Sunday, April 1, 2007

Undid In The Land Of Undone

UNDID IN THE LAND OF UNDONE

All the things I wanted to do and didn't

took so long.

It was years of not doing.

You can make an allusion here to Penelope,

if you want.

See her up there in that high room undoing her art?

But enough about what she didn't do

not doing

was what she did. Plucking out

the thread of intimacy in the frame.

If I got to

know you that would be

something. So let's make a toast to the long art

of lingering.

We say the cake is done,

but what exactly did the cake do?

The things undid

in the land of undone call to us

in the flames. What I didn't do took

an eternity

and it wasn't for lack of trying.

Lee Upton

New England Review

Volume 27, Number 1 / 2006

The Thread

THE THREAD

Jamie made his landing in the world

so hard he ploughed straight back into the earth.

They caught him by the thread of his one breath

and pulled him up. They don't know how it held.

And so today I thank what higher will

brought us to here, to you and me and Russ,

the great twin-engined swaying wingspan of us

roaring down the back of Kirrie Hill

and your two-year-old lungs somehow out-revving

every engine in the universe.

*All that trouble just to turn up dead*

was all I thought that long week. Now the thread

is holding all of us: look at our tiny house,

son, the white dot of your mother waving.

Don Paterson

Landing Light

Graywolf Press

London

"London"

by William Blake (1757-1827)

I wander thro' each charter'd street,

Near where the charter'd Thames does flow.

And mark in every face I meet,

Marks of weakness, marks of woe.


In every cry of every Man,

In every Infant's cry of fear,

In every voice, in every ban,

The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper's cry

Every blackning Church appalls,

And the hapless Soldier's sigh,

Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear

How the youthful Harlot's curse

Blasts the new-born Infant's tear

And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

*Orlando Ricardo Menes comments:

From his *Songs of Experience*, William Blake's "London" is one of those unforgettable poems that grips, clamps the reader with the tenacity of truth, a truth that we instinctively recognize and surrender to with a profound sense of life's tragedy. We confront with horror this London that is imploding from the privations of liberty, the abandonment of morals, although we recognize that Blake's city transcends time, transcends place, and thus we can easily replace London with Calcutta, Nairobi, or Bogotá. "London" is a poem that I memorized more than twenty years ago, which has inspired several of my own, and one that I feel compelled to recite to my students. To this day the poem's vision sears me, the rhythms pound, drub my ear, and my mind is troubled, my whole body tremulous.

Quatrain One: The first use of "charter'd" alludes to the well-known Magna Carta, the "chartered rights of Englishmen," though these were withheld from ordinary citizens (let us not forget that Blake himself, an engraver by trade, struggled in the urban working class) by the repressive government of the younger William Pitt who was prime minister in 1794, the year "London" first appeared in print. (Though the reference is temporal, the indictment of tyranny transcends time and place.) Also, in the sense of commercial chartering, the word is a powerful denunciation of the citizens' dispossession of the very streets on which they walk, as opposed to the natural chartering, or bounding, of the Thames River. The roving eye of the seer marks "weakness" and "woe" in every passerby, and the repetition of "mark" (both as noun and verb), as well as the trochaic substitution and medial caesura of the fourth line, punctuate the marks' indelible and disfiguring nature.

Quatrain Two: While the first quatrain stresses the visual attributes of the poet-prophet, the *vates*, this second stanza focuses on the auditory. The periodic structure of the sentence not only elongates the "sound" of the human landscape but also makes the image of the "mind- forg'd manacles" even more surprising and resonant. This abstract image (as opposed to the more deliberately political "german forg'd" of Blake's first draft) conceptualizes the manacles not only as something real and tangible but also, and perhaps more importantly, as a state of mind that creates the privation of liberty. The repetition (four times) of the phrase "in every" reverberates like the tolling of bells, those associated with marriage ("ban") and those that foreshadow the final stanza's "Marriage hearse," surely one of the most powerful oxymorons in English poetry. While the voicing of the "ban" alludes to political oppression, the cries of fear are more primal, more intrinsic to our human (fallen) nature, and thus the more disturbing, the more disquieting because they cannot be easily remedied through political or social action.

