some for the measure of a poet’s song…

If I have a favorite poem out of my many favorites, it is the sonnet by Countee Cullen that begins “Some for a little while do love…” I first memorized it in high school, and while I cannot for the life of me ever remember whether its title is actually “Song” or “Sonnet,” it is the poem that best encapsulates my heart’s philosophy. I’ve programmed it into more than one church service, and I want it at my funeral.

Which brings up a question for all y’all: are there particular poems you’d like people to think of in association with you when the time comes? Or that have struck you as especially appropriate at other people’s memorial services? For instance, two of the readings that immediately come to my mind are Cavafy’s “Ithaca”, which Maurice Templesman read at Jacqueline Kennedy Onassis’s funeral, and one of the characters in Four Weddings and a Funeral reciting Auden’s “Stop all the clocks …”.


My head is full of rhymes and rhythms this week, in part because I’m working on some sonnets and villanelles, and also because I’m at Christmas school. Although I specifically picked a non-speaking part in the mummers’ play, I fear I have nonetheless given myself away as a rhyming fool, since I couldn’t refrain from making suggestions during this afternoon’s review of (first draft) opening lines, resulting in exchanges along the lines of

ALEX (emoting as St. George):
It is I, the great St. George,
and yada, yada — nothing rhymes with George —

PEG (perkily):
Forge, gorge…

ALEX (roaring):
Shut up!

LEADER (grinning):
Hah! You should do it just like that in the actual play!

and

HOBBY-HORSE: …something about saying “neigh” and profit and greed…

PEG: “Taxpayer” rhymes with “naysayer”…

[Ed. note: A mummers’ play is sort of a melange of Christmas caroling, busking, SNL-style parody, and Monty Python-esque hijinks. In couplets. The one for Christmas School raises funds for attendee scholarships, and this year’s characters include the Big Three automotive companies, Sarah Palin and John McCain (each played by a kid of the opposite gender), and doctors representing competing healthcare systems…)]

Exquisite Tension

(on metrical variation in Julia Randall‘s “For A Going-Out”)

Julia Randall was the author of seven books of poetry and life-long advocate for the environment.  She received the Poetry Center Book Award for her final book The Path to Fairview New and Selected  Poems; the American Poetry Society awarded her the Percy Bysshe Shelley Award in recognition of her oeuvre.  She died at her home in Vermont in May, 2005.

I first discovered Randall’s work at the poetry conference at West Chester University.  I fell in love with the breadth of her thought, shown in her allusions, and her musicality, shown in her earlier poems through meter and rhyme.   Her poem, “For a Going-Out,” was published as part of her collection The Puritan Carpenter in 1965 and still resounds with a carefully-constructed tension between the lines with regular alternation of stressed/unstressed syllables and the lines with pairs of unstressed syllables.  

The majority of lines in the poem are trimeter, with the regularly metric lines being iambic trimeter.  This three-beat line reassures the reader. The comfortability of sound adds confidence to the speaker’s voice while at the same time manifesting the inevitability of the poem’s subject, death.  This almost-contradiction works because of the speaker’s two separate voices of certainty, as shown below.  

The poem begins:  

Because you will soon be gone,

And our busy hearts will lie

About the year’s return,

And our busy fingers weave

A seemly dress for love,

Let us count peacefully

All we are masters of.  

Although there are very few regular lines in this passage (only lines 3 and 5), all the lines exude a certainty.  In the irregular lines, that certainty speaks about inevitability and the otherworldly aspects of life.   The lines with pairs of unstressed syllables are first heard as a difference, to be compared aurally with the regular meter.  The pairs of unstressed syllables add a lilt, an unexpectedness (since they do not always appear to substitute for the same foot), a knowledge of something beyond the physical world. The repeated use of these pairs in multiple lines builds the pattern into a voice.  

Only the measured, proper, realistic images are paired with iambic trimeter:  the year’s end, the workmanlike aspects of a partnership. This association shows the reader that realism is represented by regular meter, but also leaves open the exact correspondence of the irregular lines.  

Randall continues this alternative use of her two certainties—one of the realistic world, one of a world the speaker must guess at—throughout the poem.  In the middle of the poem, she writes,  

I live in this belief:

Archaic prayers prevail—

Faith in a cut stone,

Dancing for rainfall,

Goings-out, comings-in.

My loves, I cannot spell

Your passwords up or down,

Your songs in hell,

Your honor, or changed face.  

which I feel is the clearest use of these alternate voices.  The first line is a statement about the real world.  From there, the speaker steps into a personal consciousness, “Archaic prayers prevail / Faith in a cut stone”.  The line “Goings-out, comings-in” is irregular, breaches the  three-beat pattern by giving the reader four stresses.   This explosion of  stress is used twice more, later in the poem, as both the end of the poem and the end of the “you” come closer.  

But the reader is pulled back into the everyday:  “My loves, I cannot spell / Your passwords up or down”.  While Randall probably did not intend the modern connotations of “passwords” (although she did write on contemporary subjects, see “Video Games” from Moving in Memory) since this poem appears in an early  book, today it grounds the reader in technology, the external world.  

