Three beautiful passages in Nabokov's "The Gift," and I wonder about the truth behind them. The book is about a young poet, Fyodor, who has just published his first book. Here he is engaged in a battle between wakefulness and sleep...or perhaps the battle is between the poem and the self.
"On the table he saw the glistening keys and the white book. That's already all over, he thought. Such a short time ago he had been giving copies to friends with pretentious or platitudinous inscriptions and now he was ashamed to recall those dedications and how all these last few days he had been nurtured by the joy of his book. But after all, nothing much had happened: today's deceptions did not exclude a reward tomorrow or after tomorrow; somehow, however the dream had begun to cloy and now the book lay on the table, completely enclosed within itself, delimited and concluded, and no longer did it radiate those former powerful, glad rays."
(On his new work)
"Fyodor ventured imprudently to repeat to himself the unfinished poem---simply to enjoy it once more before the separation by sleep; but he was weak, and it was strong, twitching with avid life, so that in a moment it had conquered him..."
(Much later...)
"For a long time he could not fall asleep: discarded word-shells obstructed and chafed his brain and prickled his temples and there was no way he could get rid of them...."
Is this true of a writing life? Is there a point where the work takes over the creator? becomes the creator? Does a poem have a life apart from its creator? Can the creator survive without the poem?
Suppose there is a vast universe out there awash with words. The words exist as stars, whether we discover them or no.
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23 comments:
Yikes! I turned to this page and saw "0 comments" and thought what happened?
If you ever do decide to erase, a 24 hour warning would be much appreciated.
Good idea setting up the new thread, by the way. I agree with JRC that keeping everything in one place is handy, but that thread is becoming unwieldy because it doesn't create pages.
I doubt I'd erase. But I thought your suggestion about a new post was a good one. I don't think Pugetopolis reads this, though, and I haven't seen him over in the Exiles forum.
The other person I really miss talking to is EzekielSavage. Great writer with some amazing ideas.
Thought that list was a bit too short/exclusive. So, I've deleted it.
I was at the book temple today and got David Wevill's "Departures: Selected Poems" so that we can continue our discussion where we left off over there.
Also got Frieda Hughes' "Poems: Forty-Five" (2006) -- a really interesting collection by Ted and Sylvia's daughter. Forty-five poems for each of her 45 years
which naturally covers a LOT.
Frieda Hughes' poetry has the honesty of Sylvia and Ted's playful use of words & concepts. Another view of this dynamic duo thru the eyes & voice of their daughter.
David Wevill's book is a selection of his previous books. Very interesting. He discusses Assia of course. His voice is the hidden voice in that tragic menage a trois.
They say there's always 4 sides to a menage a trois. :-)
And so, well, here we are post-purge babies of the Void. Perhaps a haiku is appropriate:
and now we set sail
entering the bay of blogs
the great sea of words
pugetopolis
Pugetopolis...Good to have you here. I'm expecting the Wevill tomorrow, and a student gave me Frieda Plath's "Waxworks" a while back. (The cover is horrifying). I will have to take another look at her.
Something about your haiku reminds me of "Wynken, Blynken and Nod"...I don't know if you know it, a childhood poem by Eugene Field (one of my earliest memories). Although I think I would have preferred a more spirited ending, I always find it conveys an unusual mix of serenity and adventure.
I will be engaged rather intensely today from about 6 am until about 6 pm.
Pugetopolis - very nice to see you here. Now, if only Roadytoad would remember that he likes to read ...
Wugglyrump made a good point over there in the vote column. Though he started a bit rough in the Lolita thread, he may be a good one to know too.
Ahhh, for the halcyon days of Madu****!
Got the Wevill. Interesting, that in his introduction, Wevill quotes Robert Duncan's "Poetry, a Natural Thing." The poem cited by Wevill is an expression of Campbell's writings on Creative Mythology, and the idea that the natural poet is striving to get back to the source of it all..."They came up and died/ just like they do every year on the rocks."
Poetry, a Natural Thing
by Robert Duncan
Neither our vices nor our virtues
further the poem. “They came up
and died
just like they do every year
on the rocks.”
The poem
feeds upon thought, feeling, impulse,
to breed itself,
a spiritual urgency at the dark ladders leaping.
This beauty is an inner persistence
toward the source
striving against (within) down-rushet of the river,
a call we heard and answer
in the lateness of the world
primordial bellowings
from which the youngest world might spring,
salmon not in the well where the
hazelnut falls
but at the falls battling, inarticulate,
blindly making it.
This is one picture apt for the mind.
A second: a moose painted by Stubbs,
where last year’s extravagant antlers
lie on the ground.
The forlorn moosey-faced poem wears
new antler-buds,
the same,
“a little heavy, a little contrived”,
his only beauty to be
all moose.