Quatrain Three: Chimney sweepers were certainly among the most exploited child laborers in Blake's England, whose lives, to paraphrase Thomas Hobbes, were short, nasty, and brutal. These were young boys, orphaned from their mothers, who then were sold into bondage by their own fathers to the English church. The stanza recalls "The Chimney Sweeper" poems found in both the *Songs of Innocence* and the *Songs of Experience*. In the latter, for example, the boy speaker wears "the clothes of death" and cries "weep, weep, in notes of woe." The verb "appalls" in line 10 bears both a moral condemnation of the Church and an image of the chimney sweeper's impending and unnatural death. The boy's "cry" parallels the "hapless soldier's sigh," just as the Church parallels the Crown as agents of abuse and oppression. The latter's culpability is made explicit in the scathing image (synesthesia) of the sigh "run[ning] in blood down palace walls." Substitute Crown with Fuhrer, Il Duce, Caudillo, Máximo Líder, etc., and one has Nazi Germany, Fascist Italy, Falangist Spain, and Castroist Cuba.

Quatrain Four: The *vates* returns to the streets of the first stanza, though now at the more critical time of night during which he witnesses the moral corruption of the city. Just as in the previous two stanzas, the imagery is auditory, and thus the harlot's "curse" is the calling out (the "cursing out") of her trade, with its loaded freight of blasphemy and imprecation, this utterance that "blasts" like some scouring wind the innocent "new-born Infant's tear," an image that alludes to blinding venereal disease, which was, of course, rampant at the time. It should be noted that the "youthful Harlot" is very much a child herself, and thus perhaps she is both victim and victimizer. While poverty surely underlies her situation, the poem does not spare her from culpability (in the sense of free will). The poem too refuses to ameliorate the corruption of sin, and it concludes with the terrifying image, suggesting divine punishment, of the curse "blight[ing] with plagues the Marriage hearse."

ORLANDO RICARDO MENES was born in Lima, Peru, to Cuban parents but has lived most of his life in the U.S. Since 2000, he has been an Assistant Professor in the Creative Writing Program at the University of Notre Dame. His poems have appeared in several prominent anthologies, as well as literary magazines like Ploughshares, The Antioch Review, Prairie Schooner, Chelsea, Callaloo, Indiana Review, and New Letters, among others. Besides his own poems, Menes has published numerous translations of such poets as the Argentine Alfonsina Storni and the Cuban José Kozer. His most recent collection of poems is *Furia* (Milkweed Editions). Menes is also editor of the anthology *Renaming Ecstasy: Latino Writings on the Sacred*, published in 2004 by Bilingual Press/Editorial Bilingüe at Arizona State University.

High Country Canticle

HIGH COUNTRY CANTICLE

The shroud has no pockets,

the northern Italians say.

Let go, live your life,

the grave has no sunny corners –

Deadfall and windfall,

the aphoristic undertow Of high water,

deep snow in the hills,

Everything's benediction,

bright wingrush of grace.

Spring moves through the late May heat

as though someone were poling it.

Charles Wright

The Wrong End of the Rainbow

Quarternote Chapbook Series #4

Sarabande Books

Five Year Plan

FIVE-YEAR PLAN

A good Chinese American housewife has a five-year plan.

It's strategic, sparse,

menacing. It stutters at nothing, a tin present tense, perhaps a new VCR

in two years. A good Chinese American daughter washes

windows and retains

curvatures. And when I'm finished, I revise my five-year plan to exclude window-

washing, to include speaker of the house in two years, in four, maybe president.

