Karen Solie (2020)
Left to our use are the fixtures and appliances
Repented of by the homeowners
Who don't realize this is a way to know them.
In the basement one is closer to God
Because closer to consequence
To the creatures no one loves but the specialists.
Rice weevil, bean weevil, rose weevil, pea weevil,
Flour, black vine, and strawberry weevils,
A weevil to every purpose under heaven.
The basement is a tree house in the roots
Think of it that way
And cold on five sides, like childhood
When water in the pipes was a talking animal
And it was advertised that soil neutralized
The toxins applied to it, that
Our bodies did, and that the sea
Carried poison on its back into the hills.
Our faces to the wall, to radial domestic passages
Beyond it, heartbeats and adjustments
Attenuated through the half-space, lo-fi
The light is radio light.
The house tries to forget we are here
Yet there are bars on the windows
In some places, like childhood.
A slight clinging smell is associated.
Every living situation has one.
It's not the Underworld, for Christ's sake
Which is everywhere, without depth
But the gaze does learn to creep along the baseboards
And sharpen its knives on them.
Walking on the surface again
If we can bear it
After so long sheltering in place, we may appreciate
More than anyone a bit of natural warmth
Though money flows no more freely up here
Look around you.
Wednesday, July 29, 2020
Tuesday, July 21, 2020
American Sonnet for My Past and Future Assassin
Terrance Hayes (2019)
The black poet would love to say his century began
With Hughes or, God forbid, Wheatley, but actually
It began with all the poetry weirdos & worriers, warriors,
Poetry whiners & winos falling from ship bows, sunset
Bridges & windows. In a second I’ll tell you how little
Writing rescues. My hunch is that Sylvia Plath was not
Especially fun company. A drama queen, thin-skinned,
And skittery, she thought her poems were ordinary.
What do you call a visionary who does not recognize
Her vision? Orpheus was alone when he invented writing.
His manic drawing became a kind of writing when he sent
His beloved a sketch of an eye with an X struck through it.
He meant I am blind without you. She thought he meant
I never want to see you again. It is possible he meant that, too.
The black poet would love to say his century began
With Hughes or, God forbid, Wheatley, but actually
It began with all the poetry weirdos & worriers, warriors,
Poetry whiners & winos falling from ship bows, sunset
Bridges & windows. In a second I’ll tell you how little
Writing rescues. My hunch is that Sylvia Plath was not
Especially fun company. A drama queen, thin-skinned,
And skittery, she thought her poems were ordinary.
What do you call a visionary who does not recognize
Her vision? Orpheus was alone when he invented writing.
His manic drawing became a kind of writing when he sent
His beloved a sketch of an eye with an X struck through it.
He meant I am blind without you. She thought he meant
I never want to see you again. It is possible he meant that, too.
Monday, July 20, 2020
The Blue Booby
James Tate (1968, Poetry magazine)
The blue booby lives
on the bare rocks
of Galápagos
and fears nothing.
It is a simple life:
they live on fish,
and there are few predators.
Also, the males do not
make fools of themselves
chasing after the young
ladies. Rather,
they gather the blue
objects of the world
and construct from them
a nest—an occasional
Gaulois package,
a string of beads,
a piece of cloth from
a sailor’s suit. This
replaces the need for
dazzling plumage;
in fact, in the past
fifty million years
the male has grown
considerably duller,
nor can he sing well.
The female, though,
asks little of him—
the blue satisfies her
completely, has
a magical effect
on her. When she returns
from her day of
gossip and shopping,
she sees he has found her
a new shred of blue foil:
for this she rewards him
with her dark body,
the stars turn slowly
in the blue foil beside them
like the eyes of a mild savior.
The blue booby lives
on the bare rocks
of Galápagos
and fears nothing.
It is a simple life:
they live on fish,
and there are few predators.
Also, the males do not
make fools of themselves
chasing after the young
ladies. Rather,
they gather the blue
objects of the world
and construct from them
a nest—an occasional
Gaulois package,
a string of beads,
a piece of cloth from
a sailor’s suit. This
replaces the need for
dazzling plumage;
in fact, in the past
fifty million years
the male has grown
considerably duller,
nor can he sing well.
