An all-or-nothing choice is an example of a false dilemma; in reality, all is nothing.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
|Dream of Wheat|
Upon waking, I wrote down the dream, then began a rather lengthy project of molding my impressions, as is my wont, into poetry. What an impossible task it seemed to me–as if I were charged with rebuilding the sun! If I could find the poem, I’d consider posting it here, but Fate, a cruel mistress, has decided otherwise. For what it’s worth, my recollection is that it included the requisite allusion to Aldous Huxley, a soft-R depiction of Gaea’s long blonde hair streaming across my face during the impassioned throes of our lovemaking, & lithe, lean lions with golden manes. How all of these came together in a wheat field, I honestly don’t know, but back then, I had a thing for lions–& blondes!
Like Richard Dreyfus in Close Encounters of the Third Kind, I became rather obsessed with the dream’s imagery. Frustrated by the poem’s failure, like lumpy mashed potatoes, to capture the experience–dreams are experience– even though I’d not painted in several years, I attempted to recreate it in a watercolor (I’d dabbled in high school, though I much preferred acrylics & oils). The above image is of the wheat field, but feeling that it lacked the dream’s vivacity, I flipped the image over (see below) & called it, "Daybreak at Clearwater." I used to live there.
|Daybreak at Clearwater|
Friday, September 9, 2011
Against the horsemen from the north,
who will surely appear again
as the river freezes & against the wolves.
In each of us there is this sense of withdrawal
into ourselves, this retirement
into the body’s secret
light & warmth, out of the coming cold; this moving
further into some deep inner self that must remain
untouched by the closeness that will be forced
upon us in these winter months, when first
the town is shut up, then our houses . . .
We will spend days & nights equally
huddled together above
the one peat stone in the big central room
drives us closer together, yet further apart.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
|Eliot, as Walt Disney, introduces|
"Mickey Among the Nightingales"
on The Wonderful World of Color.
I’m convinced that my previously held conviction that T.S. Eliot (pronounced "Z'eliot," as the "T" is silent), with the notable exception of two, maybe three poems--in particular "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," long a guilty pleasure--well, I don't want to say "sucks," but yeah, he kinda does, you know.*
One reason is Eliot's anti-Semitism (e.g., his various allusions to The Jew of Malta & other depictions of Jews in a bad light). Admittedly, Eliot was a product of his time & in those days, anti-Semitism was all the rage. By that logic, however, one could argue that if everyone else is banging your daughter, you may as well bang her, too. Sorry, perverts, but popularity doesn't make it right--even if she's ripe & practically begging for it, what with her trendy black jackboots & swastika tramp stamp.
Ok, one may ask, granted that anti-Semitism bites the big one, how does Eliot's biting it reflect negatively on his poetics? Simply put, content matters. Technique & craftsmanship alone don't great poems make. Poetry uses words & words have meanings. Get a dictionary if you don't get that.
As for craftsmanship, I don't know which I like less about these poems--the desire to proselytize readers or the shocking lack, line after preachy line, of imagery. Didn't Eliot say he preferred the Metaphysical poets to the Romantics because the former attached emotions to images? What happened to the objective correlative? The only image is the one in my imagination of Eliot in grand ecclesiatical robes perched at the pulpit reading his sermon while I slip, not so quietly, out. ***
Eliot, as Jack Benny, strikes
a familiar pose in It's a Mad,
Mad, Mad, Mad World
In an oft-repeated story, Eliot gave pages & pages of rambling, disconnected lines to fascist friend Ezra Pound to make sense of. In retrospect, in light of Pound's Cantos, this strikes me as hilarious. Reportedly, Pound cut huge chunks of trifling tripe; the leftovers we know today as The Waste Land. It makes my head swim, as if I were being waterboarded, to contemplate what material Pound felt too extraneous to leave in The Waste Land, a poem without a center, but I've essentially avoided the doubly long pre-Pound draft, published as a facsimile after Eliot's death. To be frank, I don't need more obscure, willy-nilly references to understand Eliot is a pompous ass, though I'll confess I sometimes have a cockeyed curiosity to read the unedited version, much like one will rubberneck a freeway car wreck for a passing glimpse of somebody else's tragedy.
Eliot, as Prof. Wagstaff, at the 1955
London Caedmon Readings
In short, beneath much of his poetry lies the same simple, moralistic possum: the only hope for breaking the vile & vicious cycle of birth, copulation & death--the curse of humanity--comes via God through a once-in-a-lifetime offer. Some restrictions may apply. Please check your ethnicity for availability.
* "T.S." stands for "The Shit." I lied beforehand.
** The Rock has actually appeared in worse movies, such as . . . just about any of them.
*** What the thunder really said: Shaddup shaddup shaddup.