The Best American Poetry

XVI. The 30 Films of Akira Kurosawa: Waga seishun ni kuinashi (No Regrets for our Youth) [1946] (by Lewis Saul)

Ed note:  For the next several weeks, composer and film aficionado Lewis Saul has agreed to supply us with in-depth commentary about the films of Akira Kurosawa, now showing in an extended festival at the Film Forum. Even if you're unable to stop by the Forum, we think Lew's insights will deepen your appreciation of these important movies.

Waga seishun ni kuinashi (No Regrets for Our Youth) [1946]

PLAYING January 25th at The Film Forum

For a detailed frame-by-frame (literally, at one point!) analysis, click here.

Although Yukie Yagihara (Setsuko Hara) says this line to Itokawa (Akitake Kôno, five early films with AK) very late in the film, the line resonates throughout this fantastic 1946 film -- Kurosawa's first post-war film.

It is a shame that Criterion has not released this as a regular Criterion Collection DVD, with some expert commentary. The political situation alone is important enough to the film to have someone discuss that in depth. But let us be thankful for what we have -- a nice, quite watchable print on the Eclipse Series line -- no frills, but the price is right (and four other films in the package)...

Galbraith's précis is nice:

"Professor Yagihara is dismissed from Kyoto University, and the students revolt. Yukie is courted by two of Yagihara's students, Noge (Susumu Fujita) and Itokawa (Kôno). Yukie lives in a carefree, bourgeois world oblivious to the tumultuous events that surround her. Noge is expelled for his anti-militaristic activities, while the weak-willed Itokawa chooses the opposite path, joining the military government as a public prosecutor. Yuke follows Noge to Tokyo, becoming first his secretary, then his wife. Noge is arrested again and dies in jail, presumably tortured to death. She returns briefly to her parents before deciding to take her husband's remains to his rice farmer parents (Haruko Sugimura [a favorite of Ozu's, but AK used her only used more, in Akahige {Red Beard} |1965|] and Kokuten Kôdô). Because of their son's infamy, the parents are ostracized from the village community and forced to eke out a living during the night. The mother curses her son. But Yukie's selfless decision to work in their rice paddies like an ordinary peasant, refusing to hide in the shadows, gradually impresses Noge's parents. When their neighbors viciously trample their rice crop, Yukie determinedly starts over, in spite of total

Avraham Sutzkever, July 15, 1913 -- January 20, 2010

Avraham Sutzkever,the important Yiddish poet who died last week in Tel Aviv, wrote with a prophet's purity and greatness of heart. He was born in Belarus, but World War I broke out and his parents fled to Siberia for safety thinking no one would follow them there. Father dies 1941, mother and children go to Vilna. Young Avraham joins "Young Vilna,"group of young geniuses. Vilna, a vibrant cultural center, is the "Jerusalem of Lithuania." He has many writer friends. Artists, too.  Writes poems. Celebrates creation. Bees buzz in his brain and he hears singing, he hears your voice singing in the dawn and it is the voice of the wind and he wakes up refreshed and rushes to you through night and dust and sweat.

But the "golden age" of Yiddish artists and writers came to an end in Vilna in June 1941, according to the New York Times. The Nazis marched East. Sutzkever and 60,000 others were interred in the Vilna Ghetto. He wrote poems in the ghetto. He believed in poetry the way a Jew believes in the Messiah. In theory it was simple. You wrote or you died. "If a worm will never succumb to the cut, / can you say you are less than a worm?" Every dawn brought melted rubies: "I shall not cease to be amazed / at the loveliest sunset my eyes can invent." With his wife he and some Partisan friends escaped the ghetto, were airlifted to Moscow, went to Poland then Paris, testified at Nuremberg where he confronted the murderer of his mother and his son, settled at last in Israel where he kept the ancient language alive by writing poems in Yiddish and editing a Yiddish literary journal, Di Goldene Keyt.

