National Poetry Month (Pt. 2): Charles Baudelaire

Mario Praz once wrote Charles Baudelaire was a poet "in whom the Romantic Muse distilled her most subtle poisons." Having a slight handle on the French language, I couldn't agree more. Take L'Ennemie, par exemple:

The Enemy

My youth was nothing but a storm of shadows

Star-crossed, here and there, by the occasional sun-shaft.

Thunder rolled, rain ravaged (mourning skies)--

My tree never had a chance for fruit to speak of.

I live in the great fall of the mind, now,

Reaping not what I sow, the earth dark and deep (hanging sweet, hanging low).
I dig at trenches--water seeps, mud heaps onto sluit graves.

The meaninglessness of toil, life--tell me, what is it worth?

Will that of which I dream ever bear ripe with ripening fruit?

No, it is pain, pain--she eats at the marrow of life.

The great obscure Enemy sucks the blood, gnaws the strength

right out of me.*

*translation & photographie by Cora Charis

National Poetry Month (Part 1): Pablo Neruda

It's that time o' the year, so it's time for Neruda.

Gabriel Garcia Marquez claimed Pablo Neruda was "the greatest poet of the twentieth century--in any language." Having a slight hold on the Spanish language, I have a difficult time disagreeing. Take Sonnet 66, por ejemplo:

I do not love you except (because) I love you:

I move from loving to not loving you;

waiting, not waiting for you--

back & forth, through my heart, from ice to fire. 

I only love (you) because I love you.

I love; I hate without end, and hating you 


pray to you, and the measure of my changing love

is not to see you but to love you blindly.

{Perhaps January's light will devour, 

its cruel-intentioned ray, my whole heart,

stealing the key to life's rest.}

In this history only I die, 

die of love because I love you,

because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.*

Kind of hard to compete with that. 

*translation & photographie by Cora Charis

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 5): Staples

Five or six years ago, I left the United States to travel. When I left, I took next to nothing with me, packing my bags as if I were fleeing the premises of a burning building. These are the only books that made the melodramatic cut into my tiny carry-on, three poetry anthologies: A Book of Luminous Things, a collection of "short, clear, readable, and...realistic" poems selected by Nobel Laureate Czeslaw Milosz, primarily from Chinese and 20th-century American and European poets; Love Poems from God: Twelve Sacred Voices from the East and West, a rich series of mystic poetry translated and selected by Daniel Ladinsky; and The Holy Bible (King James Version)--mainly, of course, the books of Psalms, Proverbs, Ecclesiasties, and Song of Solomon. They remain the three books that I consider to be absolute staples, as necessary travel (and living) companions as my toothbrush and water bottle.

It is with these recommendations that I conclude this celebration of National Poetry Month, for they capture perfectly the immediate, raw spirit of the art form, showcasing its consistent ability to illuminate both the frailty and strength of the human spirit.

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 4): Contemporaries

At the root of poetry is oral tradition. David sang his Psalms. Homer recited his epics, just as countless others have bared and shared their souls by telling or singing stories in metre and rhyme. Participating in that tradition are the following modern musicians who, in essence, are poets in their own right. The first is (and forever will be) the artist of all artists to me. He could sing; he could dance; and he proved with Billie Jean that he could write. The second has always had a special place in my heart. My father (himself a published author) would sing along to such profound lyrics as "Fountain of sorrow, fountain of light/ You've known that hollow sound of your own steps in flight" while washing the dishes at night. The third I consider to be one of the greatest poets of the 20th century (far ahead of Pound & Eliot, in fact), having painted the sistine chapel of poems in Calling Out Your Name. And the last is one who I am convinced should not be known as a musician at all, but as a writer; for he exemplifies the role of poet in our modern-day society perfectly, carrying the weight of that role with an easy, natural grace.

So, listen to the music. Watch the performances. And remember that poetry is meant to be seen, heard and felt as well as read.


Purchase


Purchase


Purchase


Purchase

Nation Poetry Month Celebration (Pt.3): Pound & Eliot

I'll never forget the first time I read Ezra Pound's In a Station at The Metro. The words startled me, like the sound of a siren. I nearly jumped out of my seat. The image Pound had created was so clear in my mind that although I was sitting in the quiet corner of a bland classroom, I felt myself to be in a crowded station, at the metro.

It wasn't until that poem that I understood words to be wood and writing to be a craft, something you work at slowly but surely, taking your time, until you're finally skilled enough to be able to whittle syllables into nothing but pure imagery--and manipulate a reader's mind any which way you want.

Because the poem that came after In a Station at The Metro in the anthology I was reading at the time was The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot and Ezra Pound have always gone hand-in-hand in my mind. Although I have a particular affinity to Pound, Eliot has stolen the breath from my lungs nearly as much as his mentor. He attacks language with a primal energy, his libido pumping loudly in the background of each of his poems, while still adhering to a sense of structure and rhythm. I get the same goose bumps reading Eliot as I get listening to Miles Davis.

The following links are two gems I found hiding in The Paris Review, old interviews by Donald Hall of both Eliot and Pound. They delve into the relationship Pound and Eliot shared, the work of both, and provide a small window into the shared mind of two master craftsmen.


The Art of Poetry No. 1, T.S. Eliot

The Art of Poetry No. 5, Ezra Pound

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt.2): E. E. Cummings

If I could only pick one, I'd pick E. E. Cummings.

Ironically enough, I didn't even have to read his poetry to know. Ever since I simply glossed over that esoteric introduction to New Poems (1938), my heart has been entirely his.

I could try to put my love for Edward Estlin and his daring, naked genius into words, but I won't. Instead, I'll let Mr. Cummings do it for me:

National Poetry Month Celebration (Pt. 1): Anne Sexton

It's the designated National Month of Poetry here in the United States. Since the Academy of American Poets first inaugurated it in 1996, publishers, booksellers, libraries, schools and poets around the country have banded together during the month of April to celebrate the poem and its place in American culture. To participate in the celebration, I have put together a list of poets who have influenced and inspired me in immeasurable ways--and will be exploring each throughout the rest of the month. To begin, here is the one and only Anne Sexton:



Anne Sexton is one of those rare modern poets who never requires anything from her reader. Every poem makes complete, abstract sense. She crafts phrases that roll off of the tip of the tongue so naturally, they make one believe they should have always been. Her work is stoically explicit and unashamedly feminine--a true beauty to behold.

The video above contains rare footage of Anne reading one of her poems, bantering with her husband, coddling her daughter--and, in essence, living the poet's life. She's stunning, exactly the way I would imagine her to be: Her voice and mannerisms are as seductive as the words she's reading; she lives with an obvious exaggerated passion, yelling at her dog with utter disdain, smoking with addictive pleasure; and she can describe off-handedly as well as perfectly how and why she loves Chopin's Ballade No. 1 in G minor, Op. 23. She demonstrates here and in her work the power of the living, breathing artist--a power that she proved with her life and death can sometimes be so strong, so great, it suffocates the vessel it inhabits.