Showing posts with label France. Show all posts
Showing posts with label France. Show all posts

4.06.2020

like Frisco shepherd



SOLID AIR

Our Lenten season creaks along.
Involuntary shut-ins
calibrate their sins
or contemplate that deep-time throng

still singing songs through solid air
(celestial City on a Hill).
Who loves like Roger will
yet see Rose Isle, past baleful stare

& power-grabbing guile.  Meanwhile
Prince Hal will follow Hobo
like Huck Jim, & go
where currents flow (deep Delta style).

That Sleeping Lord of David Jones
dreams watercolor landscapes
old as Magdalenian apes,
bright as Justinian gemstones…

they glow with compassionate faces
beneath shimmering raven-stars
across midnight blue

while drowsy Hobo rolls a smudge of clay
(Pipestone maroon) into an eye
anchored in leafy palm (ala
Cahokia) – de son bateau c’est clé.

The King looks from his mandorla
like Frisco shepherd… mild
as forest mint gone wild,
sweet as nursing nightingale (selah).

His mother is the Queen of France,
his father is invisible
whose whispers out of Israel
ignite Prince Hal’s American romance.

4.6.20

5.05.2019

Mussolini shoals




MARBLE FACT

Long way from stones of Notre Dame.
We haven’t that feudal allegiance
to a field beyond France.
Bright poppies blister over Belgium

where conundrum of Isis in Iowa
came from.  She is, and was
mysterium of Osiris
on the Mississip – Ezra’s mirror-delta;

hard marble fact planted at West Branch
in Herbert Hoover’s memory
(who would not have taken kindly
to any meat-locker Muss avalanche).

Ezra yodeling the alpine Swiss serene
of his muse Circe Clementine
Vichy (& all the swine
she mesmerized, so spotless clean)

erasing all that history of filthy usury
& black boys handing Bibles
through the bars... Abel’s
your bro, Ez – cain’t you see?

Ah... the shudder of absurdity.
Knife-stab in Marlowe’s eye
over the Jew of Malta,
of all things!  It cannot be.

It is.  Villon grins in your face,
King Flibberty-Gibbet.
Grimace may be safety net
for every reprobate.  O prodigal race...

5.4.19

 

3.24.2019

Oh say can you see / by the Topsfield town line

& so the grand explication rolls on...

R.D. READING GUIDE #7

TOPSFIELD  (p.9)

This poem clearly a rejoinder to the conflicted cul-de-sac of previous poem (“Black Peak”).  The aim seems to be clarification, but the murk only grows darker.

“Topsfield” : suburb of Boston, next door to Salem, Massachusetts

“Shaker plate / of light” : simplicity, clarity.  Memory of lakeside Shaker settlement near Lewiston, Maine

“one steady statute / of a dauntless ghost” : refers to “our W”, one of the poem’s heroes, Roger Williams (R.W.)

“O say // can you see / By the Topsfield / town line / Where Endicott / ripped / the King’s cross out / barehanded...” : national anthem transposed onto colonial Bay Colony.  The future Governor Endicott of Massachusetts was (at that time, anyway) an enthusiastic disciple of Roger Williams.  One day (in the 1630s) the excitable Endicott, inspired by Williams’ objections to King Charles I’s reinforcement of the Tudor “establishment” of a state-sponsored church, tore the cross out of his own militia’s Union Jack.  This was an early (and emotional)  expression of Roger Williams’ influential theory of the separation of church and state.  Very remotely echoed by Dante in his De Monarchia – the medieval version of a doctrine stipulating the separation of Pope and Emperor.  (Endicott, a resident of Topsfield, was next-door neighbor to Zaccheus Gould, the poet’s great++grandfather).

