I’m excited to announce the publication of Blueshift Road, my fourth book of poems.
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It’s an imperative to remind myself of the brilliance of the poetry of Elaine Equi, an early poetic love. Oh, those knowing eyes and smile, and clear states of consciousness! Below are two poems: “Approaching Orgasm” and “A Bouquet of Objects,” both from Surface Tension (Coffeehouse Press, 1989).
These poems I remember from early influences, which still send me, and I’m moved to delve further into her later writings. The future is lucid!
I’m delighted to announce that Blueshift Road, my latest book of poetry, has arrived, published by Rogue Embryo Press.
For the 25th installment of my “poetry gratitude” series, I pay tribute to Anselm Hollo (1934-2013), a great poet and a mensch with a huge heart. I’ve been thinking about posting a couple of poems by him for some time. Every time I start, I’m filled with sadness that he’s no longer among us. I was lucky to have spent a short span of time with him. I have always loved and admired Anselm’s poetry for his voice (self-styled as “avuncular”) and for his sense of wonder and of being in the moment.
Below are poems by Hollo from one of my most treasured poetry collections, published in letterpress by Toothpaste Press: Heavy Jars (1977). A beautiful book in every way.
Robert Zend (1929-1985) was a Canadian poet, fiction writer, and artist who made his way to Canada with his wife, Ibi, and baby daughter in 1956 as political refugees following the failed Hungarian Uprising against Soviet rule.
Zend and his wife were both survivors of the Holocaust. Ibi suffered and lived through three concentration camps, and Robert was sent to a forced labour camp in the forests of Hungary. Near the end of the war, the prisoners of that camp were compelled to embark on what was effectively a death march. Zend and two other prisoners escaped during the night and survived by hiding in a monastery until they were liberated by Soviet soldiers. The story of Robert’s and Ibi’s lives is remarkable and moving.
As a writer, poet, and multimedia artist, Zend was cosmopolitan, like his native Budapest: his influences were broad and international. I encourage anyone interested in exploring his life and work to have a look at my thirteen-part series Robert Zend: Poet without Borders, which I wrote after extensive research into the Zend fonds at the University of Toronto as well as interviews with family members. The URL for the table of contents: https://rogueembryo.com/robert-zend/
Below are two shorter poems by Zend, both in his book From Zero to One.
It occurs to me that as part of my poetry gratitude series, I shouldn’t neglect the gift of music that I’ve received during my life. From early childhood, I was immersed in classical music. My mother was a piano teacher, and when I was five, she discovered that I was endowed with absolute pitch, a kind of tonal memory. From that time, she decided to develop my musical talent.
My mother was my first piano teacher; a few years later, she sent me for lessons to a wonderful woman in town named Mrs. Brown, whom I came to think of as a second mother. My piano studies continued at Louisiana State University and later, the Eastman School of Music.
Throughout my childhood and adolescence, my mother took me to concerts – we were fortunate that so many top-tier pianists, cellists, and violinists toured through my hometown of Lafayette, Louisiana, which was also blessed with an orchestra. And now, I’m ecstatic to live in a large city with so many opportunities to hear great music and performers.
For me as a poet, music and poetic language are intertwined, and although there are perhaps not exact equivalents between the two, my music background affects the way I experience sound, timbre, and rhythm in poetry. Although ultimately I didn’t make music a career, I’m grateful to have been given the gift of music by my mother and by so many wonderful teachers along the way.
At some point in the future, I might share links to recordings of some of my musical loves. For now, here’s a link to Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante for Violin and Viola (first two movements). I never tire of hearing this work. What a gift!
I’ve heard Peter Gizzi read his poetry on several occasions, and I’ve always been affected by the musicality and lyricism of his words that are often steeped in melancholy but that also open up possibilities. I’ve heard him give talks at conferences too, and I remember thinking that everything he spoke seemed poetic.
When I read his work, I’m sometimes reminded of the poets of French modernism, especially Pierre Reverdy, whose translations by Ashbery I’m now reading alongside Gizzi. Both weave tapestries of images, merging and separating threads in a texture that suggests meanings yet remains loose enough to invite readers to envision their own patterns. Gizzi’s poetry balances his gift (the given words on the page) and the elusiveness of the essence of that gift. It is writerly poetry that welcomes the interlacings of others. And to me, that is part of its beauty.
I have owed Peter Gizzi a debt of poetic gratitude for many years. Below are two of his poems. The first is from Some Values of Landscape and Weather, and the second is from Artificial Heart.