"O not to mourn for you, I come, city of my song," he wrote (in "Farewell"). Vilna was gone. Poems were burnt pearls, stars that died, leaving the illusion of white. You are my first love, he wrote. Every other city is an image of you. "And if no more Jews remain in my city —/ Their souls live on in its alleys." And you can hear the sound of laughter beneath the forest, rueful wisdom youthful joy, as in this poem, beautifully translated by Jacqueline Osherow:

Written on a slat of a railway car:

If some time someone should find pearls
threaded on a blood-red string of silk
which, near the throat, runs all the thinner
like life’s own path until it’s gone
somewhere in a fog and can’t be seen—  

If someone should find these pearls  
let him know how—cool, aloof—they lit up  
the eighteen-year-old, impatient heart  
of the Paris dancing girl, Marie.

Now, dragged through unknown Poland—
I’m throwing my pearls through the grate.

If they’re found by a young man—
let these pearls adorn his girlfriend.
If they’re found by a girl—
let her wear them; they belong to her.
And if they’re found by an old man—
let him, for these pearls, recite a prayer.

Patricia Carlin presents a poem by Phillis Levin

Occasionally Barrow Street publishes a group of poems drawn from a work in progress.  For this next-to-last post I’ve selected two sections of “Zeno in the Dark” by Phillis Levin, a five-part poem which appeared in Barrow Street, in Summer 2006, as part of a group of poems revolving around the imagined character of Zeno.

from ZENO IN THE DARK

IV

Zeno
sits on a chair
crossing his leg

in the dark
which one which one

doesn’t matter
ergo
it matters more

Zeno
sits on a chair

deciding
how to decide
if tomorrow will start

with the left
or the right

V

Then again

if he stubs his toe on the way to bed
if the telephone rings

he will be free to forget
how he got to the end of the hall
he will be free

to consider other things

how he came to the same place\
by a different door

how zero can swallow any number
or be at peace
inside another

how a leaf in the wind is a river of color

how the blanket he likes to pull to his chin
was knit by his mother

whose skin is as silky and cracked
as a map he found when he lost himself
in a station in a dream

in a city he has still never seen

-- Phillis Levin

Each part of “Zeno in the Dark” is complete in itself, but together they add up to a tonally complex whole.  I’ve chosen to post IV and V, two parts of the poem, because at least two are needed to show what this brilliant, witty, and ultimately mystical poem is up to.

Michael O'Keefe, Guest Blogger January 24 - 30

 This week we welcome actor, poet, and songwriter Michael O'Keefe as our guest blogger. As an actor, O'Keefe has garnered both Golden Globe and Academy Award nominations. He's appeared in the films Michael Clayton, Frozen River, The Pledge, Ironweed, The Great Santini and Caddyshack.  Television audiences will remember him as "Fred" on Roseanne.  He's appeared on Broadway in Reckless, Side Man,The Fifth of July, and Mass Appeal, for which he received a Theater World Award. As a writer his lyrics were in the Grammy winning song, Longing in their Hearts, which was composed and sung by Bonnie Raitt.  He's also written with Irish singer songwriter Paul Brady and numerous other composers.  His writing has appeared  in BOMB, Lake Affect and Chaparral. He holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Bennington College. Michael O'Keefe's new book of poems is Swimming from Under My Father (Noble Swine Press, 2009).  Find out more about Michael here. On January 30 beginning at 7:00 PM, Michael  will be reading at the  Encino, CA Barnes & Noble, 16461 Ventura Blvd.

Welcome, Michael

In Other News . . .

What would be on your playlist if you were stuck on a desert island? That's what the Poetry Society of America wanted to know.  For David Lehman's answer, go here.

-- sdh

XV. The 30 Films of Akira Kurosawa: Ichiban utsukushiku (The Most Beautiful) [1944] (by Lewis Saul)

Ed note:  For the next several weeks, composer and film aficionado Lewis Saul has agreed to supply us with in-depth commentary about the films of Akira Kurosawa, now showing in an extended festival at the Film Forum. Even if you're unable to stop by the Forum, we think Lew's insights will deepen your appreciation of these important movies.

Ichiban utsukushiku (The Most Beautiful [1944]

PLAYING January 25th at The Film Forum

This is Kurosawa's second film.

For a detailed frame-by-frame analysis, click here.

I am insanely jealous of you New Yorkers. You will find your seat, the lights will dim ~ and you'll see one of the very worst Kurosawa films he ever made!