And a good Chinese daughter and housewife has a ten-year plan, but the sum of parts

does not equal the whole. And when did this dimming and mapping start? When did kicking

apart and putting back together tread? At birth, a contract must occur, because

all Chinese parents ask new son-in-laws: *Do you have pension?* And it's reinforced,

the way a rubber snake sneaks and scares. It's not amazing that we can balance eggs

on our heads and fix a man's heart together. We have degrees

in everything and

nothing. We can polish cats while solving proofs, like belching & breathing. And all this

premeditation, like sugar in theory, but really tastes aluminum, clogs

the esophagus. It always grows back, never reaches twenty- twenty and there is

no standard deviation, no chance for seeing a spare owl

or the red fox that

wanders just beyond the border. All knew I would "make it," or at least control it

to a strangle so that the throat only brings in half the air.

Wild Nights

"Wild nights Wild nights!" (249)

by Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)

Wild nights Wild nights!

Were I with thee

Wild nights should be

Our luxury!

Futile the Winds

To a Heart in port -

Done with the Compass -

Done with the Chart!

Rowing in Eden -

Ah, the Sea!

Might I but moor - Tonight -

in Thee!

*Elaine Sexton comments:

Anyone in a long-distance relationship will understand how this oft-quoted love poem might spring to one's lips when unexpectedly snow-bound with the beloved. Thanks to a winter blizzard I was so moored with the added bonus of time to mull over the idea of longing in poetry with the echo of this poem in mind. One of Dickinson's biographers, Cynthia Griffin Wolff, posits that her love poems are either anticipatory or hypothetical, finding evidence in how she constructed her lines in the conditional, "Were I with thee" and "Might I but moor." More recent studies question just how hypothetical the experiences in her love poems were. But Dickinson's unbridled passion, even in the abstract, is ecstatic stuff. What Dickinson stirred up, surprisingly, led me to consider Wallace Stevens' life of the mind, his powers of abstraction, and how he, too, contained the ecstatic experience on the page. He begins the sonnet, "The Well Dressed Man with a Beard," with "After the final no there comes a yes" and ends with an emphatic "It can never be satisfied, the mind, never." Anticipated or actualized, both poets, masters of the mind's field, offer vivid portraits of passion, both corporeal and intellectual, in the reflected as well as the anticipated experience. And isn't that, after all, what a poem is, what's recalled or invented, heightened and considered at a distance.

I Pass the Arctic Circle

I PASS THE ARCTIC CIRCLE

A man on the train points to the cairn on the mountain.

We're passing the Arctic Circle, he says.

At first we don't see any difference,

to the north the land looks the same,

but we know what we go toward.

I wouldn't have noticed this little event myself

if I hadn't, one of these days, passed seventy.

Olav H. Hauge

Translated from Norwegian by Robert Hedin

The Kenyon Review

Special Issue: Culture and Place

Summer/Fall 2003

Blink

BLINK

First homework, then house-

work, now soulwork. No list, no

checking off, no done.

-- George Ella Lyon

some small and clammy being

not quite yet an angel

is on my back

playing the strings of this nervous system

not quite yet a harp

-- Albert Goldbarth

Blink

Volume 1, Number 3

November-December 2001

ART

ART

October, a woman and a boy, a tumor

overtaking his brain, draw pictures

in the waiting room.


She makes a red apple as round

as a face. Then from her hand a cloud

grows and darkens over the apple

until the crayon breaks inside

its wrapper and hangs like a snapped

neck from her bloodless fingertips.

He's drawn two stick-figures

up to their necks in falling gold

leaves, their heads all smiles.

*It's you and daddy,* he tells her.

Above them a flock of m's

fly toward a grinning sun.

When she doesn't answer

he says on Halloween he'd like

to be a horse with orange wings.

Staring at his picture, she says

*It looks like Thanksgiving.

Where are you?*

He taps the sun. *I'm shining on you.*

She hugs him as if trying

to press him back inside her.

*I'm not crying,* she whispers.

He looks over her shoulder.

*I'm not crying, too.*

Eric Nelson

Bellevue Literary Review

Volume I, Number I

Fall 2001