Robert Duncan, “Poetry, a Natural Thing” from The Opening of the Field. Copyright © 1960 by Robert Duncan. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.
Source: The Opening of the Field (1960).
But, onto Wevill.
WINKUM, STINKUM AND SOD
Winkum, Stinkum, and Sod one night
Drove off in a mad drunken fog—
Down the highway champagne bright,
Into the Great Land of Bookish Blog.
"Where are we going, and what will we do?"
The stoned three asked themselves.
"We’ll stir up a fuss and then we’ll dish
All those queens back in the NYTimes.
Words of silver and gold have we!!!"
Said Winkum,
Stinkum,
And Sod.
The threesome laughed and sang a song,
Driving fast as hell down Highway 666—
And the wind that sped them all night long
Streamlined their sleek literati tricks.
The little words turned into a Novel
That won the grand Nobel Prize—
“How you make us critics grovel
And stew inside our Big Apple lies!”
So cried the NYTimes intelligentsia:
Oh Winkum,
Stinkum,
And Sod.
All night long their words I knew
Were better than any other online tome—
Through the digital soup we flew
Bringing us youtube threesome home;
It was all such a pretty dream it seemed
As if it surely couldn’t be,
Some folks thought we’d simply dreamed
Of sailing that vast old Internet Sea.
But I shall name you the Big Blog Three:
Winkum,
Stinkum,
And Sod.
Winkum and Stinkum my two little eyes,
And Sod is my little head—
And this neat little blog that sails the skies
It’s the Great World of Maybe-Instead.
So I shut my eyes when my lover sings
Of those wonderful sights that be,
And I see them all with my eyes like wings
Just like the biggest fastest bumble-bee,
Rocking the whole world just for me:
Winkum,
Stinkum,
And Sod.
A trio for today's tot...LOL
Finished the selections from "Birth of a Shark." The last three seem tied together by themes of powerlessness. The young shark, hidden in the weeds, even as he rises has no control of his destiny. "He wasn't even aware he would strike
That triggered last thrust was beyond his edgy
Power to choose or predict."
And the swimmers, "High above him
The sunsoaked heads were unaware of the shark---
He was something rising under their minds
You could not have told them about: grey thought
Beneath the fortnight's seaside spell---
A jagged effort to get a something painful."
(and a few stanzas later)
"Twisting, he thought himself round and round
In a slow circling of doubt,
Powerless to be shark, a spawned insult."
(This from 1964...perhaps viewing in hindsight what he had always known of "the kiss in the kitchen?)
From the next poem, Groundhog:
The poet is lying in a field, rifle in hand, the groundhog in his site:
"And I cannot kill, but mark him, fat
As a neighbour safe in his rocking chair..."
"...his black speck grows
Whiskering through the stalks of Indian corn
To confront me with 'Thou shalt not kill'---
A matter of temperment. No, his fate's
Inhuman, not mine. The riddle is why."
The poet has "...Zero-urge,
Guiding my right hand and my eye---
Not the will's choice crying unmistakably No."
I fired because confusion made me think...
One spoilt instant's enough to be conqueror."
The last is Desperados...
four bodies lying in a field, an official and his daughter, and two others killed randomly.
"...He looks surprised---
As if caught in a last act of graft---
And the child beside him, like a sick child,
He graft once protected. Together now
Their tragedy speaks more shrilly than in life:
Her trust, and his shrewd lack of it
Which bought bullets for both on a dusy road;
And the daughter entered her father's life
Without wincing...The other two don't count...."
Assia Wevill
If I am to stay where your put me
give this note to the one who was expecting me
a white ribbon tied in her hair
unraveling now. In the doorway of that
shop that is about to close
how to tell the difference, but for the eyes
concealing the knowledge of a lost property
as a light that is fading. Who
of her own dark generation having escaped
to live this long, who of her wandering kind
solo now, the stage hers, weeps silently.
The woman who waits becomes
less and less visible. When night falls
she is the whole of darkness waiting to go.
—David Wevill, “Assia,” Departures, Exeter: Shearsman Books: 2003, page 167
Gift haiku surprise
“Suppose there is a vast universe out there awash with words. The words exist as stars, whether we discover them or…”—Laurie
it’s a gift thru you—
just relax and let it flow
let memory speak…
I thought "Assia" was one of the more difficult poems Wevill wrote about her. Twenty-something years after her death (pub. 1987), he seems to be locked in a struggle with himself, but is the struggle to hold on or to let her go? He begins on a note of uncertainty...."IF I am to stay where you put me..."
But while he struggles (is he as passive as painted in "Lover of Unreason?") she fades to nothing...
"The woman who waits becomes
less and less visible. When night falls
she is the whole of darkness waiting to go."
