Saturday, October 6, 2012

An Annotation, with encouragement by the Reader's Brother (Part 1 of 5)


A.  The Waste Land: Annotated

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The Waste Land 1
by T.S. Eliot (1922) 2   

‘Nam Sibyllam quidem Cumis ego ipse oculis meis vidi in ampulla 
pendere, et cum illi pueri dicerent: Σἰβυλλα τἱ θἐλεις ; respondebat 
illa: ἀποθανεἱν θἑλωa.’ 3

For Ezra Pound
il miglior fabbro. 4

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1 Regular font footnotes are T.S. Eliot’s own endnotes.  Bold-faced notes expand on Eliot’s notes with direct translations and sources.  Italicized notes provide further elaboration and comment.  The headnotes are my own choice of focus for each section.

2 Not only the title, but the plan and a good deal of the incidental symbolism of the poem were suggested by Miss Jessie L. Weston’s book on the Grail legend: From Ritual to Romance (Macmillan) (1920).  Indeed, so deeply am I indebted, Miss Weston’s book will elucidate the difficulties of the poem much better than my notes can do; and I recommend it (apart from the great interest of the book itself) to any who think such elucidation of the poem worth the trouble. To another work of anthropology I am indebted in general, one which has influenced our generation profoundly; I mean James Frazer, The Golden Bough (1890); I have used especially the two volumes Adonis, Attis, Osiris. Anyone who is acquainted with these works will immediately recognize in the poem certain references to vegetation ceremonies.  Weston’s The Quest of the Holy Grail (1913) provides this introductory summary: “In Arthurian legend, a Fisher King (the fish being an ancient symbol of life) has been maimed or killed, and his country has therefore become a dry Waste Land; he can only be regenerated and his land restored to fertility by a knight (Parsifal) who perseveres through various ordeals to the Perilous Chapel and learns the answers to certain ritual questions about the Grail.”  Weston concludes in From Ritual to Romance, Chapter 2, that “the woes of the land are directly dependent upon the sickness, or maiming, of the King, and in no wise caused by the failure of the Quester.”

3 Petronius, Satyricon, ch. 48 (ca. AD 60): “(Trimalchio:) ‘...And then, there's the Sibyl: with my own eyes I saw her, at Cumae, hanging up in a basket; and whenever the boys would say to her “Sibyl, Sibyl, what do you want?” she would answer, “I want to die.”’  Sibyl had been granted eternal life by Apollo but shrivelled up when she failed to ask for eternal youth. 

4 Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy: Purgatorio 26.117 (ca. 1321): “The better craftsman.” Dante’s tribute to 12th century Provencal poet Arnaut Daniel. 

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B.  Chaucer: A spring pilgrimage

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I.  The Burial of the Dead 5

April is the cruellest month, breeding 6  
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing 7
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering                                         ---------------------------5
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding 8
A little life with dried tubers. 9

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5 The Church of England, The Book of Common Prayer (1662), The Order for the Burial of the Dead. The order of service begins with a passage from John 11: 25-26: “...whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”  The five principal characters in this section (Countess Marie, God of the Prophets, the Hyacinth Prince, the Clairvoyante and the Reader’s Brother) each are eager to speak and be heard, but death lingers around them.  

6 Geoffrey Chaucer, The Canterbury Tales, General Prologue, 1-5 (ca. 1372): Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote, / The droghte of March hath perced to the roote, / And bathed every veyne in swich licóur / Of which vertú engendred is the flour; / ...Thanne longen folk to goon on pilgrimages. (When April’s gentle showers have pierced the drought / of March right to the root and bathed each sprout / Through every vein with liquid of such power it brings forth the engendering of the flower ...On pilgrimage then folks desire to start.)”   Chaucer is known as the Father of English Literature, much as Eliot would become known by this poem as the progenitor of modern poetry. More to the point, Chaucer, in Canterbury Tales, and Eliot, in this poem, each are commencing on a pilgrimage with tales to tell along the way, but where Chaucer begins with gentle, sweet rains and the first flowers of spring, Eliot views the end of a mindless winter as cruel and the season ahead as dry and barren; and where Chaucer’s stories are told to pass the time, Eliot’s are painful voices from the past.  And yet the modern pilgrim proceeds, like the medieval seekers of the Holy Grail before him, on a crucial quest for life and healing.

7 Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass: Memories of President Lincoln (1892): “When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom’d, / And the great star early droop’d in the Western sky in the night, I mourned, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.”

8 This is commonly called the poem’s “earth” section, the first of four sections using the classical elements of earth, air, fire and water as themes; Eliot would later repeat this structure in Four Quartets (1943).  See further explanation of the classical elements at note 130.

9 James Thompson, The City of Dreadful Night (1861): “Our Mother feedeth thus our little life That we in turn may feed her with our death...”

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C.  Melancholy Marie: When we were children

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Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee 10  
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten, 11  ---------------------------10
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch. 12
And when we were children, 13 staying at the archduke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,         ---------------------------15
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free. 14
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. 15

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10 Starnbergersee is a lake southwest of Munich and the site of the 1886 death of Bavarian King Ludwig II, also known as the Mad King or the Swan King.  He was found dead in shallow waters in 1886; compare this to the death of Ophelia (see note 74).  Ludwig was a dedicated patron of Richard Wagner, whose operas will be referenced several times in this poem.

11 Hofgarten is a Munich park.

12 “I am not Russian, I come from Lithuania, I am really a German.  This statement, an intertwining knot of dried up roots, appears to be an overheard fragment; the speaker is not identified, and in context it seems to be someone other than the poet or his companion, Austrian Countess Marie Larisch, to whom we are just being introduced.  See note 15.  Also compare William Shakespeare, The Tempest, I. ii., 85-86 (1611): “ADRIAN: [to Gonzalo] ‘Widow Dido’ said you? You make me study of that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.”  Dido and Carthage will reappear later: see lines 70, 92 and 307.