The female, though,
asks little of him—
the blue satisfies her
completely, has
a magical effect
on her. When she returns
from her day of
gossip and shopping,
she sees he has found her
a new shred of blue foil:
for this she rewards him
with her dark body,
the stars turn slowly
in the blue foil beside them
like the eyes of a mild savior.
Friday, April 17, 2020
Waiting for the Storm
Timothy Steele
Breeze sent a wrinkling darkness Across the bay. I knelt Beneath an upturned boat, And moment by moment felt
The sand at my feet grow colder The damp air chill and spread. Then the first raindrops sounded On the hull over my head.
Breeze sent a wrinkling darkness Across the bay. I knelt Beneath an upturned boat, And moment by moment felt
The sand at my feet grow colder The damp air chill and spread. Then the first raindrops sounded On the hull over my head.
Saturday, April 4, 2020
It Could Happen To You
David Lehman (2019)
It's June 15, 2017, a Thursday, fortieth anniversary of the infamous day the Mets traded Tom Seaver to Cincinnati and they're still losing
I mean we are
7 to 1 to the Washington Nationals a team that didn't exist in 1977 the summer of a little tour in France with Henry James in a yellow Renault douze
the light a lovely gray the rain a violin concerto (Prokofiev's No. 2 in D Major) and I had books to read
Huxley Woolf Forster and their enemy F.R. Leavis Empson a little dull for my taste also Freud on errors, Norman Mailer on orgasms, James Baldwin in Paris Dostoyevsky's Notes from Underground Part 1
and John Ashberry tells me he is reading The Possessed translated as The Demons in the newfangled translation while Ron and I stay faithful to Constance Garnett
I went upstairs stood on the terrace ate some cherries admired the outline of trees in the dark
and Rosemary Clooney sang "It Could Happen To You"
and I was a healthy human being, not a sick man for the first summer in three years.
It's June 15, 2017, a Thursday, fortieth anniversary of the infamous day the Mets traded Tom Seaver to Cincinnati and they're still losing
I mean we are
7 to 1 to the Washington Nationals a team that didn't exist in 1977 the summer of a little tour in France with Henry James in a yellow Renault douze
the light a lovely gray the rain a violin concerto (Prokofiev's No. 2 in D Major) and I had books to read
Huxley Woolf Forster and their enemy F.R. Leavis Empson a little dull for my taste also Freud on errors, Norman Mailer on orgasms, James Baldwin in Paris Dostoyevsky's Notes from Underground Part 1
and John Ashberry tells me he is reading The Possessed translated as The Demons in the newfangled translation while Ron and I stay faithful to Constance Garnett
I went upstairs stood on the terrace ate some cherries admired the outline of trees in the dark
and Rosemary Clooney sang "It Could Happen To You"
and I was a healthy human being, not a sick man for the first summer in three years.
Thursday, April 2, 2020
Silver Spoon Ode
Sharon Olds (2018)
I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a silver knife, and a silver fork. I would complain about it—the spoon was not greasy, it tasted like braces, my shining access to cosmetic enhancement. And I complained about the taste of my fillings in my very expensive mouth, as if only my family was paying where did I think the rich got their money but from everyone else? My mother beat me in 4/4 time, and I often, now, rant to her beat—I wear her rings as if I killed her for them, as my people killed, and climbed up over the dead. And I sound as if I am bragging about it. I was born with a spoon instead of a tongue in my mouth—dung spoon, diamond spoon. And who would I be to ask forgiveness? I would be a white girl. And I hear Miss Lucille, as if on the mountain where I'd stand beside her, and brush away the insects, and sometimes pick one off her, sometimes by the wings, and toss it away. And Lucille is saying, to me, You have asked for enough, and been given in excess. And that thing in your mouth, open your mouth and let that thing go, let if fly back into the mine where it was brought up from the underworld at the price of lives, beloved lives. And now, enough, Shar, now a little decent silence.
