Michael guesses that I might have something to say about the poem, and he’s right, but he catches me as I’m working against a dissertation-related deadline (don’t worry — I assure you that the dissertation is in its last throes).
Until I’m better able to address his post, I offer you the following take on The Big Lebowski. It’s not quite as eloquent as Yeats’ commentary on the human condition, but it shares a vaguely similar leitmotif. I like to think of it as a gloss on the lines “Caught in that sensual music all neglect / Monuments of unageing intellect.”
The Big Lebowski - F_cking Short Version
(caution: this video contains more profanity than a G8 Summit Meeting, so put on some headphones if you’re at work, and cover the ears of your children if you’re at home)
Turner took a step back. Then he ran. As he floundered across the furrows the attack was coming in. The rich soil was clinging to his boots. Only in nightmares were feet so heavy. A bomb fell on the road, way over in the center of the village, where the lorries were. But one screech hid another, and it hit the field before he could go down. The blasted lifted him forward several feet and drove him face-first into the soil. When he came to, his mouth and nose and ears were filled with dirt. He was trying to clear his mouth, but he had no saliva. He used a finger, but that was worse. He was gagging on the dirt, then he was gagging on his filthy finger. He blew the dirt from his nose. His snot was mud and it covered his mouth. But the woods were near, there would be streams and waterfalls and lakes in there. He imagined a paradise. When the rising howl of a diving Stuka sounded again, he struggled to place the sound. Was it the all-clear? His thoughts too were clogged. He could not spit or swallow, he could not easily breathe, and he could not think. Then, at the sight of the farmer with his dog still waiting patiently under the tree, it came back to him, he remembered everything and he turned to look back. Where the woman and her son had been was a crater. Even as he saw it, he thought he had always known. That was why he had to leave them. His business was to survive, though he had forgotten why. He kept on towards the woods.
This should come as no surprise: on the last day of National Poetry Month, we turn to William Butler Yeats, whose “Sailing to Byzantium” inspired the name of this site. Below you will find that incredible poem, as well as another favorite of mine from Yeats’ early period.
William Butler Yeats
Sailing to Byzantium
That is no country for old men. The young
In one another’s arms, birds in the trees –
Those dying generations — at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.
O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.
Once out of nature I shall never take
My bodily form from any natural thing,
But such a form as Grecian goldsmiths make
Of hammered gold and gold enamelling
To keep a drowsy Emperor awake;
Or set upon a golden bough to sing
To lords and ladies of Byzantium
Of what is past, or passing, or to come.
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
— pieced from J. D. Salinger, The Catcher in the Rye
She was a funny girl, old Jane.
She knocked me out.
I couldn’t get her off my mind.
I told her I loved her and all.
I’m the most terrific liar you ever saw in your life.
I really should’ve been a crook.
What a goddam fool I was.
Don’t ever tell anybody anything.
I know it’s crazy –
I’m as lonesome as hell.
Don’t let me disappear.
Rod
These are just some headlines from CNN, cobbled together.
CNN
The boy and the falling skyscrapers
Girls using steroids for looks
Sex doctors in the basement?
The Birds is coming — again
U2’s Bono bunks at Bill Gates’s home
Man spits in face at signing
His spirit is filled with gospel
Unlocking a whale’s demise
Could plant ivory save elephants?
Albuquerque prepares for 300th birthday
Super-jumbo set for maiden flight
George Lopez gets wife’s kidney
Cojocaru discusses transplant
This poem found me last year while processing books donated to the library where I worked. A well-used copy of Albert Camus’ “The Stranger” (translator, Matthew Ward) made its way to my desk. Its former owner, likely a student, had underlined many words, phrases, and passages with a pencil. This poem is based on anonymous underlined parts of the first page the book. The title comes from the only note written in the margin of the first page.
distance vs. emotions
be there
vigil
come back tomorrow night
I didn’t have anything to apologize for
day after tomorrow
it’s almost as if Maman weren’t dead
After the funeral
case closed
Since I’ve started writing these poetry posts for National Poetry Month, I’ve tried to stay away from the usual suspects. It has been a great challenge, and has introduced me to many new writers.
I just discovered Tony Hoagland today. I very much like what I see, and look forward to reading more of his work.
Posting will be light this week, as I am in New York to teach a web design class, but I’m going to try to keep this poetry-train chugging until the end of the month.
Tony Hoagland
Reading Moby-Dick at 30,000 Feet
At this height, Kansas
is just a concept,
a checkerboard design of wheat and corn
no larger than the foldout section
of my neighbor’s travel magazine.
At this stage of the journey
I would estimate the distance
between myself and my own feelings
is roughly the same as the mileage
from Seattle to New York,
so I can lean back into the upholstered interval
between Muzak and lunch,
a little bored, a little old and strange.