13 Ecclesiastes 12:1, 5 (NIV) (here and at lines 22-23): “(The Teacher:) ‘...Remember your Creator in the days of your youth, before the days of trouble come and the years approach when you will say, “I find no pleasure in them. ...when men are afraid of heights and of dangers in the streets; when the almond tree blossoms and the grasshopper drags himself along and desire no longer is stirred. Then man goes to his eternal home and mourners go about the streets.’”

14 See also the reference to Himavant, literally a snowy mountain, in Section V, line 398.

15 Marie Larisch, My Past (1913); and private conversations Eliot had with her in Bavaria.  In 1889, Austrian Countess Marie was socially cast out after her cousin Crown-Prince Rudolph (the archduke) and his mistress, for whom Marie had acted as a go-between, died in a suicide-murder scandal.  Rudolph was eventually succeeded as crown-prince by Archduke Franz Ferdinand, whose 1914 assassination triggered World War I, a chief (but not only) cause of the Waste Land that was troubling Eliot as he wrote this poem.  Meanwhile, another Prince Ferdinand, from Shakespeare’s The Tempest, will be given repeated attention, beginning with the next passage.  See note 19.

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D.  God of the Prophets: A separate shadow

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What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow    
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man, 16  ---------------------------20
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief, 17
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock, 18  ---------------------------25
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock), 19
And I will show you something different from either 20
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you; 21
I will show you fear in a handful of dust. 22         ---------------------------30

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16 Cf. Ezekiel 2:1. (NIV): “[The LORD] said to me, ‘Son of man, stand up on your feet and I will speak to you. See also Ezekiel 37:3: “Son of man, can these bones live?”  The extended “valley of the bones” passage is at note 79.

17 Cf. Ecclesiastes 12:5. See note 13.

18 Isaiah 32:1-2 (NIV): “See, a king will reign in righteousness and rulers will rule with justice.  Each man will be like a shelter from the wind and a refuge from the storm, like streams of water in the desert and the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land.

19 Shakespeare, The Tempest, I. ii., 537: “ARIEL: ‘Come unto these yellow sands...’”  This is Eliot’s first reference to a passage he would frequently turn to, at lines 26, 38, 48, 125, 191, 257 and 393.  For the extended passage, see note 33.

20 Jeremiah 33: 2-11 (excerpts; NIV): “This is what the LORD says, he who made the earth...: ‘Call to me and I will answer you and tell you great and unsearchable things you do not know. ...You say about this place, “It is a desolate waste, without men or animals.” Yet in the towns of Judah and the streets of Jerusalem that are deserted, inhabited by neither men nor animals, there will be heard once more the sounds of joy and gladness...  For I will restore the fortunes of the land as they were before.’”

21 T.S. Eliot, The Death of Narcissus (1915): “Come in under the shadow of this gray rock, / And I will show you something different from either / Your shadow sprawling over the sand at daybreak, or / Your shadow leaping behind the fire against the red rock...”

22 John Donne, Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions: The Physician Is Sent For (1638): “What’s become of man’s great extent and proportion, when himself shrinks himself and consumes himself to a handful of dust; what’s become of his soaring thoughts, his compassing thoughts, when himself brings himself to the ignorance, to the thoughtlessness, of the grave?”

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E.  The Hyacinth Prince: Remembering

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Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du? 23
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;  ---------------------------35
“They called me the hyacinth girl.” 24
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, 25 I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, 26 and I knew nothing, 27         ---------------------------40
Looking into the heart of light, the silence. 28
Oed’ und leer das Meer. 29

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23 V. Richard Wagner, Tristan und Isolde, i. 1, verses 5-8. (1865): “Freshly blows the wind to the homeland; my Irish darling, where are you waiting?”  This sailor’s song is overheard by Irish Princess Isolde, en route to her loveless marriage to King Mark of Cornwall; Isolde wants to drink poison to escape her fate, but her maid substitutes the poison with a love potion.  Upon realizing this, she asks Tristan, “Must I live?”  See also Sir Thomas Mallory, Le Morte D-Arthur: The First and Second Books of Sir Tristams de Lione (1485).

24 Ovid, Metamorphosis, X. 162-219 (AD 8): The hyacinth, a perennial April/May wildflower, was named after a Spartan prince endeared by both Apollo, the sun god, and Zephyrus, the wind god.   While playing quoits in the sun the prince was killed by a wind-blown quoit; Apollo raised a purple flower out of his blood, traced a mournful “ai, ai” on its petals and named it Hyacyinth.

25 See Eliot’s note (note 64) at Part 2, line 126, tying the hyacinth garden to the drowned sailor and the recurring allusion from The Tempest.  See also note 74, relating this to Hamlet’s Ophelia.

26 Dante, Purgatorio 26. 117: “I was not dead nor living.”  See also Bhagavat Gita 2:11: “The wise grieve neither for the living nor for the dead.”

27 See Part 2, lines 121-123: “Do / You know nothing?  Do you see nothing?  Do you remember / Nothing?”  See also note 77, citing the lament of Frankenstein’s monster.

28 Joseph Conrad, Heart of Darkness, Ch. 1 (1902), introducing Kurtz, “the only man of us who still followed the sea.”

29 Wagner, Tristan und Isolde Id. iii, verse 24: “(Shepherd:) ‘Old and desolate is the sea.’” This is the shepherd’s report to a mortally wounded Tristan, who waits for Isolde’s ship to arrive. 

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F.  The Clairvoyante: A wicked pack of cards

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Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, 30        
Had a bad cold, 31 nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,  ---------------------------45
With a wicked pack of cards. 32 Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. 33 Look!)

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30 Aldous Huxley, Crome Yellow (1921), Ch. 21: Sesostris is the Sorceress of Ecbatana, a duplicitous man dressed as a woman; the streetwise fraudulence of Sosostris will stand in contrast with the more mythical androgyny of Tiresius (see note 38).

31 John Webster, White Devil (1612): Flamineo’s dying words, in a play about moral corruption: “I have caught / An everlasting cold.  I have lost my voice / Most irrevocably ...Strike, thunder, and strike loud, to my farewell!”