I’ve been immersing myself in the poetry of John Ashbery, which I had started reading in the mid-70s, beginning with The Double Dream of Spring and Houseboat Days. In 1981, I heard him read in Rochester, New York, where he was born. His voice was low-key – not much drama – but mesmerizing. After the reading, a guy in the audience asked what he drank when he was writing. Ashbery: “Tea.” Guy: “What kind?” Ashbery, deadpan: “Lipton.”
Ashbery’s poetry inspired my first poem, at the age of twenty. His words breathed into me the abandon to explore the mirage of captured meaning, the illusion of time organically leading to epiphany.
Ashbery wrote to the accompaniment of music, and I’ll always associate him with Sibelius, as he wrote about returning to the Finnish composer with renewed appreciation after a hiatus. His poetry is among the most musical that I’ve ever read.
Respect and gratitude to Ashbery. Below, with a nod to nostalgia, short poems from the two early works mentioned above.
Next in my poetry gratitude series is Gilbert Sorrentino (1929-2006), who is better known as a fiction writer but whom I first came to know as a poet.
The Orangery, Sorrentino’s book of sonnets, came to me at an opportune time as I was writing my own collection of fourteen-liners. I was surprised and delighted by the quirky playfulness of these poems, each of which contains the word “orange” in various guises, including “orange” as a verb and the “orange sombrero” of Rimbaud. A master of language games, Sorrentino continues the centuries-old dialogue of the sonnet with its own history.
Without further orange, here is “Sappho in Paris,” a set of four sonnets by Gilbert Sorrentino.
A major theme in the poetry of Hilda Morley is grief—not only in poems that directly address the death of her husband, composer Stefan Wolpe, to Parkinson’s, but also in those where urban and natural images are a lens through which she explores feelings of sorrow and loss.
My appreciation of her oeuvre has grown over the years—the musical, halt-and-flow rhythm of her staggered lines and phrases; her incisive and subtle language; and at the heart of her writing, an immense absence carved out by Wolpe’s death.
Hilda Morley (1916-1998) taught at Black Mountain College, where she was friends with Olson and Creeley, as well as many artists and musicians. Her work deserves to be more widely known.
Below is a sample of two poems from To Hold in My Hand.
By , Fair use, https://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?curid=31237782
Reading the aphorisms and short essays of Romanian philosopher Emil Cioran, I feel as if I’m entering a vortex in which every kind of cherished belief perpetually collapses under its own weight and vanishes, having revealed itself to be an illusion. Cioran’s cognitive and poetic mise en abyme knocks every dogma—even the dogma of not holding to any dogma—off its pedestal.
Cioran has earned the label of a pessimist and a nihilist. Even so, I find an odd comfort in his writings, such as this pithy meditation—with a hiss of regret—on the inherently impermanent nature of thought:
“To conceive the act of thought as a poison bath, the pastime of an elegiac viper.” (Anathemas and Admirations)
Here are a few of Cioran’s aphorisms that I had copied into a daybook some years ago:
If I could choose just three words of poetry to survive for future generations, I’d be hard pressed to think of better ones than those forever associated with Praxilla, Ancient Greek poet of the 5th century BCE: apples, pears, and cucumbers. Those words occur in one of only five extant fragments attributed to her. In that brief passage, Adonis, having travelled to the underworld, tells what he misses most:
The most beautiful thing I leave is the light of the sun,
second are the shining stars and the face of the moon,
and cucumbers, and apples, and pears too.
The context of Praxilla’s hymn, like the rest of its words, is perhaps forever lost, eliciting a lament of a different kind: regret for the absence of that which can never be known. Adonis’ memory of sensual foods simultaneously invokes and resists their absence, and the survival of Praxilla’s words leaves a trace of gratitude for their startling imagery while also reminding us of the loss of so many of her works.
But like the homely objects that Anne Bradstreet lovingly remembers as she roams her burned home—a table, a chest, a trunk— Praxilla’s sensuous harvest, recalled from the depths of wintry loss, has a presence as solid as a Cezanne still life.
For today’s installment of my “gratitude” series, I’m making a radical U-turn back to ancient literature. A few years ago, I subscribed to the Loeb Classical Library, a set of volumes offering the most significant Greek and Latin writings in the original, with English translations and commentary. At the time, I was especially interested in some of the earliest documented Greek poets of the 7th and 6th centuries BCE.