“Friend” : Quaker, Shaker

Twain’ll meet / Nought, around the bend” : some kind of prophetic cancelling of violent rivalries and conflicts (with a prefiguration of Mark Twain and the river)

Wauontam.  Let’s eat.” : a Narragansett welcome, to feasting (experienced by exiled Roger Williams)

“Tempestuous word... stirs up... chartered Concorde” : a lot packed into this stanza.  Let’s say the tempestuous and threatening prophetic word of someone like Roger Williams, in the 17th century, eventually grew and flourished into the “self-evident endowments” of the 18th century – the U.S. Bill of Rights – in some kind of constitutional alliance with France (“chartered Concorde”).

“Hip-hop’s // Charlie horse” : ambiguous image of a limping monarch (Charlie horse”)

“rocking, racking... icing on a cake of Peking / take-out orders” : the political concept of human liberty, originating in America with Williams, results in a challenge to the autocratic, lawless brutality of “Putin’s generic icing” and “Peking’s take-out orders”

“Aerial checkmate thing” : poetry’s inherent opposition to soul-tyranny.  Echoes of  Biblical Ariel (the Psalmist’s hope); and Nabokov, Montale (“checkmate thing”)

5.08.2017

vive la France



CALM RONDURE

This rustic humble tablecloth
from Vienne street fair
(crowding her amphitheatre
hewn by Rome) poses a math

problem : how can I square this
table ronde within
the weathered octagon
of an American gazebo?  Ms.

Emily might know, or maybe Marianne...
some mounded clay pitcher
of accurate grace.  Her
toss across a potter’s wheel (nine

innings for a feline Muse)
spins stars like comets
through snarled sailor knots –
Mary & Rachel, bearing news

of natural law so blazing sharp
as to make arrowhead
speed from seabed
(trompette marine like Jonah’s harp

reshuffling my raven coil
into the Argo figure
of a prow’s green furl).
Honey from spun goldfinch foil

will pour like waxen flame – the living
sœur de Jeanne d’Arc,
sourire of each undying spark –
calm rondure of a square (Thanksgiving).

5.8.17

2.01.2017

Walking around Ravenna Diagram


Ravenna Diagram, the project I've been engaged with for the last few years, begins with a poem called "Potter's Whirl".  That poem was set in motion by small ceramic plate my mother made many years ago, featuring a pale pink starfish with a background of stars & rays - sort of a cosmic little dish.

You could say this poem is an introductory pointer toward the shape of Ravenna Diagram as a whole.  The "diagram" in question is actually a kind of Venn diagram, with two interlocking spheres centered, respectively, on the contemporary here & now, and on Dante Alighieri's presence at the end of his life among the Byzantine structures & mosaics of Ravenna (Dante completed his Divina Commedia there, and is buried in Ravenna).

It's meant to be a kind of juxtaposition of Modern & Medieval mind & culture, or a synthesis.  The Venn diagram also points to the underlying worldview of the western Middle Ages : a concept of Incarnation, which is itself a sort of Venn diagram, melding the human and the divine.  In the poem, this worldview or philosophy is represented in part by the figure of Maximus the Confessor, a Byzantine monk whose writings on the Trinity had a deep impact on the thought-world of the 12th-cent. French cathedral-builders, as well as on the Byzantine Orthodox church itself (see Otto von Simson's monograph The Gothic Cathedral for more on this).

I think of my Dante juxtaposition as a sort of 90-degree tweak.  While the Divine Commedia climbs vertically (up & down the ladder from Earth to Heaven), Ravenna Diagram works on the horizontal - set upon the "flat plate" of the American Midwest, & seeking this-world ramifications and consequences of a spiritual worldview (the eschatological meaning of "Providence", for example).

I sense that the poem actually gathers mass & energy in the same way that my mother shaped her plates and bowls from lumps of wet clay turned on a potter's wheel.  The making of ancient, medieval and Renaissance poetry was enmeshed in such "ring structures" - their unity welded by numerologically-concentric rings of design.  This process is something I've been pursuing over several long poems & several decades of work.  The chapters & books of Ravenna Diagram turn on their own centers, which in turn are linked by motifs surfacing in the corresponding or parallel "numbers" (ie. the 14th poem in Book 1 will find echoes in the 14th & nearby poems of Books 2-9+).