32 Weston (see note 2) saw symbols of the Grail legend in the four Tarot suits and in our modern deck: “Cup (Chalice, or Goblet)--Hearts.  Lance (Wand, or Sceptre)--Diamonds.  Sword--Spades.  Dish (Circles, or Pentangles, the form varies)--Clubs.”  Eliot, by his own acknowledgment, took a more arbitrary license with the Tarot cards:  I am not familiar with the exact constitution of the Tarot pack of cards, from which I have obviously departed to suit my own convenience. The Hanged Man, a member of the traditional pack, fits my purpose in two ways: because he is associated in my mind with the Hanged God of Frazer, and because I associate him with the hooded figure in the passage of the disciples to Emmaus in Part V (see note 39). The Phoenician Sailor (see notes 33 and 40) and the Merchant (see note 37) appear later; also the “crowds of people,” (see note 38) and Death by Water is executed in Part IV (see note 40). The Man with Three Staves (an authentic member of the Tarot pack) I associate, quite arbitrarily, with the Fisher King himself (see notes 2 and 35).

33 Shakespeare, Tempest I. ii. 562: “ARIEL: ‘Those are pearls that were his eyes.”  Compare Shakespeare’s lines 537-565 with Eliot’s references at lines 26, 38, 48, 125, 191, 257 and 393: “ARIEL: ‘Come unto these yellow sands, / And then take hands: / Courtsied when you have and kiss'd / The wild waves whist, / Foot it featly here and there; / And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. / Hark, hark! / ...The watch-dogs bark! / ...Hark, hark! I hear / The strain of strutting chanticleer / Cry, Cock-a- diddle-dow.” FERDINAND: ‘Where should this music be? i' the air or the earth? / It sounds no more: and sure, it waits upon / Some god o' the island. Sitting on a bank, / Weeping again the king my father's wreck, / This music crept by me upon the waters, / Allaying both their fury and my passion / With its sweet air: thence I have follow'd it, / Or it hath drawn me rather. But 'tis gone. / No, it begins again.’  ARIEL sings: ‘Full fathom five thy father lies; / Of his bones are coral made; / Those are pearls that were his eyes: / Nothing of him that doth fade / But doth suffer a sea-change / Into something rich and strange...’”

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G.  Madame Sosostris: The wicked pack, continued

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Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations. 34             ---------------------------50
Here is the man with three staves, 35 and here the Wheel, 36
And here is the one-eyed merchant, 37 and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. 38 I do not find
The Hanged Man. 39  Fear death by water. 40         ---------------------------55
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone, 41
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

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34 Tarot: The Queen of Cups, representing the femme fatale; the card shows a Belladonna, or “beautiful lady,” as a Lady of the Rocks, sitting with rocks at her feet, a la Leonardo da Vinci, Virgin of the Rocks (1486).  Belladonna is also another name for the poisonous nightshade plant.

35 Tarot: The Three of Staves shows a man at the water’s edge looking out to ships at sea, representing enterprise, commerce and discovery.  This is the Fisher King (see note 2).

36 Tarot: The Wheel of Fortune card represents cycles of change, e.g., winter to summer.

37 Tarot: The Six of Coins shows the one-eyed profile of a merchant giving coins to those around him, representing money, gratification and vigilance.  See line 209.  

38 Tarot: The blank card, often regarded as an extra card, reflects Madame Sosostris, a caricature who tells and cries out “Look!” but is forbidden to see beyond the crowds of people in the unreal city around her (lines 54-56, and 60); thus, here “clairvoyance” is fraudulent; compare Tiresius, “not indeed a ‘character’” (Eliot’s note at line 218) who is blind but can see and even perceives and foretells (lines 218-229).

39 Frazer (see note 2): Eliot’s Hanged God is Artemis, the goddess of fertility who is annually hanged in effigy; alternatively, this is the other who walks beside the disciples (line 360), and whom Madame Sosostris fails to find.  In the Tarot deck, the Hanged Man represents self-sacrifice and life after death.

40 Tarot’s King of Cups shows a floating king holding a sceptor and chalise, representing rule by quiet strength.  This is the Phoenician Sailor who will meet his death by water.  

41 Mrs. Equitone is ostensibly a more even-visioned person than Madame Sosostris; compare Tiresius’s lover, who, after Tiresius leaves, “smoothes her hair with automatic hand, / And puts a record on the gramophone” (see lines 255-256).

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H.  The Reader’s Brother: Seeing the crowd

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Unreal City, 42                ---------------------------60
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,  
A crowd flowed over London Bridge 43, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many. 44
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled, 45
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.  ---------------------------65
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours 46
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine. 47

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42 Cf. Charles Baudelaire, Les Fleurs du Mal: Les Sept Vieillards  ("The Flowers of Evil: The Seven Old Men") #93 (1867):  “Fourmillante cite; cite; pleine de rêves, / Ou le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant. (Swarming city, city full of dreams, / Where the ghost in broad daylight accosts the passerby.)”  The City is the popular name of oldest section of London, primarily including the financial district; see also lines 180, 207 and 260.

43 The crowd flows over the bridge, then flows up the hill and down the street, with no mention of any water flowing below the bridge and only a brown fog above them; this reflects the unreal barrenness of the city, but it also suggests there is something beyond the image of lifeless city workers: a metaphor, perhaps, for the flow of dead and injured soldiers coming homeward after the war.

44 Cf. Dante, Inferno, III. 55-7 (ca. 1321): “si lunga tratta di gente, ch’io non avrei mai creduto che morte tanta n’avesse disfatta (...a long train of people, so many, I had not thought death had undone so many).”  See also III. 35-36: Dante is standing before the gates of hell, seeing “the melancholy souls of those who lived withouten infamy or praise.” 

