A Modest Construct

Posts tagged `poetry`

¶ my father moved through dooms of love

Eric Gunnink, 12/18/1956-5/29/2008.

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height

this motionless forgetful where
turned at his glance to shining here;
that if(so timid air is firm)
under his eyes would stir and squirm

newly as from unburied which
floats the first who,his april touch
drove sleeping selves to swarm their fates
woke dreamers to their ghostly roots

and should some why completely weep
my father’s fingers brought her sleep:
vainly no smallest voice might cry
for he could feel the mountains grow.

Lifting the valleys of the sea
my father moved through griefs of joy;
praising a forehead he called the moon
singing desire into begin

joy was his song and joy so pure
a heart of star by him could steer
and pure so now and now so yes
the wrists of twilight would rejoice

keen as midsummer’s keen beyond
conceiving mind of sun will stand,
so strictly(over utmost him
so hugely)stood my father’s dream

his flesh was flesh his blood was blood:
no hungry man but wished him food;
no cripple wouldn’t creep one mile
uphill to only see him smile.

Scorning the pomp of must and shall
my father moved through dooms of feel;
his anger was as right as rain
his pity was as green as grain

septembering arms of year extend
less humbly wealth to foe and friend
than he to foolish and to wise
offered immeasurable is

proudly and(by octobering flame
beckoned)as earth will downward climb,
so naked for immortal work
his shoulders marched against the dark

his sorrow was as true as bread:
no liar looked him in the head;
if every friend became his foe
he’d laugh and build a world with snow.

My father moved through theys of we,
singing each new leaf out of each tree
(and every child was sure that spring
danced when she heard my father sing)

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine,passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear,to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit,all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why man breathe—
because my father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all

§6123 · May 29, 2011 · (No comments) · Tags: personal, poetry

¶ The Book of Psalms

The Book of Psalms: A Translation With Commentary trans. Robert Alter: Publisher: W.W. Norton; Year: 2007/2009; Pages: 560

Any time one deals with a book which has been translated, you’re opening up a whole new can of worms above and beyond the quality of the book itself. I noted this with some hesitancy when I reviewed Orhan Pamuk’s Snow—or, more accurately, a translation of Orhan Pamuk’s Snow.

Biblical translation is even tougher: the politics it involves go beyond mere word choice and touch things which people hold as sacrosanct. Maybe you think I’m exaggerating, but consider as an example the movement of Christians who believe that the only correct version of the Bible is the King James Version. Mess with canon at your own peril.

¶ Posthumous Keats

Posthumous Keats by Stanley Plumly: Publisher: W.W. Norton; Year: 2008/2009; Pages: 400

Here is the answer to what is perhaps a burning question: what happens when poets write biographies?

Stanley Plumly is the poet laureate of the state of Maryland, a professor at the University of Maryland, and an accomplished (read: published) poet; I am otherwise unfamiliar with the man’s poetry, but I take it upon quick research that he is famous in the skeletal sort of way that modern American poets can be. By this I mean that unless you live in Maryland, or perhaps are the sort of person who buys books of poetry by modern poets, you’ve likely never heard of him, and this is indicative of a much larger issue about modern poetry: everybody writes it (at least when they’re young), but it’s ceased to be a matter of prestige, or a form of art held dearly by the public. Where perhaps it may once have been fashionable, it’s been usurped by pop music, which is a more immediately accessible form of art which fulfills the desire for catharsis.

¶ 1 hundred hiccups

1 hundred hiccups by Michael Kadela: Publisher: EM Press; Year: 2002; Pages: 134

1 hundred hiccups is a book of poetry by a semi-local poet of my (very general) acquaintance. Actually, my (signed) copy is disturbingly well-worn. I bought it back in 2002 when Mike Kadela and his publisher showed up at a reception for a literary magazine (I was only a high school senior at the time); at the time, I had heard only a small portion of Kadela’s repertoire (including some that I’ve never seen published). I’ve posted a poem by him before; I’ve also reviewed a fellow “slam poet,” Jack McCarthy.

I’ve read the whole book several times, but it’s usually been picking poems at random. This week, I sat down and read the whole thing from cover to cover. When I could guarantee my privacy, I liked to read them aloud, occasionally gesticulating or frothing slightly. The assonance and playful nature sound even better when vocalized and inflected.

It is difficult to review 1 hundred hiccups without devolving into a spew of fawning superlatives. It might simply be my own biases, but there’s a particular effortlessness with words here, a natural talent for the poetic voice that imbues all hundred pieces.

¶ the bleeding beat

the bleeding beat,
	it sows so sweet a misery
	that only jumps its sombre pace
	when landing at her feet.

But Oh!         What Dreadful Havoc             /Her countenance
                Hath She Wrought                /a cannonball
                Upon the Ramparts               /to armor plates
                Of My Heart                     /and mortar walls

and in her lacking?
	lonely notes.  from pianos black
		with minor keys,
the sombre march of major locks.

Stars shriek
	of their radiant heat
	their burning hearts
	beset by light
	that only marks their very edges,
	tiny deaths of blinding white.

And Oh!	       What Fiery Spirit                /My bosom rent
               Must She Court                   /by basest shades,
               With All the Blazes              /its edges bound by
               Of Her Heart                     /spans of days

and in her laughing?
	children's knees.  the lonely bones
		from bulbs derived,
while cutting fine their filaments.

this bleeding beat,
	it sows so sweet a misery
	that only leaps its solemn cant
	when landing at her feet.

§1935 · December 10, 2007 · 1 comment · Tags: poetry