I remember, as a dreamy
backyard kind of kid,
tilting up my head to watch
those planes engrave the sky
in lines so steady and so straight
they implied the enormous concentration
of good men,
but now my eyes flicker
from the in-flight movie
to the stewardess’s pantyline,
then back into my book,
where men throw harpoons at something
much bigger and probably
better than themselves,
wanting to kill it,
wanting to see great clouds of blood erupt
to prove that they exist.
Imagine being born and growing up,
rushing through the world for sixty years
at unimaginable speeds.
Imagine a century like a room so large,
a corridor so long
you could travel for a lifetime
and never find the door,
until you had forgotten
that such a thing as doors exist.
Better to be on board the Pequod,
with a mad one-legged captain
living for revenge.
Better to feel the salt wind
spitting in your face,
to hold your sharpened weapon high,
to see the glisten
of the beast beneath the waves.
What a relief it would be
to hear someone in the crew
cry out like a gull, Oh Captain, Captain!
Where are we going now?
I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
–the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly–
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
–It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
–if you could call it a lip
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels–until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.
Mary Oliver
The Fish
The first fish
I ever caught
would not lie down
quiet in the pail
but flailed and sucked
at the burning
amazement of the air
and died
in the slow pouring off
of rainbows. Later
I opened his body and separated
the flesh from the bones
and ate him. Now the sea
is in me: I am the fish, the fish
glitters in me; we are
risen, tangled together, certain to fall
back to the sea. Out of pain,
and pain, and more pain
we feed this feverish plot, we are nourished
by the mystery.
Well, I had to return my digital camera to buydig last week because they sent me a gray-market piece of crap that made weird noises as it focused and wrote to the memory card. It also had spots of dirt on the lens when it arrived, and the battery charger didn’t work correctly. Thankfully, they gave me a full refund without charging me the 10-20% “restocking fee” they usually do, but I still wasted thirty bucks on shipping. Next time I’ll get it at newegg or in person at a store.
Since I can’t give you any real Friday cat blogging, I figure that, in honor of National Poetry Month, I’ll provide the next-best thing: a little Friday cat-poem blogging.
This is from Christopher Smart’s “Jubilate Agno,” a long, fragmented work that can be found in his Selected Poems.
In case you don’t know, Christopher Smart was a mad good poet, yo, and also just plain mad.
I’ve noticed, by the way, that my cat is a little different than Jeoffry. She goes in quest of food firstly.
For I will consider my Cat Jeoffry.
For he is the servant of the Living God duly and daily serving him.
For at the first glance of the glory of God in the East he worships in his way.
For this is done by wreathing his body seven times round with elegant quickness.
For then he leaps up to catch the musk, which is the blessing of God upon his prayer.
For he rolls upon prank to work it in.
For having done duty and received blessing he begins to consider himself.
For this he performs in ten degrees.
For first he looks upon his forepaws to see if they are clean.
For secondly he kicks up behind to clear away there.
For thirdly he works it upon stretch with the forepaws extended.
For fourthly he sharpens his paws by wood.
For fifthly he washes himself.
For sixthly he rolls upon wash.
For seventhly he fleas himself, that he may not be interrupted upon the beat.
For eighthly he rubs himself against a post.
For ninthly he looks up for his instructions.
For tenthly he goes in quest of food.
For having consider’d God and himself he will consider his neighbour.
For if he meets another cat he will kiss her in kindness.
For when he takes his prey he plays with it to give it a chance.
For one mouse in seven escapes by his dallying.
For when his day’s work is done his business more properly begins.
For he keeps the Lord’s watch in the night against the adversary.
For he counteracts the powers of darkness by his electrical skin and glaring eyes.
For he counteracts the Devil, who is death, by brisking about the life.
For in his morning orisons he loves the sun and the sun loves him.
For he is of the tribe of Tiger.
For the Cherub Cat is a term of the Angel Tiger.
For he has the subtlety and hissing of a serpent, which in goodness he suppresses.
For he will not do destruction, if he is well-fed, neither will he spit without provocation.
For he purrs in thankfulness, when God tells him he’s a good Cat.
For he is an instrument for the children to learn benevolence upon.
For every house is incomplete without him and a blessing is lacking in the spirit.
For the Lord commanded Moses concerning the cats at the departure of the Children of Israel from Egypt.
For every family had one cat at least in the bag.
For the English Cats are the best in Europe.
For he is the cleanest in the use of his forepaws of any quadruped.
For the dexterity of his defence is an instance of the love of God to him exceedingly.
For he is the quickest to his mark of any creature.
For he is tenacious of his point.
For he is a mixture of gravity and waggery.
For he knows that God is his Saviour.
For there is nothing sweeter than his peace when at rest.
For there is nothing brisker than his life when in motion.