One of the strange effects for me of this process is that the individual units or poems will foreshadow each other in advance.  Here's how it happens.  My general method is to read through the aligned or corresponding "numbers" of the previous books before setting out on the next poem.  Thus if I'm writing # 27 in Book 10, I will read through the previous #27s in Books 1-9, seeking a general orientation.  Then I will proceed to write #27.  The odd thing is this : when I then turn to composing #28, and proceed to read all the previous #28s, I discover that what I'm reading has already been foreshadowed by what I've just written (#27).  It's sort of a double motion, planned/unplanned.

If this sounds convoluted, my apologies : the basic idea is that the large poem is structured on a series of rings, growing slowly outward, like a tree.  It's a massive ceramic plate - shaped by clay lips (a sort of "whisper gallery").  Or a maze, a labyrinth - a slow, spiraling pilgrimage one has to walk.

My constant companion in this seemingly endless project is a shadow of doubt & frustration.  There is no acknowledgement in the literary world for what I'm engaged with here.  The silence is absolute.  It's like I'm traveling in a separate or private universe, on an irrational fool's errand.  There is a vast chasm between creation & publication.  I have no prestige, no powerful advocates.  Ravenna Diagram goes out there on HG Poetics, with occasional forays into literary magazines (for which I'm extremely grateful).

I've written before about the motivations for blogging the poem. Basically I find that the blog is an appropriate way to present a long, serial, diaristic, processual work, which sometimes interacts with signal holidays or public events.  But the disadvantages are many.  Moreover, I have a very old & very bad habit of self-publication - which doesn't sit well with many people, especially prestigious academics, book reviewers & editors.  This greatly limits my access to the larger literary scene.

But I want to suggest that there is another, more fundamental dimension to this poetry thing I am acting out at such great length.  & that is that I am attempting to express a radical worldview, a sort of philosophy with my work.  The intellectual pivot of all these poetic ring structures is a challenge to the modern & postmodern era as a whole (an intellectual challenge).

One might see this coming with a poem structured on a parallel to Dante.  Eliot & Pound, in their own ways, did something similar.   But I'm not at all a neoconservative or revolutionary-authoritarian Modern, as they were.  My intellectual allegiance (if I have to choose models) is closer to Hart Crane & James Joyce.  Or to some of the visionary dimensions in Mandelstam & Yeats.

I believe in a new Age of Faith : but one in which faith itself is understood also in a new way.

Poetry, in my view, is a mode of expressing the vitality, goodness & beauty of Reality as a whole : as an End, as a Creation, as a living, breathing multivalent Sign of a supreme loving Consciousness.  This view need contradict neither human free will nor scientific objective reason (theory & evidence).  But it is rooted in this sense of faith : this joyful apprehension of a benevolent purpose in cosmic nature (call it divine "Providence").

I can only call it Faith, because it is incommensurate with simple verbal arguments or logical verifications.  But I do think this is what Jesus meant when he spoke of "going back to the beginning", or about faith as the root of all active accomplishment, or when he characterized God the Creator as Love.   This faith is really not that different from the "primitive" faith of archaic human cultures - that all goodness descends from the One Great Spirit, from the "Manitou" who is the source of all blessings.  We are talking about the root meaning of the general social-behavioral attitude we call "good faith", "good will".

This way of putting things will strike many as not "new" at all.  I agree : I'm not up to the task here in prose.  Hence the need for poetry.  Ravenna Diagram is circling very slowly around a new sense of "Incarnation" - something emerging presently, out of the here & now, out of the clay of Big Muddy, like an infant emerging from the womb, or Jonah from the whale.  An Incarnation which expresses and confirms (forever) an inherent thankfulness-for-being; a celebration of its own existence, a happy end-in-itself.