The other poems that seems to say much about Assia are "Memorial I", "Memorial II", "Her Seasons," and "Apples and Apples."
I've only given the poems a cursory look. I'll read more in depth beginning tomorrow.
I did pick up "45" thank you very much. Read it cover to cover twice, then re-read "Waxworks". "Waxworks" is phenomenal even on the mythological level...all the latest dirt on the ancients and all...but after reading it in light of "45"...well Daughter Frieda certainly can dish. And if you Amazon it, get a load of the horrific cover...Frieda's sculpture of Medusa, aka stepmother.
I was disappointed that "45" doesn't have any of the artworks that go along with the poems. I don't quite understand that decision. Hughes' website seems to have been taken down, too. Perhaps she's found an exhibitor?
The writerly reader
“Often I am permitted to return to a meadow/as if it were a given property of the mind/that certain bounds hold against chaos/that is a place of first permission/ everlasting omen of what is.”—Robert Duncan, “Often I Am Permitted to Return to a Meadow,” The Opening of the Field, New York: New Directions, 1960.
Here we are doing our crash-course in time & space—this special time & space we call home—getting ready for our degree—permitted to study and be here as long as it takes—to know who we are and where we’re going—which is always the same—returning again and again—the end of childhood—our never-ending story in space & time—this blue marble portal our home so far away—and yet here it is now all around us—multiple meanderings one inside the other—strange complex concatenations of childhood dreams—multiplex screenings going on constantly just for you—you’ll see it in the meadow—a future world and many past ones too—a condo in one coexisting city of the mind—nothing can hide and you know only too well—the power to spin gold from straw is right there inside your little fingertips—your busy little fingers the extension of your mind—and your mind the extension of a meadow—a space a long time ago and faraway—when magic was the gift meant for one thing—to connect you here on this colony island a sudden light that turns you on—clicking on and then you’ll see and know—that Ouija boards aren’t needed to speak with them—they’ve always been here waiting for you—the writerly readership that is inside you—the neat little transgressive worm inside the chestnut—the little cricket spirit inside your Pinocchio brain—the secret name of your fairy tale lover—the thing that Rumpelstiltskin knows is the awful truth—you’ll find out that writing and reading are the same thing—you’ll find out that the book is reading you instead—and then after awhile you’ll find out you’ve got places of first permission inside you—meadows of everlasting omens of what is and was and will be—these special temporal spaces inside your head—that’s when all of it comes through time and space to be me and you again—so that it’s easy once you get used to it—the writerly readerly existence of things—once you get tired of reading all the time you’ll find out too—squeezing the words out like a big juicy sponge—after all there’s more to reading books than reading them line by line—once you start writing yourself you’ll be a writer reading inside time—he or she’s there whenever you read a book—the writer reading you as surely as you’re reading him or her now—startling at first knowing it’s impossible but true—even dead writers inside you bending over your shoulder and reading through you—just as much as I’m reading books through them too—writers are that way—writerly reading their way—through time to you.
The Robert Duncan sounds very intriguing.
And the rest of the post captures the feeling in these post NYT days that no one else seems to really notice.
And this piece, not exactly like the most of the work I've seen from you.
Performance art
From Pale Fire thru Lolita—the immediacy of reading a master magician—Vladimir Nabokov—game-text artist-adventurer—amused by us reading and discussing how it worked—both his novels “jack-in-the-boxes”—Chinese puzzle boxes-inside-boxes—Chess problems too—the magic in the literary structure—Pale Fire’s poem within commentary within index—such exquisite waxwing slain moments— sophisticated rearrangements for the discriminating reader—depending on where you open the book—and which rabbit hole you follow on the way down—interesting experiments for the amateur and professional—posting online readers immediately in the moment—escalated to multiple-poet postings thru Paglia’s BBB—giving everybody a chance to be a writerly reader—reading and writing in the moment—not just vanilla but all the other flavors too—the same with Lolita—beautiful birth-mother of Pale Fire—only tighter and leaner and more theoretical—the structure more streamlined and orderly—the Zembla journey in retrospect—rather than HH’s station-wagon poshlust journey thru ‘50s Americana—introducing the reader to the game-text—the chess-strategy behind the novel—Nabokov’s 2 books like Faberge eggs—elegant jeweled puzzles for curious readers—then surprise of surprises—there’s another world in there!!!!