45 Cf. Dante, Inferno, IV. 25-7: “Quivi, secondo che per ascoltare, non avea pianto, ma’ che di sospiri, che l’aura eterna facevan tremare. (Here was no lamentation, or none that could be heard, but only sighs, sighs that made the timeless air tremble.)See also Eliot, Four Quartets, Little Gidding II.60-61 (1943): “The death of hope and despair, / This is the death of air.”  This line derives from Heracleitus, On Nature (ca 475 BC): “Fire lives in the death of air; water lives in the death of earth; and earth lives in the death of water.”

46 St Mary Woolnoth is a London Church at the corners of Lombard and King William Streets.  The church was rebuilt after the Great Fire of 1666, but a religious building has been on the site for over two thousand years.

47 A phenomenon which I have often noticed.  Nine is the hour of Jesus’s death, the start of the workday, the final circle of Dante’s Hell.

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I.  Stetson: Seen in the crowd

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There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying “Stetson! 48
“You who were with me in the ships at Mylae! 49  ---------------------------70
“That corpse you planted last year in your garden, 50
“Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
“Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
“Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men, 51
“Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!           ---------------------------75
“You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!” 52

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48 Eliot has said that Stetson does not refer to an actual person, but some have considered he nonetheless had in mind his friend Ezra Pound, who helped Eliot out as a reader and editor of this poem and earned Eliot’s opening dedication (see note 4).  Pound also had a proclivity for wearing sombreros or Stetson hats.

49 The Battle of Mylae (260 BC) resulted in a Roman naval victory over Carthage.  Now that the battle is over, the surviving sailors are grounded.

50 1 Corinthians 15: 37, 42-44 (NIV): “When you sow, you do not plant the body that will be, but just a seed...  So will it be with the resurrection of the dead. The body that is sown is perishable, it is raised imperishable; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body...”  In a Christian tradition said to have begun in the Moravian Church, Easter Sunrise Service is held in a churchside graveyard called “God’s Acre,” where the bodies of the dead are “sown as seed.”  Thus, this Burial of the Dead section ends where it begins, with the possibility of stirring dull roots in spring.  The reader’s brother remains uncertain, though, and still perceives the season’s cruelty; he closes the section with lines that are all earth, no air or water and only the faintest hint of fire in his final questions and exclamations. 

51 Cf. the Dirge in Webster’s White Devil: Call for the robin-redbreast and the wren, Since o'er shady groves they hover And with leaves and flowers do cover The friendless bodies of unburied men. Call unto his funeral dole The ant, the field-mouse, and the mole, To rear him hillocks that shall keep him warm And, when gay tombs are robb'd, sustain no harm; But keep the wolf far thence, that's foe to men, For with his nails he'll dig them up again.”

52 V. Baudelaire, Preface to Fleurs du Mal: “But among the jackals, panthers and chimerae, ...The monsters yelping, shouti ng, grunting, crawling / In the ill-famed menagerie of all our vices / Is one more ugly, evil, fouler than the rest / ...And it is Boredom! / Eye laden with involuntary tears, / Dreaming of scaffolds, pulls upon its pipe / You know it, reader, this delicate monster - / Hypocrite reader, - my likeness, - my brother!

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Wednesday, September 19, 2012

Ben, by the way (a guest poem for the Menagerie)


Ben, by the way, when
  one of our parakeets
died last week, was the first to say

when freer days were
  over, and the summer,
alas, had ended coolly,

when I didn’t have
  time for such a poem
as this on the Lost Menagerie,

as we lowered
  the birdcage from our Russian
rafters, Ben was the one to pray.


He prayed, especially
  when I dug the lifeless
bird into the autumn earth,

not quite a
  see-you-later prayer, more
than an hasta-manana blessing,

days before the
  pet store’s replica would
join its brothers in the chapel cage

Ben prayed with
  a grateful appreciation,
saying “thank you for your worth.”


And now the other
  parakeet, placed beside
those who would live another day

and lifted with them
  to hang from the rafters rising
over one who had died

is placid, quiet
  as a gravedigger, or
confused, with no words to offer,

and it was for this
  parakeet, too, by the way,
that Ben was the first to pray.

Tuesday, September 18, 2012

bedtime reading

Well, the news from Lake Woebegone (ie, Roztoky) has been passing fair. We had a 2nd or 3rd annual municipal event--twice at least for us--on the left and right banks of the Vltava River, north of Prague. Contextually, that's like Stillwater and Bayport for our Roztoky and Klecany, or St Croix Falls and Taylor Falls in the geological reverse. We in Roztoky enjoy the permanent museum and medieval castle and draw of some thousand; those in Klecany enjoy the peace and pride of being on the Troya side of Prague, where the zoo and the royal vineyard reside. Anyway, the rivalry is nil on nights in mid-September, when this new tradition glows and the ferries transport revelers non-stop and the music is from Radim Hladik's Blue Effect, whose music spans five decades and as many genres and restores my faith in the one thing Czechs haven't done so well, 'til now.

School's in full swing here, and we cast our prayers to Syria and Chicago, differently, for their aggravated starts. Teachers defy definitions, even from the empathetic, and so we hope students also learn without presuppositions of their lot. We're thankful for what we all have got. And in this space I want all to know that Ben (especially) knows six-times-seven is forty-two minus ten is thirty-two, God bless the Czechs who teach him well. I'll also say he throws a baseball like my cousins Jim and Paul. That is to say the blood line works in more than mysterious ways.

He was, by the way, the first to say that one of our parakeets died last week (the cage had happily hung from the rafters of our Russian Orthodox Chapel through the summer which, alas, ended coolly). He prayed as I dug it into the earth, not quite a see-you-later, but a thank-you-for-your-worth. The pet store had a replica, and now the other parakeet is either placated or confused. I don't have time for such a poem on Lost Menagerie, so guest poems would be welcome.

And though I needn't say, because I scarcely know, the tiny police patrol had to stretch their tape across two ends of a tiny street in town. We know two people on that street, and so we know they know what next week's news will necessarily report. An argument, a woman runs away, a return to what no one could remotely say, a hanging, a fear of worse, a settling for what is unimaginable if not quite worse, a very blue effect we hadn't counted on...