The foregoing sketches out a vision - not unrelated to that of the Russian Acmeist poet Nikolai Gumilev.  A "chaste" vision, of the inherent beauty & blessedness of all things; of the harmony of the cosmos as one fundamental, & fundamentally victorious, Dream-reality.

12.07.2016

unfinished business



LIGHT CANOE

Cold Minneapolis.  White flakes
float solo, lazily
toward frozen sod.  He
sleepy too, Great Harry – shakes

his fusty bearskin (Mister Rabbi
tucked into his cave).
Wish they would behave.
A wayward dolor over fly-by

country ekes the bile from bunny-fur.
Infinitely gentle,
infinitely... mental
clamps inhibit memory, yessir.

Over the mantle in the dim apartment
Lafayette was dancing
just for Washington.  Sing
victory, Columbia – our true intent

was Liberty.  Hail to the Chief
in Indian Country –
arctic blue pine tree
sheds secret home (Sending Relief).

Grandpa’s got amnesia now.
The old brass shell from
Belgium mourns like a bell
in the pipe-smoky corner.  Plow

up the rose from the deep well of France,
Willa – that spiral dance
Crane zigzagged in a trance,
Atlantis echoing in weedy elegance.

                      *

Unfinished business crowds a heavy
surf onto the canvas.
Painter sticks to grass
with orange tar-baby.  Chevy

waves from Davy’s Locker – swings
his palm toward magnetic
north.  D.C. frantic –
Empire stuns fleet – Mort brings

us to us knees.  Only a wee
green island merman,
imperturbable, remain –
Pacific mule (Admiral of Ocean Sea).

A little grey jay (Whisky Jack)
whistles through her veil
of salt-shaking.  Sail
on, Peace CorpsPearl’s Clamshack!

Under the turbid rotoring
of pyramid schemes –
when trumpery becomes
a weird mudfish – a rippling

stone floats to the surface, springs
to hover – catenary
honeycomb (or berry-
gem).  All minions, toughs & underlings

flee suddenly, like shady characters
out of a bad novel
(their plots unravel).
Blue J’s light canoe threads jasper piers.

12.7.16

4.01.2016

National Poetry Month begins with April Fools


SPRINGLIGHT
                                       i.m. Jim Harrison

April by the ancient river.
The old bones of the king
remember everything
that he forgot – his yellowed quiver

like a scrollful of desire, old goat,
old Harry son of Harry,
with his dogs, with his ’44,
a massif in a cave, disconsolate –

world like a bungled maze, a hive
of killer bees, in a hole
in the ground.  Old King Cole
with his pipe & his bowl, still alive

somehow.  A dust-mote labyrinth
horned by his own shade.
I met a straw-blonde maid
of Provençal, spruce terebinth

from Marseille, or Toulouse – name’s
Quitterie  who kissed
me sweetly, once
outside St. Martin-in-the-Fields...

                     *

Turn again, O Man, from thy insect
wickedness... a dust-storm
swarms the bristlecone
pine, high in her cold dry cleft,

still evergreen.  Through yon spiderweb
of desperate cities
one clear flute-breeze
intones a major melody (B-

flat) – frail threads transmogrified
like griffin-chords into
transparent unison – blue
octave through twin pillars (pied,

squared).  It was an iteration
out of alienation, empty
heart of vanity –
whose nothingness nested creation.

                     *

Long ago el Rio del Espiritu Santo
rolled, a mighty glacier-
torrent, out of here –
before your dream-songe Manitou

brought you to tent among these timbers,
People.  April was Earth
before a human birth
lent gentleness & poison (hers,

yours, mine).  I found a moss-green coin
locked in a cedar fork,
swept past the flooded park
into this punted limb.  Begin the Beguine,

spun the vapid strings... the War to End
All Wars is ended.  An old
king crawls from the blistered
bole (emptied orphanman, around

the bend) – shines in the springlight
like a babe newborn.
Roland honks his horn;
Guillaume unwraps his gauze (a Calumet).

