Who Says? Who Sees?

March 14, 2017

I’ve been fascinated by voice and point of view in poems since I started to write seriously.  When I first began to read contemporary poetry, I was disappointed by how much if it was spoken by an I that stood between me and everything going on in the poem.  Disappointed because the older poetry I’d read drew on a much wider range of point of view, including third person.  I felt as if I should be using that I since everyone around me was, but I couldn’t do it then–every poem I started that way got stuck until I changed it to she.  Eventually I found an I I could live with, but once I did I got bored and went back to trying other pronouns.  Now I don’t think about it–the poem speaks, and I listen.  But I notice as much as ever when I read, and I especially love voices that seem to come out of nowhere.  Here are a couple of my favorites.  Please add your own favorite poems that don’t use a first person singular speaker.

Spring Pools

Robert Frost

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods —
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.

 

Sestina

Elizabeth Bishop

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.

She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,

It’s time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle’s small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac

on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.

It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.

But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.

Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

Elizabeth Bishop: THE BIGHT

February 8, 2017

No greater master.

 

THE BIGHT

on my birthday

Elizabeth Bishop

 

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn’t wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.

I Hear America Singing: The Poetry of American Identity

February 5, 2017

As I’ve been thinking about ongoing posts that speak to American identity, I came across a wonderful site, The Poetry of American Identity.  It’s provided by the Library of Congress and is “a collection of field recordings by a wide range of award-winning contemporary poets. Each poet reads a singular American poem of his or her choosing, and also speaks to how the poem connects, deepens, or re-imagines our sense of the nation. The feature includes a print version of the poem to complement the recording, as well as a piece by the participating poet.”  So you can read and listen to this wide ranging sense of what America is, and what it is to be American.  I think there are 19 poems, and I’m going to start with Ed Hirsch’s reading and discussion of William Carlos Williams’ “To Elsie.”  I think.   Doesn’t matter, I’m going to listen to all of them.  I hope you’ll share your reactions right here.  I’m imagining all of us gathered in someone’s big comfy living room, listening and talking.

I Hear America Singing: Phillis Wheatley

January 30, 2017

Phillis Wheatley (1753-1784) was the first African-American poet to be published in English. Her work was well known in England and Europe, as well as in America, and was praised by George Washington and Voltaire, among many others. You can read the official stories everywhere from Wikipedia to the Poetry Foundation, which describes her this way: “[p]ampered in the household of prominent Boston commercialist John Wheatley, lionized in New England and England… and paraded before the new republic’s political leadership and the old empire’s aristocracy, Wheatley was the abolitionists’ illustrative testimony that blacks could be both artistic and intellectual. Her name was a household word among literate colonists and her achievements a catalyst for the fledgling antislavery movement.”

 

Here is how I would tell her story. A child was playing near her home in Africa when she was kidnapped by slavers. She was probably seven or eight, old enough to remember everything (the year given above is a guess). Her real name isn’t recorded it, though she must have known it. When she arrived in America on a slave ship named the Phillis, alone and ill, she was bought—not adopted, bought—by a rich Bostonian for his wife, who needed a household servant. They named her for the ship and themselves. When they realized how bright she was, they educated her—I suppose that is the pampered part—and showed off her talents to others, all amazed that a black child could read and write.

 

Her poems were especially lauded for their classical references and technical skill. I find them incredibly well crafted, but seldom moving. She writes mostly what she’s been taught, as in this poem:

 

ON BEING BROUGHT FROM AFRICA TO AMERICA

 

‘Twas mercy brought me from my Pagan land,

Taught my benighted soul to understand

That there’s a God, that there’s a Saviour too:

Once I redemption neither sought nor knew.

Some view our sable race with scornful eye,

“Their colour is a diabolic die.”

Remember, Christians, Negros, black as Cain,

May be refin’d, and join th’ angelic train.

 

 

There’s some assertiveness here: we blacks have as much right to be Christian as you whites do. But that seems like a small victory. Here’s the one passage that seems to me to speak the truth of her real feelings. I’m just sorry there isn’t much more like this, from “The Right Honourable William, Earl of Dartmouth”:

 

Should you, my lord, while you peruse my song,

Wonder from whence my love of Freedom sprung,

Whence flow these wishes for the common good,

By feeling hearts alone best understood,

I, young in life, by seeming cruel fate

Was snatch’d from Afric’s fancy’d happy seat:

What pangs excruciating must molest,

What sorrows labour in my parents’ breast?

Steel’d was that soul and by no misery mov’d

That from a father seiz’d his babe belov’d:

Such, such my case. And can I then but pray

Others may never feel tyrannic sway?

 

What of her family? What of her own memories of her life and her abduction? We can only imagine.  I think of it as a bleak life made bearable by poetry.  I’ll leave it to you to read about her life’s sad last years.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I Hear America Singing: Anne Bradstreet

January 29, 2017

Anne Bradstreet immigrated from England to what was to become the United States in 1630, with her husband and other family and friends.  She was reluctant to leave the only home she knew, and their trip was difficult and dangerous.  What drove them to make the move was religious persecution and political turmoil in their home country.  They were fleeing known dangers and making a leap into the unknown, hoping to make new lives for themselves.  They did that, but not without great hardship and loss.  Bradstreet wrote about her homesickness (“A Dialogue between Old England and New England,” losing all their possessions (“Verses upon the Burning of our House, July 10th, 1666”), and about her fears, while pregnant, that she wouldn’t live to raise her child (“Before the Birth of One of her Children”).  She was the first woman writer in the colonies to be published.  Her work resonates over the centuries because it speaks to our shared human hopes and fears.  It resonates right now because it speaks to the complexities of the immigrant experience.

 

from VERSES UPON THE BURNING OF OUR HOUSE, JANUARY 10, 1666

 

When by the ruins oft I past

My sorrowing eyes aside did cast

And here and there the places spy

Where oft I sate and long did lie.

Here stood that trunk, and there that chest,

There lay that store I counted best.

My pleasant things in ashes lie

And them behold no more shall I.

Under thy roof no guest shall sit,

Nor at thy Table eat a bit.

No pleasant talk shall ‘ere be told

Nor things recounted done of old.

No Candle e’er shall shine in Thee,

Nor bridegroom‘s voice e’er heard shall be.

In silence ever shalt thou lie,

Adieu, Adieu, all’s vanity.

 

 

BEFORE THE BIRTH OF ONE OF HER CHILDREN

 

All things within this fading world hath end,

Adversity doth still our joyes attend;

No ties so strong, no friends so dear and sweet,

But with death’s parting blow is sure to meet.

The sentence past is most irrevocable,

A common thing, yet oh inevitable.

How soon, my Dear, death may my steps attend,

How soon’t may be thy Lot to lose thy friend,

We are both ignorant, yet love bids me

These farewell lines to recommend to thee,

That when that knot’s untied that made us one,

I may seem thine, who in effect am none.

And if I see not half my dayes that’s due,

What nature would, God grant to yours and you;

The many faults that well you know I have

Let be interr’d in my oblivious grave;

If any worth or virtue were in me,

Let that live freshly in thy memory

And when thou feel’st no grief, as I no harms,

Yet love thy dead, who long lay in thine arms.

And when thy loss shall be repaid with gains

Look to my little babes, my dear remains.

And if thou love thyself, or loved’st me,

These o protect from step Dames injury.

And if chance to thine eyes shall bring this verse,

With some sad sighs honour my absent Herse;

And kiss this paper for thy loves dear sake,

Who with salt tears this last Farewel did take.