In our mailbox today is Thirty Birds, flown in by Amazon and local post. Its heft is more in pages and in print than I thought as blogspot made it. I'm happily surprised that canonized poets are adumbrated to the prevailing need to hear another voice. Jon's done his homage, as those forbearing poets had done theirs, and the hints are worth the haunting (in the hallowed sense of the term). I need this bedtime reading. this upward denouement. And if by coincidence I've begun one class with Prufrock--"I do not think they will sing to me"--and another class with Gwendolyn Brooks, who could've/shoud've/would've explained in Maine South's auditorium 1982 what "We / Sing sin" means in the pantheon of theology--if Amazon delivers independently...I'll go to sleep not so etherized, but completely filled with what is a call to cheer, a deeper reason for the rhyme.

Yes, the expanded format 2012 means the World Series Cards are in the play-off hunt--the Braves have their back against the wild card wall. The White Sox can only win within--the AL East too strong... And though this news is least what is really on our minds, I like the news of Woebegone: insular, outgoing, sublime.

thank you, Jonathan, for the book that will always grace our shelves.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Villanelle for a Thirteen Year Old


Here on the prairie everything is true
And in your face: the sun, the wind, the rain
And all of God’s creation touches you

And you can feel the weight of it and you
Can sweat the sweet of it and know the pain
of where you’ve been.
Here on the prairie everything is true

As sure as it is real, as good as new
And you know what will be has always been,
will be again,
And all of God’s creation touches you

With earthy tones of yellow, brown and blue
And every range of color in between,
each shade and stain.
Here on the prairie everything is true

But should the color of your point of view
Turn you around, just turn around again
to where you’ve been
And all of God’s creation touches you:

The wilderness, the world that spins with you,
The marshes and the waves of wild grain.
Here on the prairie everything is true
And all of God’s creation touches you.

The Real Thing


I would like to say
that there is nothing
like the quenching power
of a Diet Coke,
ignoring for one
indulgent moment
what other poets
choose to write about.
I would like to note

the pleasant feeling
of carbonation
and the sweetness of
zero calories
and the bitter hint
of a grownup taste,
the icy chill, the
feeling of steel and
the perk of caffeine,

but I’d have to add
quickly, being one
from that grownup world
of bittersweetly
carbonated gas
how the “real thing” is
hardly everything
and “nothing like” is
much less than it seems

after the bubbles
die down and the air
takes the chill away,
when the buzz wears off
and you hunger for
more, anything more
than the flattened
aluminum taste of
water in disguise.

With wisdom and age,
everything is less
than you thought before,
more than you supposed,
nothing like they told
you when you were young,
something that your youth
might spend all its life
trying to understand,

something like the power
of water with no
color, taste or fizz
poured without ice
into a lucid glass
and then lifted up
to the waiting lips
of simplicity.
I need nothing more.

There Will Be Time


Okay, I’m back!  After four months off from the Stillwater Symposia, I have finally set my fingers to keyboard to write something new for the blog.  But first, thank you, Dan, for announcing my self-publishing of Thirty Birds.  Until I actually set myself to the task of marketing, my book is still not much more than an attic book for posterity, but I am happy to have it in presentable form now.  And thank you for the two five star Amazon reviews from people with different last names!

The book is not what has primarily diverted me these four months, though.  The real diversion started with that hospital scare in April, which prompted me to get very serious about not just exercise and diet but time and stress management.  My workload has been even busier than it was in April, but I am learning how to pace the day (Josh, your office help has been a great help in that regard!) and avoid the stressful moments.   And, yes, I’ve gotten a little obsessed with the diet and exercise, but I’ve reached my weight goal so I am not quite as absolute on the food rules (thanks folks for hot dogs AND hamburgers last weekend).  Still running two miles every morning, though.

And still no caffeine!  Which brings me to the first of the two poems I am offering today.  Anne, you saw a draft of this in July, and Dan, I really did lose it for a month or so, but here it is, my existential commentary (thank you for the word, Anne) on my daughter’s developing caffeine habit.  So far she is not interested in reading it.

The second poem, just written yesterday, is prompted by Andrew’s recent reminding me of how overwhelming the world can sometimes seem to a thirteen year old.  I did read this one to him, and I think he appreciated the effort, if not the villanelle variations or my playing on a Dylan Thomas theme.  Maybe in time.

And, to borrow a line from my book’s Social Creatures* (and from Eliot’s Prufrock) , there will be time.  After four months of seriousness, I do expect to be raging against the dying of the light for quite a few more years now.

* http://www.thirtybirdspoetry.com/2011/03/social-creatures.html

Thursday, September 6, 2012

Babi Leto, Babi Yar (Part V)


 V.