4.1.16

1.09.2015

Charlie Hebdo, Peter Chaadaev, moral freedom

Two Frenchmen, brothers, apparently with training & inspiration from the Yemen branch of the terrorist network Al Qaeda, murder a group of Paris cartoonists & journalists, for the crime of publishing satirical images denigrating the Prophet.

Obviously the shock waves produce varying responses, of many kinds, on many levels.

A phrase occurred to me today in this regard : "moral freedom".  The phrase comes from an early essay by Russian poet Osip Mandelstam, titled "Peter Chaadaev".   This curious short prose work reminds me of some writings of Whitman.  In describing Chaadaev, the 19th-century Russian thinker, Mandelstam seems on the one hand to sketch a version of his own iconoclastic mind & personality, and on the other, to offer a nationalistic icon of the spirit of Russia, situating itself dialectically (as St. Petersburg was perennially called upon to do) between the prestige of Western Europe, and the vast inchoate future of the Russian soul.   Chaadaev is presented as both that rare Russian emigre who returns to the motherland, with a message of intellectual rigor and cultural order - as a "Westernized" Russian, in other words - and as a representative of Russian moral freedom - the "diamond" of a perfected individual soul (in contrast to the enfeebled West, sunk beneath the weight of its own unquestioned tradition).

This Chaadaev is a fish out of water, a free spirit, an exile's exile : his rectitude is inward, spiritual, personal.  His moral freedom seems to stem (via Mandelstam's interpretation) from Orthodox Christianity, with its relative devaluation of "objective history" in favor of inward spiritual unity, perfection, "divinization".

What does all this have to do with Charlie Hebdo?  With events in Paris?

"Moral freedom."  The phrase rings.  Mandelstam says Chaadaev was obsessed with unity : the basic unity of intellectual vocation & moral value.  This was the source of his charisma, his personal integrity.  But where did he discover this unity?

I'm not a Russian scholar.  My guess is, Chaadaev was drawing from the well of traditional Orthodox values.  & what strikes me about Orthodox Christianity is its visionary focus on the unity and divine origin of the whole creation.  Life, with all its suffering & injustice, is beautiful & good because God made it so.  The Acmeist poetic movement, founded by Gumilev, Akhmatova, & Mandelstam, was grounded in this ordinary Orthodox sensibility.  Gumilev called it "chasteness" : an idea not very different from Whitman's notion of cosmic goodness. Each individual thing in nature is inherently valid & beautiful because it has its source in the supernatural Artist.  With this spiritual grounding Chaadaev (& Mandelstam) could represent a version of "moral freedom" : the dignity of humankind (& Russia) without the overpowering weight of Western grandeur & authority.  As Mandelstam wrote :

Let the names of imperial cities
caress the ears with brief meaning.
It's not Rome the city that lives on,
it's man's place in the universe.

But again : where am I going with this?  What has any of this to do with Charlie Hebdo?

My point is this.  So the phrase "moral freedom" - from Mandelstam's Chaadaev - came to mind as I pondered the events in Paris.  Why?  Because both Chaadaev & Mandelstam underline the central, sine qua non place of freedom in any architectonics of civilization.  For them, moral freedom is the primal divine gift.

& what then exactly is "moral freedom"?  It is the recognition that the whole benign cosmic order is balanced on a "givenness" or original context of moral choice.  The universe is designed for Man to choose goodness & righteousness : it is rooted in free will.  The path to Paradise and "divinization" is open to those who accept this free offer.

But if this is the case, then where are the powers of tyranny, force, compulsion, fear?  Where are the gods of domination?  Where are the thought police?  They have no place to stand.  They are vanquished.  They have been defeated by a supernatural power Who authorizes moral freedom : by the law that you must choose the path of righteousness yourself.

I tried to explain this in my letter to the editor published in the NY Times on Monday.  This is a basic theological tradition shared, actually, by both Orthodox East and Catholic/Protestant West.  You cannot impose spiritual values by force.  Why?  Because God ordained Nature for moral freedom : we are free creatures, as God is free : we are made in God's image.

