; |
50 |
| I project myself a moment to tell you—also I return. |
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| I loved well those cities; | |
| I loved well the stately and rapid river; | |
| The men and women I saw were all near to me; | |
| Others the same—others who look back on me, because I look’d forward to them; |
55 |
| (The time will come, though I stop here to-day and to-night.) |
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What is it, then, between us? |
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| What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? |
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| Whatever it is, it avails not—distance avails not, and place avails not. |
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I too lived —Brooklyn, of ample hills, was mine; |
60 |
| I too walk’d the streets of Manhattan Island, and bathed in the waters around it; |
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| I too felt the curious abrupt questionings stir within me, |
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| In the day, among crowds of people, sometimes they came upon me, |
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| In my walks home late at night, or as I lay in my bed, they came upon me. |
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| I too had been struck from the float forever held in solution; |
65 |
| I too had receiv’d identity by my Body; | |
| That I was, I knew was of my body—and what I should be, I knew I should be of my body. |
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It is not upon you alone the dark patches fall, |
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| The dark threw patches down upon me also; | |
| The best I had done seem’d to me blank and suspicious; |
70 |
| My great thoughts, as I supposed them, were they not in reality meagre? would not people laugh at me? |
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| It is not you alone who know what it is to be evil; | |
| I am he who knew what it was to be evil; | |
| I too knitted the old knot of contrariety, | |
| Blabb’d, blush’d, resented, lied, stole, grudg’d, | 75 |
| Had guile, anger, lust, hot wishes I dared not speak, |
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| Was wayward, vain, greedy, shallow, sly, cowardly, malignant; |
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| The wolf, the snake, the hog, not wanting in me, | |
| The cheating look, the frivolous word, the adulterous wish, not wanting, |
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| Refusals, hates, postponements, meanness, laziness, none of these wanting. |
80 |
But I was Manhattanese, friendly and proud! |
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| I was call’d by my nighest name by clear loud voices of young men as they saw me approaching or passing, |
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| Felt their arms on my neck as I stood, or the negligent leaning of their flesh against me as I sat, |
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| Saw many I loved in the street, or ferry-boat, or public assembly, yet never told them a word, |
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| Lived the same life with the rest, the same old laughing, gnawing, sleeping, |
85 |
| Play’d the part that still looks back on the actor or actress, |
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| The same old role, the role that is what we make it, as great as we like, |
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| Or as small as we like, or both great and small. | |
Closer yet I approach you; |
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| What thought you have of me, I had as much of you—I laid in my stores in advance; |
90 |
| I consider’d long and seriously of you before you were born. |
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| Who was to know what should come home to me? | |
| Who knows but I am enjoying this? | |
| Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me? |
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| It is not you alone, nor I alone; | 95 |
| Not a few races, nor a few generations, nor a few centuries; |
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| It is that each came, or comes, or shall come, from its due emission, |
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| From the general centre of all, and forming a part of all: |
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| Everything indicates—the smallest does, and the largest does; |
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| A necessary film envelopes all, and envelopes the Soul for a proper time. |
100 |
Now I am curious what sight can ever be more stately and admirable to me than my mast-hemm’d Manhattan, |
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| My river and sun-set, and my scallop-edg’d waves of flood-tide, |
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| The sea-gulls oscillating their bodies, the hay-boat in the twilight, and the belated lighter; |
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| Curious what Gods can exceed these that clasp me by the hand, and with voices I love call me promptly and loudly by my nighest name as I approach; |
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| Curious what is more subtle than this which ties me to the woman or man that looks in my face, |
105 |
| Which fuses me into you now, and pours my meaning into you. |
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| We understand, then, do we not? | |
| What I promis’d without mentioning it, have you not accepted? |
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| What the study could not teach—what the preaching could not accomplish, is accomplish’d, is it not? |
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| What the push of reading could not start, is started by me personally, is it not? |
110 |
Flow on, river! flow with the flood-tide, and ebb with the ebb-tide! |
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| Frolic on, crested and scallop-edg’d waves! | |
| Gorgeous clouds of the sun-set! drench with your splendor me, or the men and women generations after me; |
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| Cross from shore to shore, countless crowds of passengers! |
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| Stand up, tall masts of Mannahatta!—stand up, beautiful hills of Brooklyn! |
115 |
| Throb, baffled and curious brain! throw out questions and answers! |
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| Suspend here and everywhere, eternal float of solution! | |
| Gaze, loving and thirsting eyes, in the house, or street, or public assembly! |
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| Sound out, voices of young men! loudly and musically call me by my nighest name! |
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| Live, old life! play the part that looks back on the actor or actress! |
120 |
| Play the old role, the role that is great or small, according as one makes it! |
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| Consider, you who peruse me, whether I may not in unknown ways be looking upon you; |
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| Be firm, rail over the river, to support those who lean idly, yet haste with the hasting current; |
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| Fly on, sea-birds! fly sideways, or wheel in large circles high in the air; |
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| Receive the summer sky, you water! and faithfully hold it, till all downcast eyes have time to take it from you; |
125 |
| Diverge, fine spokes of light, from the shape of my head, or any one’s head, in the sun-lit water; |
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| Come on, ships from the lower bay! pass up or down, white-sail’d schooners, sloops, lighters! |
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| Flaunt away, flags of all nations! be duly lower’d at sunset; |
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| Burn high your fires, foundry chimneys! cast black shadows at nightfall! cast red and yellow light over the tops of the houses; |
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| Appearances, now or henceforth, indicate what you are; |
130 |
| You necessary film, continue to envelop the soul; | |
| About my body for me, and your body for you, be hung our divinest aromas; |
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| Thrive, cities! bring your freight, bring your shows, ample and sufficient rivers; |
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| Expand, being than which none else is perhaps more spiritual; |
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| Keep your places, objects than which none else is more lasting. |
135 |
We descend upon you and all things—we arrest you all; |
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| We realize the soul only by you, you faithful solids and fluids; |
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| Through you color, form, location, sublimity, ideality; |
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| Through you every proof, comparison, and all the suggestions and determinations of ourselves. |
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| You have waited, you always wait, you dumb, beautiful ministers! you novices! |
140 |
| We receive you with free sense at last, and are insatiate henceforward; |
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| Not you any more shall be able to foil us, or withhold yourselves from us; |
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| We use you, and do not cast you aside—we plant you permanently within us; |
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| We fathom you not—we love you—there is perfection in you also; |
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| You furnish your parts toward eternity; | 145 |
| Great or small, you furnish your parts toward the soul. |
…the return of Friday poetry!