No, but I'm really not kidding. I really am jealous! You see, although I think we can all just go ahead and admit that this is not exactly a masterpiece, it does have some moments where you will say to yourself, "gee, I notice that he does that a lot in his later films!"

It is of course, his most obvious "propaganda film" of his four war-time pictures ... but that hardly detracts from enjoying the movie on its own merits. There are several, of course...

I still haven't told you why I'm so jealous of you! When you sit down to watch this film, you will be looking at a new set of subtitles, which are only available to your humble blogger if I shell out $300 for the set pictured above! (Hopefully, they will release this title separately at some point!)

The subtitles which you can see on the transcription at my blog are pretty much unreadable. So enjoy the new ones.

An example of the English translation from the Japanese by the Hong-Kong-based Chinese who did the translation!

Another great example:

"You are healthy. The diseases are scared of you." Laughter. "My bones are vulnerable."

• There are 18 wipes in this film: six horizontal (4l/2r); 11 vertical (10t-b/1b-t); and one very beautiful "iris" wipe!

Erich Segal --->>>

I have not read any of the late Erich Segal's academic books on Roman comedy but I did read Love Story -- and also the sequel, Oliver's Story. "Versions of the Pastoral"! In 1972 a former Marine who I'm sure had never willingly read any other book of fiction told me how moved he had been by Love Story. It really is authentically great and I don't want to patronize it. This was a tremendous achievement. It appeared at the same time as The Godfather -- both of them contributing phrases that have permanently been assimilated into the language. The Godfather was in part an attempt to write an American Brothers Karamazov -- and parts of Karamazov are a lot like Love Story. Ave atque vale!

The Future of Poetry -- Brad Leithauser

The prospects for American poetry may look highly uncertain. But one thing can be said with assurance about its future: whatever happens, poets will be sitting around lamenting the present state of American poetry.
I may well be one of them. In the decades since I began to publish (my first book appeared in '82), one unsettling development seems to have followed another. Chief among these is the disappearance of many poetry publishers--but there's also the disappearance of various magazines, and newspapers, and a slow strangling of reviewing space, etc.  Discussions about the direction of poetry (whether it's a couple of poets in a bar comparing professional indignities or a formal symposium entitled Whither Verse?) soon turn wearisome, alas. Like most sane people, I'd much rather hear about the future of pretty much anything--Major League baseball, fast food, even the Democratic Party--than about the future of poetry; the tone is apt to stay less contentious and defensive if you avoid poetry.
   Still, nobody who writes poetry seriously and devotedly can altogether avoid speculations about a common destination: Where is poetry going? These days it's a question that leads us to broader questions: What's going to happen to newspapers--will most of them still be around in ten years? Magazines? Ultimately, the issue is the printed word--or perhaps it's simply the Word, printed or electronic. In the beginning was the Word, perhaps, but I'm not sure, in an age of film images, the Word will be completely present at the end.
Which is to say, I'm less hopeful than many of my poet-friends about the degree to which e-poetry can satisfactorily replace print-poetry. I seem to spend as much time on my computer as most writers do, and I've welcomed opportunities to write for on-line publications--including this invitation to be a one-week guest-blogger for Best American Poetry. And yet--perhaps a generational difficulty--I can't utterly shake a deep-held conviction that "publication" implies a physical object. "Virtual publication" feels somewhat oxymoronic to me, like "virtual sex": neither can be truly itself until a tactile element enters in...
We may be ushering in a world where there is no choice about these matters, where poetry--which is able to survive, as Keats demonstrated, when "writ on water"--is chiefly writ on the ever-extendable blackboard of cyberspace. One adapts as one must. Okay, you can no longer be an old-fashioned local newspaperman where there are no longer old-fashioned local newspapers--so find another way to do your reporting. The typewriter repairman moves on, into a future where there are no typewriters, and so does the poet.
   I teach in an MFA program, and enjoy doing so--even as, perhaps inconsistently, I note with real alarm just how many such programs there are in this country. Surely some of these aspiring poets ought to be studying marine biology or epidemiology or number theory? Generally, the vanishing of a dozen MFA programs would disturb me less than the loss of one more independent bookstore.
Theoretically, the presence of so many MFA programs ought to make poetry more commercially viable: it ought to help keep independent bookstores open, it ought to make the conventional trade publishing of poetry more feasible. And to the extent that it does so, I'm wildly enthusiastic: let's see another dozen new MFA programs!
The future of American poetry? Who can say, but if we stick to the present moment, it does seem obvious that any serious contemplation of this question inevitably leads to ambivalent and inconsistent feelings. I guess I'm saying that I distrust with equal unease both those who see imminent catastrophe and those who see an ongoing renaissance for American poetry.
I'd close my week's stint as guest-blogger with two observations.
Poetry is a hardy plant, as history confirms, and if it can survive destitutions and disease, pogroms and gulags, it can doubtless weather an economic recession and a shifting of commercial realities.
And yet if poetry is a plant, it flourishes best, like most plants, when skies are clement, soil is fertilized, and  there is conscientious watering from--human or divine--an unseen ministering hand.