For he is of the Lord’s poor and so indeed is he called by benevolence perpetually–Poor Jeoffry! poor Jeoffry! the rat has bit thy throat.
For I bless the name of the Lord Jesus that Jeoffry is better.
For the divine spirit comes about his body to sustain it in complete cat.
For his tongue is exceeding pure so that it has in purity what it wants in music.
For he is docile and can learn certain things.
For he can set up with gravity which is patience upon approbation.
For he can fetch and carry, which is patience in employment.
For he can jump over a stick which is patience upon proof positive.
For he can spraggle upon waggle at the word of command.
For he can jump from an eminence into his master’s bosom.
For he can catch the cork and toss it again.
For he is hated by the hypocrite and miser.
For the former is afraid of detection.
For the latter refuses the charge.
For he camels his back to bear the first notion of business.
For he is good to think on, if a man would express himself neatly.
For he made a great figure in Egypt for his signal services.
For he killed the Ichneumon-rat very pernicious by land.
For his ears are so acute that they sting again.
For from this proceeds the passing quickness of his attention.
For by stroking of him I have found out electricity.
For I perceived God’s light about him both wax and fire.
For the Electrical fire is the spiritual substance, which God sends from heaven to sustain the bodies both of man and beast.
For God has blessed him in the variety of his movements.
For, tho he cannot fly, he is an excellent clamberer.
For his motions upon the face of the earth are more than any other quadruped.
For he can tread to all the measures upon the music.
For he can swim for life.
For he can creep.
Annie Dillard is known for her memoirs and her fiction, but in 1995 she published Mornings Like This, a book of found poems. In an author’s note, Dillard explained her method:
This volume, instead of presenting whole texts as “found,” offers poems built from bits of broken text. The poems are original as poems; their themes and their orderings are invented. Their sentences are not. Their sentences come from the books named. I lifted them. Sometimes I dropped extra words. I never added a word.
As Dillard writes, “by entering a found text as a poem, the poet doubles its context. The original meaning remains intact, but now it swings between two poles.”
It’s fun stuff, and a good writing exercise — I heartily recommend that you try to write one of these puppies. If anyone wants to give it a shot, I’ll publish the results here (you can email the poem to me through the contact form on the top of the sidebar). My advice is to head to a library or a used book store, and find a book on an obscure subject. See how far away from the original intent of the language you can take the poem. And remember, no cheating — you can’t add any words. You can add punctuation, capitalization, and emphasis, and you can drop words, but you can write nothing yourself.
The last one, “Pastoral,” is a particular favorite of mine.
— Max Picard, The World of Silence, 1948.
translated by Stanley Godman, 1952.
Suddenly, the green appears on the trees — as if
The green passed silently from one tree to another.
Children suddenly appear out of the chinks.
They throw their balls high up in the air.
The child is like a little hill of silence.
Children — little hills of silence — are scattered
Everywhere in the world of words. Birds
Throw notes of their song like balls against
The silence, as in a game. The word is led
By silence to the edge of the child’s mouth.
It is as though each syllable had to detach
Separately from the silence. The child gazes
After its word as it might watch its ball in the air.
Getting Started
— David W. McKay and Bruce G. Smith, Space Science Projects for Young Scientists, 1986
Try dropping from different heights.
What do you observe? WHICH WAY IS DOWN? Be careful selecting a place to perform this project.
Wear gloves and a plastic apron. Repeat the trial.
Wear earplugs. WEAR A FACE SHIELD AT ALL TIMES.
BE CAREFUL, THESE EXPERIMENTS ARE ADVANCED.
Try dropping from different heights. Imagine
How limited your knowledge of the world would be
If this were the only way you could gather information.
For example, what is on the other side
Of those trees? Try dropping from different heights.
If gravity were absent, what do you think would happen?
Now, drop the leaking can. Now,
Puncture the beach ball. Cut the garden hose.
Start the stopwatch. Grind up some cotton balls.
Try dropping from different heights. KEEP
YOUR FIRE EXTINGUISHER HANDY! Look closely.
Know where you can get help fast. Now try it.
Pastoral
— Max Picard, The World of Silence, 1948.
translated by Stanley Godman, 1952.
Sometimes when a peasant moves with the plough and the oxen
Over the broad surface of the field,
It is as if the vault of the sky might take
Up into itself the peasant, the plough, and the oxen.
It is as though time had been sown into silence.
The eye of the gods falls on the figures and they
Increase. A bird flies slowly into the sky.
Its movements are trails that keep the silence enclosed.
Grain and stars shine through the mist and haze.
Animals lead silence through the world of man.
The cattle: the broad surface of their backs . . .
It is as if they were carrying silence.
Two cows in a field moving with a man beside them:
It is as if the man were pouring down silence
From the backs of the animals on to the fields.
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter — bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
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