Steps
FRANK O’HARA
How funny you are today New York
like Ginger Rogers in Swingtime
and St. Bridget’s steeple leaning a little to the left
here I have just jumped out of a bed full of V-days
(I got tired of D-days) and blue you there still
accepts me foolish and free
all I want is a room up there
and you in it
and even the traffic halt so thick is a way
for people to rub up against each other
and when their surgical appliances lock
they stay together
for the rest of the day (what a day)
I go by to check a slide and I say
that painting’s not so blue
where’s Lana Turner
she’s out eating
and Garbo’s backstage at the Met
everyone’s taking their coat off
so they can show a rib-cage to the rib-watchers
and the park’s full of dancers with their tights and shoes
in little bags
who are often mistaken for worker-outers at the West Side Y
why not
the Pittsburgh Pirates shout because they won
and in a sense we’re all winning
we’re alive
the apartment was vacated by a gay couple
who moved to the country for fun
they moved a day too soon
even the stabbings are helping the population explosion
though in the wrong country
and all those liars have left the UN
the Seagram Building’s no longer rivalled in interest
not that we need liquor (we just like it)
and the little box is out on the sidewalk
next to the delicatessen
so the old man can sit on it and drink beer
and get knocked off it by his wife later in the day
while the sun is still shining
oh god it’s wonderful
to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much
Théophile Gautier (1811-1872), Poésies (1830-1832) : Sonnet VII
E la lor cieca vita è tanto bassa
Ch’invidiosi son d’ogn’altra sorte.
Inferno, canto III.
Avec ce siècle infâme il est temps que l’on rompe ;
Car à son front damné le doigt fatal a mis
Comme aux portes d’enfer : Plus d’espérance ! — Amis,
Ennemis, peuples, rois, tout nous joue et nous trompe.
Un budget éléphant boit notre or par sa trompe ;
Dans leurs trônes d’hier encor mal affermis,
De leurs aînés déchus ils gardent tout, hormis
La main prompte à s’ouvrir et la royale pompe.
Cependant en juillet, sous le ciel indigo,
Sur les pavés mouvants, ils ont fait des promesses
Autant que Charles dix avait ouï de messes !
Seule, la poésie incarnée en Hugo
Ne nous a pas déçus, et de palmes divines,
Vers l’avenir tournée, ombrage nos ruines.
Let's do some more Pound, shall we, in honor of my reading The Pound Era?
Villanelle: The Psychological Hour
(1914-15)
I had over prepared the event,
that much was ominous.
With middle-ageing care
I had laid out just the right books.
I had almost turned down the pages.
Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.
So much barren regret,
So many hours wasted!
And now I watch, from the window,
the rain, the wandering busses.
"Their little cosmos is shaken" –
the air is alive with that fact.
In their parts of the city
they are played on by diverse forces.
How do I know?
Oh, I know well enough.
For them there is something afoot.
As for me;
I had over-prepared the event –
Beauty is so rare a thing.
So few drink of my fountain.
Two friends: a breath of the forest. . .
Friends? Are people less friends
because one has just, at last, found them?
Twice they promised to come.
"Between the night and the morning?"
Beauty would drink of my mind.
Youth would awhile forget
my youth is gone from me.
(Speak up! You have danced so stiffly?
Someone admired your works,
And said so frankly.
"Did you talk like a fool,
The first night?
The second evening?"
"But they promised again:
'To-morrow at tea-time'.")
Now the third day is here –
no word from either;
No word from her nor him,
Only another man's note:
"Dear Pound, I am leaving England."
Ezra Pound, Canto XLIX
For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.
Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk's bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.
Where wine flag catches the sunset
Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light
Comes then snow scur on the river
And a world is covered with jade
Small boat floats like a lanthorn,
The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin
they are a people of leisure.
Wild geese swoop to the sand-bar,
Clouds gather about the hole of the window
Broad water; geese line out with the autumn
Rooks clatter over the fishermen's lanthorns,
A light moves on the north sky line;
where the young boys prod stones for shrimp.
In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.
A light moves on the South sky line.
State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?
Thsi is infamy; this is Geryon.
This canal goes still to TenShi
Though the old king built it for pleasure
K E I M E N R A N K E I
K I U M A N M A N K E I
JITSU GETSU K O K W A
T A N FUKU T A N K A I
Sun up; work
sundown; to rest
dig well and drink of the water
dig field; eat of the grain
Imperial power is? and to us what is it?
The fourth; the dimension of stillness.
And the power over wild beasts.