He had a place to go which, by coincidence, Oleg had never referenced. Strysky Park was quiet and somewhat lonely above the southern skirt of the old city, wooded like so many parts of Kiev. Much was artificial, though, in the groomed swan pond and faux castle ruins. By the middle of his third full day in the city, Yakov had practiced his Tevye voice at a little clearing near the Rapunzel tower: he envisioned a one-man act that would have the milkman pulling a small cart—lost, as it were, on his route and bewildered by the grandeur of the city. “Flogging a dead horse won’t make it run any faster,” he read, then looked up from the book and improvised lines to no one in particular, “and by horse I mean myself, who is (as he speaks) more out of life than the resident robotnik of this very milkcart”—throwing his head back as if jerked by some bridle. “Yes, being lame from his labors is no vacation, but see how cleverly the roles are reversed: he rests in his stable and watches his dear Tevye toil, not even giving me the tips of his trade! And pulling all day with eyes in the mud, I’ve managed to thoroughly lose my way home.” Yakov flipped his book open to an earmarked page and read verbatim,
You see the tears in my eyes, Pan Sholem Aleichem, and yet must be thinking, how Tevye misses his horse! But what makes you think it’s just my horse? I miss everything, there’s not one thing it doesn’t grieve me to think of. I miss my horse, I miss my village, I miss its elders, I miss its policeman, I miss the dachas of Boiberik, the rich Jews of Yeupetz, I even miss Efrayim the Matchmaker, may the cholera carry him off! When you get right down to it, he’s nothing but a miserably poor Jew himself who’s out to make a living like the rest of us. Don’t ask me what I’ll do in the Land of Israel if I get there safely, God willing, but I do plan to visit Mother Rachel in her grave. I’ll pray there for the daughters I’ll probably never see again, and think of him, too—I mean Efrayim the Matchmaker—and of you, and of Jews everywhere. Here, let’s shake on that! Be well, and have a good trip, and give my very best to any of our friends you may happen to meet on your way.
He clapped the book shut and burrowed it into his long pants pocket, and mimed a renewed grasp of the cart handles. “As for my journey today, well, it’s only to get food to my noble lame horse, so tomorrow perhaps the rest of us creatures can eat!”
            “So where is your cap to receive your earned alms?” an amused voice came from a bench behind him, and Yakov pivoted in some surprise.
            “Earned?” he tried to temper an oncoming blush. “That was just reading…uh…a rudimentary rehearsal of…”
            “You’re supposed to say: the cap doesn’t come off of Tevye’s head. Tell them to toss what they will into your cart—well, assuming the cart will be there for the catching.”
            “Will you be my manager, then—with due royalties befitting a manager?”
            “I don’t know. Who would have to answer to the passing policeman?”
            “I haven’t gotten that far. At any rate, I’ve lost my way, remember?”
            They talked on the bench for a half hour before she needed to go—back to work, she said, at the Picture Gallery. “On Stefanyk Street. Do you know it?”
            “No. I don’t know much here yet—I’m quite literally off my beaten track.”
            “It’s this way, through Khelnytsky and Citadel parks—a hard trek up but easy down.” She stood and tugged at his sleeve to join. “Don’t forget your horse cart!” They walked leisurely while she explained that she took lunch breaks up here but always got a bad look from the other women who watched the rooms at the museum, as their breaks were finished in a fraction of time. “They’re resentful, most of them, that I’m the director’s daughter, and that I’m only working to fill the summer hours.”
            “You’re a student, then?”
            “At the mathematics faculty—Papa wants art history, but I don’t much care for that. I’m not sure I care much for theorems and postulates, but at least I’m pretty good at all that, or so my professors say. Are you studying here?”
            “Unofficially, yes. Exactly what you see.”
            “Maybe you’d be good at art history.”
            “Well, I could use a job.”
            “You’d probably have to dress up like an old, grim lady!”
            “But you’re not that.”
            “I’m the director’s daughter. If I stayed there forever, I’d look like them.” They strolled slowly down the hill and stopped at the Stefanyk Library. “Across the street is the museum. This place is nice, too, though the ladies here are just as grim.”
            “All grim things have vanished today. Thank you for the walk…”
            “Yulia, I’m called. And You?”
            “I am a stranger in a strange land—”
            “Moses, or is that another piece of Tevye’s narrative?”
            “Both of those, yes, but you can know me as Yakov.”
            “Then I will.”