I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth and a silver knife, and a silver fork. I would complain about it—the spoon was not greasy, it tasted like braces, my shining access to cosmetic enhancement. And I complained about the taste of my fillings in my very expensive mouth, as if only my family was paying where did I think the rich got their money but from everyone else? My mother beat me in 4/4 time, and I often, now, rant to her beat—I wear her rings as if I killed her for them, as my people killed, and climbed up over the dead. And I sound as if I am bragging about it. I was born with a spoon instead of a tongue in my mouth—dung spoon, diamond spoon. And who would I be to ask forgiveness? I would be a white girl. And I hear Miss Lucille, as if on the mountain where I'd stand beside her, and brush away the insects, and sometimes pick one off her, sometimes by the wings, and toss it away. And Lucille is saying, to me, You have asked for enough, and been given in excess. And that thing in your mouth, open your mouth and let that thing go, let if fly back into the mine where it was brought up from the underworld at the price of lives, beloved lives. And now, enough, Shar, now a little decent silence.
Saturday, October 7, 2017
Todas as minhas coisas são tuas
Leonardo Gandolfi
Quando fiz Do you know the way to San Jose, preparei algumas variantes que acabaram ficando de fora da versão final, gravada em 1968 por Dionne Warwick. A mais importante delas talvez tenha sido uma pequena quebra de andamento mais ou menos na metade da música, indicada sobretudo por uma mudança de nota nos três trompetes que, naquele instante, preenchiam os espaços em branco. Isso, apesar de rápido, sempre me remetia a um tempo em que meu pai me levava ao bar a meio quilômetro da nossa casa. As cordas de um piano que eu nunca mais ouviria. Anos depois, toda vez que toco Do you know the way to San Jose, penso no meu pai. A música que fiz com certeza não fala disso, a suspeita a um só tempo oportuna e desacreditada que nos separa dos nossos. Frio antigo e úmido que, como depois percebi, da ação até a demora não leva nem mesmo alguns segundos
translated from Portuguese by Farnoosh Fathi
Everything I Have Is Yours
When I wrote Do you know the way to San Jose, there were a few flourishes in the arrangement that didn’t make the final cut recorded by Dionne Warwick in 1968. The most noteworthy of these was perhaps a small break in the rhythm midway through the song, further indicated by a note change from three trumpets that were, at that time, filling blank spaces. Although quick, that break always reminded me of when my father used to take me to a bar half a mile from our house, the chords of a piano I would never hear again. Now, years later, when I play Do you know the way to San Jose, I think of my father. The song I wrote certainly doesn’t tell of this, the suspicion both fitting and unreasonable that keeps us apart from our own. A damp old chill that, as I was later to realize, from action to stall lasts no more than a few seconds.
Quando fiz Do you know the way to San Jose, preparei algumas variantes que acabaram ficando de fora da versão final, gravada em 1968 por Dionne Warwick. A mais importante delas talvez tenha sido uma pequena quebra de andamento mais ou menos na metade da música, indicada sobretudo por uma mudança de nota nos três trompetes que, naquele instante, preenchiam os espaços em branco. Isso, apesar de rápido, sempre me remetia a um tempo em que meu pai me levava ao bar a meio quilômetro da nossa casa. As cordas de um piano que eu nunca mais ouviria. Anos depois, toda vez que toco Do you know the way to San Jose, penso no meu pai. A música que fiz com certeza não fala disso, a suspeita a um só tempo oportuna e desacreditada que nos separa dos nossos. Frio antigo e úmido que, como depois percebi, da ação até a demora não leva nem mesmo alguns segundos
translated from Portuguese by Farnoosh Fathi
Everything I Have Is Yours
When I wrote Do you know the way to San Jose, there were a few flourishes in the arrangement that didn’t make the final cut recorded by Dionne Warwick in 1968. The most noteworthy of these was perhaps a small break in the rhythm midway through the song, further indicated by a note change from three trumpets that were, at that time, filling blank spaces. Although quick, that break always reminded me of when my father used to take me to a bar half a mile from our house, the chords of a piano I would never hear again. Now, years later, when I play Do you know the way to San Jose, I think of my father. The song I wrote certainly doesn’t tell of this, the suspicion both fitting and unreasonable that keeps us apart from our own. A damp old chill that, as I was later to realize, from action to stall lasts no more than a few seconds.
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