Performance art 2
—for William S. Burroughs
Books like Faberge eggs—elegant jeweled puzzles for curious readers—then surprise of surprises—there’s another world in there!!!!—the Zembla journey in retrospect—rather than HH’s station-wagon poshlust journey thru ‘50s Americana—introducing the reader to the game-text—the chess-strategy behind the novel—Nabokov’s 2 books not just vanilla but all the other flavors too—the same with Lolita—beautiful birth-mother of Pale Fire—only tighter and leaner and more theoretical—the structure more streamlined—readers immediately in the moment—escalated to multiple-poet postings thru Paglia’s BBB—giving everybody a chance to be a writerly reader—reading and writing in the moment—discriminating readers—depending on where you open the book—and which rabbit hole you follow on the way down—interesting experiments for the amateur and professional—posting online “jack-in-the-boxes”—Chinese puzzle boxes-inside-boxes—Chess problems too—the magic in the literary structure—Pale Fire’s poem within commentary within index—such exquisite waxwing slain moments— sophisticated rearrangements for the reader—from Pale Fire thru Lolita—the immediacy of reading a master magician—Vladimir Nabokov—game-text artist-adventurer—amused by our reading and discussing how it worked—both his novels
http://www.gotpoetry.com/modules.php?name=Sections&op=viewarticle&artid=23
Burroughs’ cut-up software for experimenting with texts—this one being a cut-up of “Performance art”—new contexts and word-combinations for the writer to play with.
Fascinating...and frightening..but what does a machine know of art?
Suppose humans possess ancestral knowledge, an animal instinct of the soul. Suppose true art is the key that opens the back door of the universe. The artist turns the key and pushes us through the jamb where we view the view of our ancient selves. Far beyond toads and trees and the primordial sludge...we view the self beyond the cell. If Art alone can speak to us of truths we know/unknow....soul-shattering...true power. Popes, Presidents and "Old Grey Ladies" rise and fall on the power of the word. Subliminal messages, piece of cake...The Word is subversion.
Can a machine decipher the secrets of the soul? Does random generation of the words of a master randomly generate the essence of his soul? Is it art? Is it poetry?
What's really eerie about the cut-up text is that reading it is so comfortable. There's a sense of the familiar about it, a certain hominess, almost like having a conversation with a long lost friend about the past and shared experience.
Books R Us said:
May 25, 2007 2:26 PM
Cut-up version)
Is it writing? Is it poetry? Machines deciphering the secrets of the soul? Does random generation of the words of a master—randomly generate the essence of the rise and fall of the power of the word?
A subliminal message—a piece of cake? The Word as subversion? Can we view the self beyond the sludge? If writing alone can speak to us—then what about the truths we know/don’t know? Soul-shattering...true power?
Popes, Presidents, us through the jamb—where we view our ancient selves? Far beyond toads and trees and the primordial?
Suppose writing is the key that opens the back door of the universe. The writer turns the key and pushes open the door. Fascinating... frightening?
But what does a machine know about writing? Suppose humans possess ancestral knowledge—an animal instinct to write. Then what? Cut it up and find out.
Stream of what?
Famous Western writer of cowboy novels—asking “stream of what?”—stream of what?—more like a river?—bending back on itself?—uroboros brilliant little Viennese lecture—stream of what?—up the Congolese heart of darkness river?—the one Graham Greene wrote about?—the journey without maps?—Holly Martins the Third Man—you know, the one who answers the question by asking another question instead—stream of consciousness?—his usual short ultimate world-shaking little question—at least for Joyce critics and postmodernist hacks—“Stream of what?”—and so there I was—the third man giving a lecture—all the young smart Viennese intelligentsia there—for this lucky chance to hear the shocking truth—when Holly Martins asks—utters that famous question—revealing the secret of the known universe—everybody simply sitting there—going duh?
On my fourth read now through Departures. On the first read, I wondered how he decided what to put in, but now I’m wondering what he left out. In the introduction, Wevill writes "the ghosts remain strong; they live on in the bloodstream, and are present in most of the poems." But there is a sense that he is trying to escape the ghosts. In Where the Arrow Falls(9), he writes of Ophelia, asks "where are you/I have your hair-ribbons/not mine, not mine/…..they dragged the pond/they found her/ever since then her death has been /a vision, her smile/like a pained cross/asking/for water/more water/or it is blood" Ophelia, immortal in suicide...some things even death can't obliterate.
Firebreak...a double sense in these poems. First, the visual image of a path cleared to stop a fire that’s spread out of control. Second, autobiography. Images of hope blended into fear, life and death. "Emblem"…his son’s conception? Or his own? A new beginning in "Three". In "Prayer", Wevill expresses his hope for his newborn son, but also seems to sum up his fears for himself…
“In the absence of father of god
bless this son
That he eyes will know the details of our lives one day
that created him--
not in the white bitter light
of the empty temple
wind, stone or myth
But in the bargain
he must make with his heartt
to free himself of all fears not his own
not kin to his cry
That his temple be filled
with people and beasts
he can trust without taming
That the horns and water of his birth
guide him through the two worlds
belief in self
belief in things
And finally, give him the nerve
to face his own failure
the darker face
behind the face in the mirror
which is his substance, all else being ghost.
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