            Park gates did not open until 6, and sweepers would catch any drunk that the closing guards would, rather unlikely, miss. By hopping the fence, Yakov would have to remain awake and evade detection, and sort play off the sunrise and disappearing stars. The ground was cold and damp, so he wasn’t tempted to lie down. He found the best place to stay was behind the ice cream kiosk, which wouldn’t open until mid-morning at least. There he also found a fifty kopek coin pressed into the soil; he gave a wry smile at the sum total of his present fortunes. The chessboard on his suitcase lent for potential bet-and-wins, but through his fleeting experience around the city, he saw no such enterprises or public interest in the game. The day would unfold in long uncertainties.
            When Yulia did not show up for the lunch hour, Yakov decided to take his chances as well as his life savings to the museum, even though he wished in part not to see her there. He wondered whether his suitcase would be an asset or obstacle to his plan, and decided to lug it along as a safeguard. He practiced what he’d say to get in, and found it rather natural not to lie: “I’ve come from Kiev, a student of the humanities… No, not just off the train, but I haven’t found my long-term lodging yet—if may I check my suitcase in the cloakroom… My name is Jürgen, and I hope my modest budget will permit me the pleasure…” And indeed these lines ushered him past the sympathetic cashier and up the stairs of the gallery.
            The first rooms allowed no place to sit down, so he suffered the need to stand and observe as much as could—he could not afford to rush through the twenty-or-so rooms and be left with nothing to do afterwards. When he came to a broad painting by Johann Baptist Reiter, he smiled at the opportunity to sit at the opposite wall and study the theme at length. ‘Joseph Sold into Egypt’ included all twelve brothers, halved as it were by the central, glowing figure of the title character; there was no Egyptian—the sale, it seemed, had not been made and perhaps this was a final filial moment to consider all angles of their present and future. Benjamin looked older than his full-blooded brother, perhaps because he, too, had come into the world at cost. There was, of course, no hint of Jacob. Because he was now a student—not merely acting as one—Yakov pursued this thought to a smaller painting by Zigmunt Sidorwicz, whose title ‘Object Proof (Corpus Delicte)’ appeared bent to say too much, even though the ‘proof’ of the artist’s theme required some ardent detective work. The eleven-year girl in the painting, dressed as finely as her young mother, wasn’t asking at this point in the scene, and perhaps her mute stare would have been just as frozen a day before, or remain so a week later, or until she too had a palm-sized portrait of a dashing man attired in an officer’s uniform. ‘He existed,’ the voice of the painting seemed to say, ‘and truly is as central as this frame within a frame within a frame…’
            Yakov asked the guard, sitting at the edge of her chair and not so grim, if many visitors looked long at this painting. “Not as long as you,” she said.
            “Do they study ‘Joseph Sold into Egypt’?”
            “That they do. Some of them.”
            “Do they wonder where the father is?”
            “I don’t know.”
            Between these rooms was a statue that commanded Yakov’s attention, even if he had forced his feet to shuffle past it. Now that he had indicated to the guard his interest in Reiter’s painting, he backtracked to that room and gave the statue a further, passing stare. This retracing was not perfunctory—he really wanted to look more deeply at the physiognomies of Reuben, Levi, Dan, Asher… And, satisfying that, he turned to the room of Salvador Albano’s marble sculpture and stopped. A nude figure about Yulia’s size and shape balanced upon a pedestal, pulling at a rope that bound her wrists. She was, by her title, a slave: intensely looking at an area perhaps two body-lengths away (or one, if it hadn’t been for the pedestal). Her hair lay in a rough attempt at a braid—the hempen manacles just enough to tantalize her manipulation of things. Her body looked ready to spring free and defied any frozen, naïve effect of one who might wonder, in luxury, about paternity or loyalty or loss.
            Yakov went past Sidorwicz and the edge-of-chair guard, then into the next room, where he studied the eviction of a peasant family: Our Lady of Kazan above their open door, a broken sack of coins strewn on the floor—as bribe or insufficient funds. Another guard, when asked, said she had heard a university guide’s interpretation that the painter, Zheledowski, had in large championed the communist cause with this work. The icon wouldn’t save the family any more than their capital. Yakov moved on.
            In a rather large room, strangely, there was no guard, but on a far bench sat the only other visitor yet that afternoon. Yakov surmised he was middle-aged, though his back was to the door where Yakov silently entered. His legs were V-d apart, trembling spasmodically as the heels of his shoes spurred the parquet floor. In front of his uplifted head were two tall paintings of similar style: one with a nymph and another with a faceless woman draped against some angled barrier. Thinking fast, Yakov skulked back one room and whispered to the guard that another visitor was in the throes of an ecstasy inappropriate to the environs. The guard swung her head downward and shrugged. Yakov retreated closer to the entrance and whispered the same thing to the first guard, who followed him to the threshold of the larger room. “Can you do something?” she pleaded into Yakov’s ear. He considered the situation and slowly nodded. Just as softly he asked, “May I borrow your badge, please?” She unpinned it and placed it gratefully into his hand. As he attached it to his shirt and walked towards the absorbed man, Yakov cast a sort of prayer, vaguely cognizant of valleys of the shadows of death and such. Laments were rife in life—the psalmist codifying the basic instinct to complain and give over. Let go, if desperately clutching to the semblance of control we know. “Let go,” he heard himself say, in no larger volume than he had just used with the guards. He was now in front of the grimacing man, partially obscuring the view that he had fixed for his licentious foray. “I’ll have to ask you to leave, comrade.”
            “You can’t do—”
            “On behalf of this museum and all things decent, I must… You see, children visit, as well as guests from many cultures. I myself have the right to be free from your intentions. And you have the right to conform to the expectations here.”
            “Who are you, anyway? I’ve come to this place regularly and have never been—”
            “Both of us have said too much under the circumstances. I’ll escort you this way, comrade.”
            Years of setting circus apparatus, wrangling limelit animals, and pushing through some madding crowds provided Yakov a sinewy sense to his comportment. Even his limp, vaguely apparent and far from being a handicap, lent ethos to his present, gentle grasp of the violator’s shoulder as they shuffled past the witnessing guards and the ticket-taker, down the staircase and into the foyer, where the doorman quizzically took the recommendation to “see this comrade out, please.”
            Then Yakov returned to the where the dumbfounded women still stood, handed back the badge, and continued to look at the artwork. He didn’t go back to the tall paintings, but spent some time in front of ‘Jewish Funeral in the Town’ in the same big room, where he tried to determine whether the impressionistic coffin was being shouldered up or down the alley stairs, by equally impressionistic Hasidic men. The largest painting in the room was Josef Brandt’s ‘Prayer in the Steppe’. Were they matins or vespers, Yakov wondered. The garish red glow from the half sun on the horizon seemed to sear into the icon on the side of a stagecoach, and Yakov’s mind went back to the eviction—all art, he realized, could travel in capillary courses. He spent halcyon time in front of a dozen more paintings in the next two rooms, then came to the second sculpture on display, a Polish piece in bronze entitled ‘A Mother’s Kiss’. It was exactly what one would intuit, minus the dug out interior behind their heads. The child was maybe four years old, clasping wholly his mother’s neck and seizing her with wide open eyes; the mother, with eyes closed and more seeing, kissed her boy’s forehead and all essence therein, and Yakov began to cry. Subtly, of course, as there was no reason to; and, if he thought, like Tevye, about how he might be authored, it wasn’t exactly what one might call—
            “Sir?” a gentleman spoke urbanely from the far left of Yakov’s periphery. “Are you okay?”
            Glancing self-consciously, Yakov swallowed and uttered, “quite fine.”
            “I’m glad for it,” the gentleman said, and approached with a practiced savior faire. “I am the director of this museum—Pyotr Nemcenov—and I have been made aware of your citizenship exploits—”
            Yakov thought quickly, as he had done before, and elected not to speak too soon, but also not to let slip the inertia that arguably comes from answered prayer. “I am a student of the humanities,” he began to say, “from Kiev. I haven’t found my long-term… chance to study further… in L’vyiv, but this day—this remarkable museum—has been—”
            “Your visit to us has been remarkable. Simply said, Comrade, uh—”
            Jürgen.
            “Yuri, is it?”
            Yakov flit the possibility, then pronounced more clearly: “Jürgen. My father was of German heritage.”
            “Comrade Jürgen—well! Simply said, you have fixed a fault that has occasionally reared its ugly head, challenging the needs of our total operational security. I think you know what I mean, and I thank you for your aplomb.” The director smiled at the sound of his congratulation and waited a moment for Yakov to take it in.
            “Thank you, Director—I really hadn’t expected any kind of recognition, as I was simply acting on instinct—”
            “Exactly, dear Jürgen, which delights me more than if you were acting on orders. My hired guards—don’t get me wrong—relayed by their instinct what they have had difficulty doing in the line of their orders: this indulgent man has been, to say the least, a tricky problem here—he’s rare, he’s of some repute, and he cares not at all about those he deems inferior. Lenin might have qualified him as counter-revolutionary, and (off the record) if we were fully realized as a state, I’d pronounce likewise. But who am I? Merely a lover of art! And some may say he’s likewise! My service to the state is to be director of such art, and his, we may extrapolate, is to take what we provide into his own vortex as director of something else. And by saying this, Jürgen, I mean to exonerate you from any ramifications but also to remind you of how intertwined we all, as servants to the state, really are… Do you understand what I am saying?”
            Yakov, in a practiced sense, thought rapidly and responded, “clearly, Director.”
            Since neither spoke for a half minute, the moment seemed to have suitably passed. But each of them knew, intuitively, that more was at stake. Yakov calculated in silence and newfound prayer; Pyotr kept his level eye and finally broached this prospect: “we could use a guard like you—especially, if I recall you saying, you’re a student of art?”
            “A student of the humanities—”
            “All the better: you mean by that the study of us all!” Pyotr chuckled.
            “More or less. I mean literature first and foremost, but yes, that probably means ‘of us all’.”
            “Could I offer you a job here, as guard to begin with?”
            “I mostly need a place to stay—a job would be welcome, as well.”
            “Then consider it done, Jürgen. I have need for new watchmen as the fall season approaches. This won’t hamper your study commitment in.. did you say,.. Kiev?”
            “Not in the least, as I’m taking leave from that place.”
            “Then come to my office, Jürgen, to settle the details.”
            “Thank you, sir,” and the details were settled.