In the closing lines following this excerpt, the speaker strays into the voice of the irregular lines as they discuss old happiness, memory,  knowledge by acquaintance.  However, the end of the poem returns to iambic trimeter and regularity as the passage of time takes its toll.  

The two voices of certainty move the poem from solely a commentary about death and the courage of the speaker, and modifies the duality of realism and  otherworld to futher represent shared existence and the internal.  

Of course, the meter and these two voices are effects of the words Randall chose, which speak the poem.  The meter has its subconscious effect, non-negligible, but do not neglect what Randall’s poetry has to say:  

That made the seasons burn

In love’s consuming name.         

(Listen to the poem)

Some heavenly solstice

Heart’s Compass

Sometimes thou seem’st not as thyself alone,
But as the meaning of all things that are;
A breathless wonder, shadowing forth afar
Some heavenly solstice hushed and halcyon;
Whose unstirred lips are music’s visible tone;
Whose eyes the sun-gate of the soul unbar,
Being of its furthest fires oracular—
The evident heart of all life sown and mown.
Even such love is; and is not thy name Love?
Yea, by thy hand the Love-god rends apart
All gathering clouds of Night’s ambiguous art;
Flings them far down, and sets thine eyes above;
And simply, as some gage of flower or glove,
Stakes with a smile the world against thy heart.

– Dante Gabriel Rossetti

and yet more harping on sonnets

I am not mad keen on Gerard Manley Hopkins’s poetry in general, but I was fascinated by Blake Bailey’s 12 December review of a new book about him in The New York Times. I do have a Penguin paperback edition of Hopkins’s poems and letters, from a course I took in college, and I’m going to have to dig it out after reading this:

…his death at 44 in 1889 must have been a positive comfort (“I am so happy” were the poet’s dying words), all the more so in the wake of his last, cathartic “terrible sonnets,” including his heartbreaking “Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord”:


Why do sinners’ ways prosper? and why must
Disappointment all I endeavor end?
Wert thou my enemy, O thou my friend,
How wouldst thou worse, I wonder, than thou dost
Defeat, thwart me? . . .
Mine, O thou lord of life, send my roots rain.

No Bloom

I’m working on a poem about Grace Hopper. By working I mean: reading and thinking. (There’s a wonderful biography on her by Kathleen Broome Williams.) No pen to page yet, no ideas about form.

A few nights ago I found out that Eavan Boland has written a poem about Hopper, published in her Against Love Poetry. I immediately requested it from the library and although my branch didn’t have it, a nearby one did. So tonight, the extraordinarily kind librarian went through the large stacks of unprocessed, requested books to find it for me so that I didn’t have to wait nearly a week to read it.

There are some beautiful lines. There are some places where the rhythm dies, in my opinion, and prose takes over, and I enjoy it less. But it ends on a beautiful line.

I read the poem, enthralled. I read it a second time, my mind asking, which of these lines might make a good repeton?

And I wondered again, how can a good poem make Harold Bloom feel anxious? The wonderful poems that have already been written do not stop me from writing, do not inhibit me.

Does anyone else wonder that? Are there things you don’t read because you’re worried how they will go into your Word Bucket?

One could argue, given the quotation I’m about to include, that maybe even Boland wondered this but read further, into the second quotation. Bloom does not fit here.

Let there be language—
      even if we use it differently:
            I never made it timeless as you have.
                  I never made it numerate as you did.






I am writing at a screen as blue
      as any hill, as any lake, composing this
            to show you how the world begins again:
                  One word at a time.
                        One woman to another.

still on sonnets

Just took a peek at the most recent issue of 14by14. Of what’s there, the ones that stood out for me were Michael Juster’s “So You Want to Win a Nemerov?” (which made me laugh), Judith Graham’s “25a Schumann Street” (which made me wince — some negative nostalgia there), and Christopher Bullard’s “A Pound of Feathers” (likewise).

For American Thanksgiving

XLVIII.

Unto my books so good to turn
Far ends of tired days;
It half endears the abstinence,
And pain is missed in praise.

As flavors cheer retarded guests
With banquetings to be,
So spices stimulate the time
Till my small library.

It may be wilderness without,
Far feet of failing men,
But holiday excludes the night,
And it is bells within.

I thank these kinsmen of the shelf;
Their countenances bland
Enamour in prospective,
And satisfy, obtained.

Emily Dickinson

Cures for Poetry Burnout?

Wow, it’s been a while.  My Internet was down for a while there, but I’m back now.

And I have a problem.

Since finishing my MFA, I’ve been suffering from poetry burnout.  I don’t want to write it, and I don’t want to read it.  I’m not so worried about the writing end of things, since inspiration comes and goes and all, and I’m puttering away on revisions and submissions and non-fiction in the meantime, but the lack of urge to read is getting to me.  I’m eating up novels and non-fiction, but poetry, not so much.

Has this ever happened to anyone else?  Anyone have any great suggestions of poets or books to jump-start my stalled brain?