30 Apr '08 20:46>
Originally posted by Bosse de NageI like the lyricism and some of the dramatically juxtaposed imagery. Parts are brilliant, lyrically:
(Click Reply to see the original typography, or if that doesn't work, go here:
http://jacketmagazine.com/06/pryn-kins.html )
J.H. Prynne
Rich in Vitamin C
Under her brow the snowy wing-case
delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
past loose glass in the door
into the reflection of honour spre ...[text shortened]... d yes the
quiet turn of your page is the day
tilting so, faded in the light.
...of days which slide under sunlight
past loose glass in the door...
...your pause like an apple pip,
the baltic loved one who sleeps....
...each folded
cry of the finch's wit, this flush
scattered over our slant of the
day rocked in water, you say
this much. ...
...And yes the
quiet turn of your page is the day
tilting so, faded in the light.
____________________________________
But as a whole I do not like it. It leaves me with the sense that it ought to be about three poems. I agree with Bly’s theory of association in poetry, but the associations here are just too many to follow the movement from external to internal, from conscious conceptualization to unconscious archetypes. And, despite the above examples, the lyrical use of language and the rhythm just don’t seem to me to be robust enough to carry the heavy load.
Compare Bly’s “Snowbanks North of the House”:
Those great sweeps of snow that stop suddenly six feet from the house...
Thoughts that go so far.
The boy gets out of high school and reads no more books;
The son stops calling home.
The mother puts down her rolling pin and makes no more bread.
And the wife looks at her husband one night at a party, and loves him no more.
The energy leaves the wine, and the minister falls leaving the church.
It will not come closer—
The one inside moves back, and the hands touch nothing, and are safe.
The father grieves for his son, and will not leave the room where the coffin stands.
He turns away from his wife, and she sleeps alone.
And the sea lifts and falls all night, the moon goes on through the unattached heavens alone.
The toe of the shoe pivots
In the dust...
And the man in the black coat turns, and goes back down the hill.
No one knows why he came, or why he turned away, and did not climb the hill.
—Robert Bly, from The Man in the Black Coat Turns (Note: Since I can’t produce the indentations, I just left the long lines stand.)
Or, for a more sustained social/political commentary, Bly’s “The Tooth Mother Naked At Last”. There the driving rhythms sustain the violently juxtaposed images.
Or, W.S. Merwin’s “Air” (from The Moving Target), in which each stanza holds its own packet of obscure images, which I think allows the slower rhythm to carry a sustained lyrical mood, so to speak:
Naturally it is night.
Under the overturned lute with its
One string I am going my way
Which has a strange sound.
This way the dust, that way the dust.
I listen to both sides
But I keep right on.
I remember the leaves sitting in judgment
And then winter.
I remember the rain with its bundle of roads.
The rain taking all its roads.
Nowhere.
Young as I am, old as I am,
I forget tomorrow, the blind man.
I forget the life among the buried windows.
The eyes in the curtains.
The wall
Growing through the immortelles.
I forget silence
The owner of the smile.
This must be what I wanted to be doing,
Walking at night between the two deserts,
Singing.
_________________________________
The first stanza of this poem metaphorically signals the “mystical” or introspective nature of the poem, as surely as “once upon a time” signals a fairy-tale or myth. Images of a life journey recollected, remembering, forgetting, but keeping right on—with an ending affirmation that keeps it from suggesting unrelieved world-weariness. As Nemesio said with regard to music, the tension is released. But the metaphors are nevertheless left to touch the reader’s (conscious or unconscious) mind, without having some overt “meaning” disclosed.
I think these are better poems than Prynne’s. I think both the lyricism and the dramatic movement across images are more intense, and contained within a recognizable “package” so to speak (even if Bly’s “release of tension” is just a pointing to the mystery...). Merwin could have taken just the quotes I pulled from Prynne’s poem and tweaked just them into a short, intense, complete lyric poem that would be memorable (I suspect you could too); of course, it would not say all that Prynne seems to want to say.
Then again, there is good—even great—poetry that I do not prefer. I prefer Merwin to Bly (and even Snyder) generally; I prefer Plath to Doc Williams; Yeats far over Frost; on most days I would rather read the worst of Dylan Thomas than the best of Eliot. That just gives a hint of my personal tastes.