The fanatics of Al Qaeda and the Islamic State want to punish others for disobeying the commands of their God.  In the process they commit murder and other outrages against God's own creatures, & against divine Law.  It may be that they are driven by political pressures and deep grievances : but my point is that their ideology, which provides them with propaganda and "moral" justification, represents the worship of a false god, an idolatry.  If God is neither hateful nor murderous, but instead calls on persons to redeem themselves through love of neighbor, then the propaganda of fundamentalism has no basis in reality.  They need to be saved from their own delusions.  There needs to be a new conversation about the nature of God.

1.08.2015

Old bells, old beret

Listened to news from Paris today, after the Charlie Hebdo attack.  This afternoon they broadcast the bells tolling - old Paris bells, deep & groaning.

I blogged recently about "occasional poems".  My method, time & again, over 25 years, has involved a sort of recursive movement - a fold-back on what came before.  I have a lot to work with.  The poems roll out for a while; then they turn, making a kind of feedback loop, & going forward at the same time (hopefully).

This process is a motif in the poems themselves.  It's about recollecting what came before.  There's also a theological dimension to this.  History is about remembering something - someone - buried or misunderstood, but stubbornly there - will not go away.

I see someone on the street who re-appears often in my poems (over decades).  At the same time, I notice the final two stanzas of a poem I posted here the day before the Charlie Hebdo incident : lines which seem to celebrate or beautify the very name of the magazine.  Very strange.  This too is a kind of backward glance, an elegiac impulse.

Here's another occasional poem, then, written today.  Another collage, another cartoon - maybe topical, maybe not.

OLD BERET

Cherish yet this goblin-goblet
buried in George’s field.
Iron curve, silvered
by time & rain – thin graphene net.

Your delicate recursive thread
bears planetary load.
Her slow gait (pigeon-toed)
& long brown coat, her bowed head

musing down the street, black hair
beneath an old beret.
Agenbite of inwit,
egret; sad, by shoreline (ancient ire).

Time shunts loom’s backbrace (thundering
boom).  Young Charlie’s oak,
febrile with Hebrew spokes
(dove-speak).  Gdspd, my blundering

cartoon – your secret sunny man
is safe with me.  I fell
from towers of Notre Belle
Dame, late of Galilee (bold Magdalen)

when the lights went out.  Hawk’s eye
& raven’s wing, a shadow-
script of Jonah’s prow
just now emerging from the sea,

the Southern Cross of everything.
Rose octahedron in
your heart... ponderous bronze
groaning (pain)... OK, Ahaz.  Palm-king.

1.8.15 



4.29.2003

You could start almost anywhere with Simone Weil, Anastasios. Her extremism is seemingly inseparable from her genius, she's one of the most moving & powerful writers I've ever read. There are some essays which are in the form of devotional meditations - I think some are collected in Waiting for God. Also the very curious tract The Need for Roots deals with this question of an inherent thirst for God, in the context of a kind of neo-medieval social vision. My favorite works are the 2-vol. Notebooks, a posthumous collection, a grand mish-mash of theological/scientific/philosophical/gnostic/aesthetic notes & plans for essays, also Intimations of Christianity Among the Ancient Greeks, where her extensive knowledge of mathematics is brought to bear on some very beautiful theological speculations.

Simone Weil was deeply troubled & divided about established religion. Though a devout Catholic on an intellectual level, she refused to participate in the institution of the Church; though Jewish, her notebooks are filled with antagonism toward Old Testament Hebrew religion (she equates the Hebrews with the Romans as forms of totalitarian society). Perhaps there was an element of self-hatred at work. I'm not that familiar with the details of her biography, except that she died in a London hospital during WW 2, exiled from France, essentially of starvation, in solidarity with the French people. She loved the Greeks & she loved France. And she had a compassionate awareness of, and participation in, human suffering, which radiates through everything she wrote (and did).