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At the beginning of Robert Bly’s book, “Morning Glory,” he had a version of Basho’s short poem, Morning Glory. Interesting how the different translators view it:
The Morning Glory also
The morning glory also
turns out
not be my friend
translated by Robert Hass
The Morning Glory
Ah! the morning-glory!
‘Tis not my friend, either.
translator unknown
The Morning Glory
Another thing
that will never
be my friend.
translated by Robert Bly
I’m watching out my office window where my neighbor is doing some very early spring cleanup: picking up branches, raking winter leaves… he’s dressed in his hunting gear, though. I don’t know if it’s any particular season, though; maybe he just wanted to be camouflaged in his front yard. I’ve been lazy at writing lately, but I’ve been energetic at remodeling. The ugly wallpaper in the basement is gone and I’ve scraped half of the backing paper away. A little more money saved and I’ll have new hardwood floors.
I’ve been working on a poem about Medusa but mostly struggling. I read a book of Robert Bly’s prose poems, “Morning Glory,” which made me think of re-working the poem into a prose format. I’ve never written in that style before, but maybe it’ll break the log-jam I’ve been in with it. I just hate it when I can’t get to the feeling I want with a poem. I just keep dancing near it…
I guess if it was easy everyone would do it.
There’s a wonderful, poetic paragraph (admid all the other wonderfully written paragraphs) in Ms. DiCamillo’s book, The Magician’s Elephant, “But that is impossible,” said Peter. “Magic is always impossible,” said the magician. “It begins with the impossible and ends with the impossible and is impossible in between. That is why it is magic.”
She has written a lovely book, one that you could pull down from the shelf at any time over the years and read any paragraph of it and be inspired. It’s a story like a string of perfect pearls: each character is right and sweet and hopeful. Each is a dreamer and a believer.
Read and enjoy. And thank you, Ms. DiCamillo.
I’ve written in a previous blog how much I enjoy the HBO show, Russell Simmons Presents Brave New Voices. I highly recommend it — geez, there’s so much tripe on television, it’s great to see a show that offers so much. It extolls poetry as a way of bringing focus to young writers’ lives, it brings performance poetry to new heights, and it shows how hard it is to write a really good poem. What are you doing still reading this? Go watch an episode! Brave New Voices.
I’ve been listening to the mentors on the show and taking their advice for myself. They don’t hold anything back when they talk to these kids, but it’s great advice to all poets: open up and write your emotions, be clever, write outrageous metaphors, and be true to yourself.
If you enjoy modern, spoken poetry (like HBO’s Def Poetry Jam), you’ll enjoy Russell Simmon’s new show, Brave New Voices.
The show is part documentary, part performance, all engaging. The show’s page has links to the selected poets’ full performances, since they’re edited for the documentary. Some of these kids are amazingly talented and insightful. Most of the poems will stand on their own without their charismatic performers. Even if you don’t subscribe to HBO, you can see the shows on HBO.com. Watch it.
Poets & writers magazine is posting a great poem every day in April. There’s nothing like a poem you haven’t read in a long time, or even better — one you’ve never read before. Try it! Better than May flowers.
Here’s a fun blog that has all the posts written in haiku.
http://lulu-haiku.blogspot.com/
Very clear and economical: three lines and you’re done.
Golden Retriever Postcard from Zazzle
IMHO, good lyrics are poetry. For example, I’m listening to Paul Simon this morning — his song, Father and Daughter has a wonderfully poetic image in it, “I’m going to stand guard, like a postcard of a golden retriever.” Also, the song always makes me cry; it came out the year my father died and, of course, I still miss him. A great song, like a great poem evokes a response.
My favorite lyricist is Joni Mitchell. Her lyrics can stand on their own as poems in almost every case. Who has ever written a better line than, “I could drink a case of you and still I’d be on my feet…”? While I’m not a drinker, I can appreciate the binge image. Additionally, Bruce Springsteen, John Mellencamp (underappreciated), and Warren Zevon also come to mind for complex, evocative lyrics.
I finished reading the novel, The Painter from Shanghai by Jennifer Cody Epstein, last night. First of all, it’s an exceptional book. It’s well written, complex, yet still has engaging, powerful characters. The author peppers the story with historical names and events, but brings you into the story through her protagonist — a woman I wish I knew personally. To me, this makes great historical fiction. Throughout the story, Yuiliang, the main character, uses poetry as a calmling chant, a game, and as a seduction device. Most of the poetry she quotes to herself is from Li Qingzhao, a poet who lived in the 12th century (thank you, Wikipedia). I don’t know of any western poetry that has endured that long, and the Chinese have poems that are even older. The closest I can think of are psalms, but I don’t think the old testament counts as western literature.
Portrait of Li Qingzhao by Zhou Sicong
I caress the withered flower, fondle the fragrant petals
Trying to bring back the lost time.
She’s an orphan on a boat with her uncle, who is about to sell her — either for more opium or debts. We don’t know or care which, we just know what’s about to happen and she doesn’t. She’s just remembering her mother.
It was far into the night when, intoxicated,
I took off my ornaments;
The plum flower withered in my hair.
After her first customer in the brothel. Enough said.
The author uses other poets, Li Po and Ho Xuan Huong, both of whom are even older poets. I think the author has the character personally attached to Li Quingzhao because she is a “poetess,” and she herself, as a painter, has fought her whole career against being labeled “a woman painter.”
These poets set the bar very, very high. The poems have spare imagery, but are so emotionally evocative. In my whole life, I should write one poem that comes close to any of these.
To the Tune of Mulberry Picking Bajiao*
Who planted the bajiao tree under my windows?
Its shade fills the courtyard;
Its shade fills the courtyard…
Leaf to leaf, heart to heart,
folding and unfolding,
It expresses boundless affection.
Sad and broken-hearted, lying awake on my pillow,
Late into the night
I hear the sound of rain.
It drips and splashes, cool and melancholy;
It drips and splashes, cool and melancholy…
Lonely for my beloved, grief-stricken,
I cannot endure the mournful sound
of rain.
* Ba jiao [pa chiao] belongs to the musa family, grown for
the ornament of their large striking foliage.
I’ve just finished The Wild Places by Robert MacFarlane. It’s a superbly written piece of non-fiction about his exploration of the remaining wilderness areas of the UK. His writing style is very poetic with metaphors I wish I’d written. It reminds me of another writer who has an equally poetic style, Diane Ackerman, whose Natural History of the Senses I’ve read a few times.
I think the master of poetic prose, though is Ray Bradbury. I still remember the imagery of the tennis shoes from Dandelion Wine from junior high.
Poetiosity 