It’s distressing to see the fragmentary nature of the extant writing, with the realization of all that has been lost. Still, the words that remain offer a glimpse into often mysterious rituals and myths. Their contexts may seem far removed from us, yet the poems are imbued with timeless human emotions.
Below are brief selections — some of my favourites — from two very different ancient Greek poets: Alcman and Archilochus.
Today I’d like to pay tribute to Mississippi poet Besmilr Brigham (1913-2000). I first read the poetry of Brigham in New Orleans at a time when Bill Lavender was editing Another South: Experimental Writing in the South (2002). Noting the paucity of women poets of innovative persuasion in the preliminary list for the anthology, I searched for them – and of course they were there all along. Their submissions arrived in time for several to be accepted.
Although Brigham wasn’t included in the anthology, which was intended only for writers “currently living in the South,” my search introduced me to her work, for which I’m grateful.
Below, I’m reproducing one of her poems from Run Through Rock: Selected Short Poems of Besmilr Brigham, edited by C. D. Wright (Lost Roads Publishers, 2000). I hope that doing so will encourage others to seek out and appreciate her poetry.
Today I pay homage to Lyn Hejinian, whose work has been a constant in my development as a poet. There’s a kind of review that was practiced by Tristan Tzara (on the art of Hans Arp, for example), that reflects on the work by writing a performance of it. I read Hejinian to think, or rather to swerve thought off its accustomed course: thought splaying light, scalpel applied to scalpel and its tunes. Cognition as prism, tinfoil held upside down. How to begin? How to continue? Without conformity.
Below are three poems from “Punctual,” in The Cold of Poetry.
There comes a moment in a poem by Rae Armantrout – usually early on – where a fault in the earth shifts, and one foot is suddenly in a different time zone. Should you reset your watch? Or just allow the doubleness to creep into your consciousness until you recognize, with a start, that your consciousness is already doubled, itself part of a shifting attention observing the shifting world?
Here are two poems by Armantrout, both from Made to Seem (1995).
Today, I turn my spotlight to Alberta Turner (1919-2003). Thematically, Turner is a poet of the quotidian: she observes the minute moments of ordinary life and turns them inside-out to bring to light the contents of their pockets. She also knocks the icon of the domestic goddess off her pedestal.Her work is also edgy and often disjunctive, qualities that threw off some critics such as Margaret Gibson, who reviewed Lids and Spoons. Gibson disparages Turner’s “astigmatic” vision in her “surreal collages” and “oracular riddles.” On the other hand, she praises Turner’s poems that form “organic wholes anchored in a world we can recognize for ourselves.”Here is Turner’s “Mean, MEAN,” where Turner turns to her critics who would have her write more “meaningful” poetry: “I heard you, / MEAN!” She then asks why she should mean, but her very questions belie her tendency to disjunction rather than “organic wholes.”
As I mentioned in yesterday’s post, Charles Henri Ford’s Silver Flower Coo inspired me to create my own “ransom note” collages about 25 years ago. I reproduce the first one below – in all humility – but oh were they fun to make.
It occurs to me that my posts on other poets often begin with the story of finding the poets’ books – on my parents’ bookshelves, in a library, in a bookstore, or as a gift from a friend. These memories of finding and reading the works of poets for the first time are lucid as a spotlight and tinged with the frisson of discovery.
So it was with Charles Henri Ford’s 1968 collection of word collages, Silver Flower Coo, which I found in the poetry section of the New Orleans Public Library in the mid-90 when I was working at the reference desk. Since the book was long out of print, I photocopied it.
Unfortunately, a few weeks later the book vanished from the shelves without being checked out. I put a trace on it, but it seemed to have been lost or stolen.
I’m grateful that I was able to photocopy the book before it disappeared, as it was Ford’s collection that first inspired me to create my own collages—first using mainly words cut out from magazines, and later, images alone.
Below is the title page of Ford’s book, followed by one of his collages. Tomorrow, I’ll post one of my own “ransom note” collages inspired by Silver Flower Coo.
A postscript to yesterday’s post on Mina Loy: In 1994, I was browsing the poetry shelves of the Tulane University Library in New Orleans when I found, to my surprise, a copy of Loy’s Lunar Baedecker [sic], published in 1923. The title was misspelled, a major clue that, yes, this was the real thing. I photocopied the slim volume and sent it with a letter to the circulation librarian urging her to relocate it to the Rare Books room.
I just pulled that photocopy from my bookshelves, and out fell a copy of my letter, which I reproduce here, along with the title page of the book.