            The third lunch break into his new job, Yakov trudged up the hill to Strysky Park as he had the days before, hoping to explain things to Yulia. He had barely seen her on her varying shifts, but recognized her disguised scowl when, to her surprise, one of the veteran guards took him on a training tour. She evaded any introduction to Yakov, while her peers—even the grimmer ones—were positively atwitter. Men worked in the floors below, where many thousands of pieces of art were archived or part of a restoration process; to have a man on their floor meant to have more to think about. And Yulia hated sharing that thought. “Why did you go behind my back to impress my father?” she blurted before he knew she was there. “Why did you embarrass me by parading like a peacock?”
            Yakov scratched whatever small beard he had shaved off in these days of employment. He didn’t smile, but felt relieved that she had broken her silence. He waited for her to say something else, and when she didn’t, he slid into the side of the bench that she had turned her back on. “I’ve missed you,” he finally offered. “And I’ve missed what it means to let fate be guided by faith.”
            She listened to the details of the night he had left Oleg’s flat, the morning in this very park, the contemplation that on fifty kopeks and a chess board he’d try to gamble his way back to Samarkand for lack of anywhere else to go. Yulia turned to him in confusion: “Who are you anyway in this homeless condition? What did you do? Why are you pulling me into…”
            Yakov raised his eyebrows. “Into?”
            “Into your life story, because I’m falling for you if you can’t tell!”
            “I can’t. I mean, I am, too—if that is—”
            “O God, Yakov, we’re going to be late, and Daddy will be suspicious and the hags will hate me more and—”
            “You go ahead first—I’ll take the heat for being late.”
            “Be here after 8 tonight, and walk me to your home.”
            “You mean Samarkand?”
            At last she smiled, and kissed him, and rushed down the hill. “Seven-thirty, then,” she called, and he closed his eyes to keep it all in.

            They didn’t exactly elope; they made believe, though, flirtingly close to Pyotr’s knowledge. He rarely visited the exhibition halls of his own museum, so had no real idea how his daughter and newest employee intersected their shifts through the day. Other guards could see their sometime shamelessness—not that they held hands or frolicked to the shadier rooms. They stayed to their posts, mainly, and when visitors were few they gravitated to a certain piece of art and talked. “How does your father justify so many religious themes? How does he get by?” he asked her as they looked over Tadueuz Ajdukiewicz’ ‘Prayer in the Desert’.
            “I don’t know. Why don’t you ask him?”
            “And does this one with its Sudanese Muslims serve a sort of ballast for the ‘Prayer in the Steppe’ next door?”
            “Are you still praying about me?”
            “Are you?”
            “I’m learning to. Maybe that’s what these pictures were meant to do.”
            “I mean they’re all over this place if you think about it: there’s Leopolski’s ‘Praying Jew’—granted, not such a remarkable picture but well painted—and that ‘Funeral in the Town’—”
            “Do you think they’re praying in that one?”
            “Someone probably… that the coffin doesn’t drop.”
            “I’ve seen that happen, by the way.”
            “A coffin dropping?”
            “A man slipping at the gravesite as the other pallbearers were negotiating the position—it was raining, the mud was uncooperative…”
            “And so he fell all the way in?”
            “No, but he lingered at the edge as if he had time to think about it. Meanwhile, the pallbearers strained against the weight and their own lack of footing—don’t laugh, it was my mother’s dear uncle!”
            “Not laughing, just musing.”
            “About my great uncle?”
            “About the equipoise one has to keep, even in such circumstances.”
            “You mean the way a person walks a tightrope, like you described last night?”
            “What I described was child’s play. But yes, I suppose there is some of that in the most serious of occasions. That is what art does, I’m starting to think: depict the hardest human scenarios in the strokes of very practiced doodlers.”
            “Shall I tell that to Daddy? He might promote you to a guide! Just in time for the gradeschool visits!”
            “Tell your daddy that I love you.”
            “No. Joking aside, he’d banish you and bind me to this prison of prayer paintings forever. Don’t let him know that.”
            “See, that’s what I meant last night: I’ve spellbound many an audience with tumbles and scares, yet nothing about the acts I performed were honest-to-goodness risks. There was nobody I loved at stake. Well, that sounds rather inhuman—I mean that…”
            “…that you’ll walk through fire but not say anything to Daddy.”
            “That I’ll remain a disciple of this ‘prison of prayer’, as you say.”
            “And I’ll do math problems, right?”
            “We’ll have most interesting kids…”
            “Of course we will—they will be born and bred among the swans at Strysky Park!”
            “I’ve known worse launches in life.” Yakov continued to muse. “But perhaps never better.”

[a projected four more chapters to come]