Jean Simmons, 1929-2010

Jean Simmons passed away today at age 80 of lung cancer. She had a long and varied film career, beginning at age 14 in the 1944 movie, Sports Day, and ending last year with Shadows in the Sun. Other films include Great Expectations, Black Narcissus, Laurence Olivier's Hamlet (she received an Oscar nomination for her performance as Ophelia), The Actress, The Big Country, Elmer Gantry, The Happy Ending (another Oscar nomination), and Spartacus; she also had an extensive resume of television appearances, including North and South, Hotel, and The Thorn Birds. Like all film ingenues of Hollywood's golden age, Simmons was beautiful, but her beauty was lit with a sharp intelligence and wit that translated well as she aged into character roles.

She is especially remembered for her performance as Sergeant Sarah Brown in 1955's Guys and Dolls. In the clip below, Simmons' Sarah, after imbibing a few too many dolce de leches, lets loose with Marlon Brando's Sky Masterson in a Havana saloon (also worth watching for Brando's lumbering but game dance moves).

"Comfort" [by Stephanie Bolster]

A Spanish man who rides the métro daily,
open-palmed, delivering a discourse on his poverty,
puts his face to the chimpanzee’s glass.

To be in there. Warm hay and tires, oranges,
and look how the mother presses the young one close.

If he took this city by the neck
and shook, would the strand break,
pearls roll into corners?

The métro runs under,
faces he could spend an hour watching
if the earth were made of glass.

Stephanie Bolster edited The Best Canadian Poetry in English 2008 (Molly Peacock, series editor).
Published in The Antigonish Review #135, Autumn 2003, as part of “Ménagerie du Jardin des Plantes,” a series of nine linked poems, "Comfort" will appear in Stephanie Bolster's new book, A Page from the Wonders of Life on Earth, due out from Brick Books in 2011.

And Speaking of Haiti [by Katha Pollitt]

  I'm a little late on this, but if you've been wondering how and where to donate to Haiti relief work, have meant to give but haven't yet done so, have given already but can give more ($10?), you can’t do better than give to Partners in Health. Founded by Paul Farmer with the conviction that health care is a human right, PIH has been working in Haiti for nearly 25 years, building a grassroots organization  that has become a model for health care for the poor in the developing world. PIH  knows the people and the culture and how to get things done.  It's in Haiti for the long term as well as the immediate crisis.  It will be there long after the media spotlight has moved on.  That’s particularly important because, unlike the 2004 tsunami in Asia, the earthquake has left tens of thousands of survivors with terrible injuries that will require long-term help.

    I've set up a donation page that makes giving incredibly easy. All amounts are welcome. My goal is to raise $1000, but if by some miracle you visit my page and that goal has been met, don't worry. You can still donate! No amount is too small.

Just click on this link.

It only takes a minute to set up your own personal fundraising page, by the way. Just go to my page and click on "Create your own page now!" in small print under the box with the thermometer. Set your own fundraising goal, post to your facebook page, e mail your friends.

 Bonus:  I was blown away by Mary J. Blige’s rendition of  Stephen C. Foster’s  1854 heartbreaker, “Hard Times Come Again No More” at the  Hope for Haiti Now telethon in New York.

I admit that  to my mind Mavis Staples’ quiet intensity is even more moving: