The Best American Poetry

The Tracy K. Smith Poetry Forum in 2012 (photos by Lawrence Schwartzwald)

Tracy K. Smith, guest editor of The Best American Poetry 2021, was the guest of honor at our New School poetry forum on December 5, 2012. Here is photographic evidence, courtesy of photographer Lawrence Schwartzwald.

(Great thanks to Lawrence Schwartzwald.)

"Calendars" [by Boris Dralyuk]

Surely, I must turn a new leaf.
I am a new leaf turning . . .
—Henri Coulette

 
One to a cell, some thirty to a block,
they spend long hours staring at the clock,

while all their constant motions and appeals
go nowhere, nowhere, and their three square meals

are left untouched. There’s simply no relief
for these dead enders at the Château d’If.

And so they do their time, their months of yearning.
Turn a new leaf . . . A new leaf turning . . .

from The Hudson Review

Born in Odessa  in the Ukraine, Boris Dralyuk is a literary translator and the executive editor of the Los Angeles Review of Books. He holds a PhD in Slavic Languages and Literatures from UCLA, where he taught Russian literature for a number of years. He has also taught at the University of St Andrews, Scotland.  His new book of poems is My Hollywood.

Three Poems by Sean Singer from "Today in the Taxi"

Rites

Today in the taxi I brought a woman from Morningside Avenue to 38th and 8th. She said
“I’m going to be singing back here...I have to rehearse.” She sang up and she sang
down, the alto-flutter and the tree stump cut from a hill.

A writer said: We call ourselves not only what we are, but also what we seek to be.

Driving, it must be noted, is about 10% physical and 90% mental. The wheel obeys the
commands of the rose brain and its taut rituals.

Dirt

Tonight in the taxi I got a call from a passenger. A man said, “Who is this?” I said, “You called me... you have the wrong number.” He said, angrily, “Your number was in my wife’s phone and it said ‘I’m on the way.’” I said, “I’m a taxi driver...maybe that’s what it is.” He hung up.

When Jeremiah asked for a solution to stopping the Golem who was destroying Prague, he was told: Write the alphabets backward with intense concentration on the earth. Do not meditate in the sense of building up, but the other way around.

I thought of a night at an East Village hotel when I didn’t—but almost did—have an affair with the visiting poet. She was a pair of scissors cutting a silent letter out of a word. Though the Golem has a human shape, you could say external beauty has been denied him. Hillel commented: Where there is no one, try to be a human being.

E Minor Sonata

Today in the taxi, driving north on 31st Street in Astoria, a bus went through a red light and nearly killed me and my passenger.

Hit with a heavy object, some carrion with wet fur is mis- shapen, red, part-raccoon, and washed in roadlight.

If ever there was wanting, you have found it. If something was lost, let it be discovered. Dusk’s varnish, please swallow the continent whole.

Earlier, my passengers were making out like they were the last people on Earth. Simone Weil said: Attention is the rarest and purest form of generosity.

Sean Singer was born in Guadalajara, Jalisco, Mexico, in 1974. He has an MFA from Washington University in St. Louis and a Ph.D. in American Studies from Rutgers University-Newark. Singer is the author of three books of poetry: Discography (Yale University Press, 2002), which won the Yale Series of Younger Poets prize and the Norma Farber First Book Award from the Poetry Society of America; Honey & Smoke (Eyewear Publishing, 2015); and Today in the Taxi (Tupelo Press, 2022). In 2005 he was awarded a fellowship from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Find out more about Sean Singer here.  You can purchase Today in the Taxi, from Bookshop, Amazon, and Tupelo Press.

Happy birthday, Stacey!

"So laugh and sing, make love the thing, / Be happy while you may. / There's always one, beneath the sun / Who's bound to make you feel that way. / The moon is shining, and that's a good sign, / Cling to me closer and say you'll be mine. / Remember, darling, we won't see it shine / A hundred years from today." [Song: "A Hundred Years from Today"; photo credit: Star Black (c) 2011]

 

Ben Jonson Proposes a Toast to Stacey Lehman on Her Birthday

 

Song: To Celia

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
        And I will pledge with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
         And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise
         Doth ask a drink divine;
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
         I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,

         Not so much honouring thee

As giving it a hope, that there

         It could not withered be.

But thou thereon didst only breathe,

         And sent’st it back to me;

Since when it grows, and smells, I swear,

         Not of itself, but thee.

 

-- Ben Jonson

 

Note: Ben Jonson was born on June 11, 1572 --  birthday, too, of other stars from Vince Lombardi and Joe Montana to Barnabe Googe and William Styron --  which makes him a prototypical workaholic manic-depressive Gemini poet who refused to limit himself to one genre and who fathered the "tribe of Ben" -- the Cavalier poets who were, in effect, the children of his right hand, Benjamin meaning "child of my right hand" in Hebrew. 

Larry Rivers, August 17, 1923 - August 14, 2002: A Master of Rhythm and Hues [by David Lehman]

Happy birthday, Larry Rivers. You'd have been 99 today.

Yitzchoch Grossberg, your given name, translates as Isaac Big Mountain

(on the model of Giussepe Verdi equals Joe Green)

and I love you and your saxophone, and how

you sang "Don't Worry 'Bout Me" in the green room

with Ashbery, Koch, and Jane Freilicher

for an event at the New School that I organized

and moderated, and I hope they taped it.

When was that? 1998? 1999?

At the Knickerbocker, Larry Rivers and the Climax Band played

and you sang:  "I'm afraid the masquerade

is over, and so is love," but our love is here to stay,

and I wish you were here to hear me say it.

 

Read about this wonderful painter here or below the picture, which is a detail of a larger photo from the late 1950s, in which, facing Larry, is Frank O'Hara. Tthey were collaborating on Stones, the poems and drawings that were released in an edition of twenty-five (described as a "portfolio of 12 lithograph[s] and title page on linen rag paper") that would set you back $45,000 were you to try to buy a copy today. On the table beteen the artistic collaborators are cans of Rheingold, the dry beer.

"A Master of Rhythm and Hues"
by David Lehman
Washington Post, December 27, 1992

LARRY RIVERS's life is as colorful as the spectacularly original canvases that have firmly established his place among the major avant-garde artists of our time. Born Yitzroch Grossberg in the Bronx, Rivers was an uninhibited, grass-smoking, sex-obsessed jazz saxophonist in his early twenties when he picked up a paintbrush for the first time. The year was 1945; the war was about to end, and New York City was on the cusp of becoming the art capital of the world.

Encouraged by such estimable painters as Jane Freilicher and Nell Blaine, Rivers soon "began thinking that art was an activity on a 'higher level' than jazz," because music is "abstract" and can't be done alone whereas painting is a solo performance that allows the artist to "make nameable things." Rivers took drawing classes with the great Hans Hofmann, but he always retained the improvisatory ideal of jazz, and the make-it-up-as-you-go-along approach has served him well. Even his most monumental constructions, such as "The History of the Russian Revolution" (1965) in Washington's Hirshhorn Museum, have a fresh air of spontaneity about them, as if they had just been assembled a few minutes ago.

Rivers had a meteoric rise. A Pierre Bonnard exhibition at New York's Museum of Modern Art in 1948 proved to have a decisive influence on his sense of color and composition. No less an eminence than Clement Greenberg, then the nation's foremost art critic, declared in 1949 that Rivers was already "a better composer of pictures than was Bonnard himself in many instances" -- and this on the basis of Rivers's first one-man show. Though Greenberg would later modify his praise and then withdraw it altogether, he had launched the career of "this amazing beginner."

If one condition of avant-garde art is that it is ahead of its time, and another is that it proceeds from a maverick impulse and a contrary disposition, Rivers's vanguard status was assured from the moment when, at the height of Abstract Expressionism, he audaciously made representational paintings, glorifying nostalgia and sentiment while undercutting them with metropolitan irony. His pastiches of famous paintings of the past -- such as his irreverent rendition of "Washington Crossing the Delaware" (1953) -- seemed to define the playfully ironic attitudes of post-modernism years before anyone had thought up that term. And his paintings of brand labels, found objects, and pop icons -- Camel cigarettes, Dutch Masters cigars, the menu at the Cedar Bar in 1959, a French 100-franc note -- demonstrate what is vital about Pop Art while escaping the limitations of that movement.

Rivers has his own style of painting: He relies on "charcoal drawing and rag wiping." Also distinctive is his prankish sense of humor. In 1964 he painted a spoof of Jacques-Louis David's famous "Napoleon in His Study," the portrait of the emperor in the classic hand-in-jacket pose. Rivers's version, full of smudges and erasures, manages to be iconoclastic and idolatrous at once. The finishing touch is the painting's title: Rivers called it "The Greatest Homosexual."

“What Did I Do?,” Rivers's autobiographical ramble, conveys the excitement, the nervous energy, and the sublime agitation of life in New York City at a time when rents were cheap, Lester Young was president of the republic of jazz, and painters of the caliber of Willem De Kooning and Franz Kline hung out at the Cedar Bar, which thus became, in Rivers's phrase, "the G-spot of the art scene." Obsessed with "art and the quest for sex," Rivers left his wife for the floating Bohemia of Manhattan, where he shot up heroin, was openly bisexual, and lived with his two sons and his mother-in-law, Berdie, whom he painted -- sometimes in the nude.

Rivers had (and has) an adventuresome spirit, an appetite for notoriety, and a nose for publicity. He won a lot of money on "The $64,000 Challenge," one of the fixed television game shows of the 1950s, until he met his Waterloo when he was asked to identify the maiden name of Renoir's wife. Later, Rivers made the most of his opportunity to testify at a grand jury investigation of the program, acting as if the courtroom were an extension of show biz by other means. One of the show's producers, Rivers tells us, was his friend Shirley Bernstein, "sister of Lenny." When Rivers denied that she had fed him the answers, the assistant district attorney fired back, "Why are you protecting her, Mr. Rivers?" In response, Rivers writes, he "rose from the witness chair and said dramatically, 'Because I love her -- and I don't care if the whole world knows it!'"

Long on anecdote, short on analysis, "What Did I Do?" is full of juicy stories about Rivers's friends and associates, and he seems to have been chums with aesthetic experimentalists of all stripes, from the Living Theatre's Julian Beck and Judith Malina ("violent pacifists," Rivers calls them) to John Cage (whose music "was like a sermon by Spike Jones"), Jasper Johns and Robert Rauschenberg, not to mention the poets of the New York School, with whom Rivers became fast friends: Frank O'Hara, Kenneth Koch, John Ashbery, James Schuyler, Harry Mathews. He and O'Hara ("a charming madman") were intermittently lovers. They collaborated on several inspired projects, such as a hilarious send-up of an art manifesto, "How to Proceed in the Arts": "How can we paint the elephants and the hippopotamuses? How are we to fill the large empty canvas at the end of the large empty loft? You do have a loft, don't you, man?"

Rivers is a world-class talker, and reading “What Did I Do?” is like listening to a candid, manic monologue. It is an experiment in discontinuous narrative, with frequent flashbacks and flash-forwards, and it is an awful lot of fun. It isn't always easy to piece together the chronology -- Rivers places his trust in memory, that least reliable of fact-checkers -- but that isn't the point. The real subject of this book -- and its greatest pleasure -- is the personality of the artist: mercurial, profane, madcap, somewhat exhibitionistic, sometimes puerile: a wiseguy who gets a kick out of shocking the censor.

In the book's preface, Rivers introduces us to his collaborator on this project, the writer Arnold Weinstein: "I knew the three women he married, he probably slept with both my wives. What can I say? He's an old pal." That is the authentic Rivers tone, and it spices up every page. Some of his riffs are extraordinary. One of his sons is "deranged but normal in every other way." Rivers and his second wife, Clarice, "parted in 1967 and have been married ever since." Or consider this echo of the book's title: "For someone who has always had fantasies of living in a whorehouse like my heroes Pascin, Lautrec, Van Gogh, and Utamaro, what am I doing with five children, adding up to 252 pairs of shoes, 1,008 boxes of cereal, hot and cold, 8,660 quarts of milk, etc., plus 23 analysts, including mine?"

David Lehman's recent books include "Operation Memory," a collection of poems, and "Signs of the Times: Deconstruction and the Fall of Paul de Man."

A review of

“WHAT DID I DO? The Unauthorized Autobiography of Larry Rivers”
By Larry Rivers with Arnold Weinstein
Aaron Asher/HarperCollins
498 pp. $30

Bukowski on His Birthday (August 16)

Many artists and writers gather their strength by opposing the established order, but sooner or later the successful ones are assimilated into the culture (Allen Ginsberg, the Beats, Black Mountain, San Francisco). Usually it happens belatedly but with hyperbolic claims as if to compensate for years of indifference or inattention. There are even times when the lag between rejection and celebration vanishes to nothing, as Gertrude Stein wrote in her brilliant lecture "Composition as Explanation." When the culture swallows the fashionable anti-establishment poetry of the moment, the result may be a mild case of indigestion. A good example is anti-war poetry of the 1960s, which was immediately accepted and glorified and is of absolutely no interest today.

The poet who has resisted assimilation longest and most strenuously is Charles Bukowski. Bukowski is the real thing, like Mexican Coke, a simile he would not have embraced, being a man who sets store by bourbon, whores with good legs, and the twenty-dollar window at the track. His poetry resists the mainstream as, say, even the radical Ginsberg of the 1950s doesn't.  Bukowski is as enamored of himself as anyone else but he takes himself less seriously as a literatus. He keeps his brain in the post office where he labors as one of the proles. This humility is one reason he appeals to readers, and he has genuine and ardent readers. Bukowski has long led the league in one important category: more of his books are stolen than those of any other author, an enviable distinction.

Read The Continual Condition, the most recent of Bukowski's posthumous collections, and you will see how he manages to make the reader feel that what he is saying really happened and in just the way described. He uses his artistry to conceal his artistry. He depicts himself, in such poems as "Rejected" and "The Theory," as emphatically ugly -- and at the same time he insists upon his virility. In the former, an editor rejects a story on the grounds that "to infer that an ugly man your age / had sex with four women in one day / is simply infantile day-dreaming." So what does Buk do? He spends the rest of the poem fleshing out this very situation.

About poetry Marianne Moore wrote, "I, too, dislike it." Bukowski would revise that to read "I, too, shit on it." He had an outstanding bullshit detector, and his poems in scorn of the Beats and other celebrated authors ("Ginsberg was / brought in / petted and / dismissed. / Burroughs was / still o.k. / but hardly / interesting / anymore. / Mailer, well hell, / that's big publishing, and / Olson, you know, well, / those breath pauses were / out of date / but meeting him / was nice") are funny and, well, nice.

Bukowski's power lies in the fact that he acknowledges he is no better than anyone else and yet he remains the hero of his own life. His poems seem raw but are tightly controlled and secretly much more in the know than you might think. (Li Po and Catullus make sneak appearances in "as Buddha smiles"). I intend to write more about this fascinating, politically incorrect but irresistible personage soaked in alcohol but for now will leave you with these lines, the opening lines of a poem, which will arrest your attention and won't let it go: "the god-damned ants have come marching here / and are climbing into my wine, / I drink them down." 

It wasn't deliberate, but Stacey and I were married on Charles Bukowski's birthday.

DL

From the archive; first posted on the BAP blog on September 23, 2011

Happy anniversary to us!

Happy anniversary to us.
With thanks to Mahinder Kingra, who snapped this shot of us at Simeon's in Ithaca on August 10, 2022.

Tales of the Eighties: A Moment with Mal Waldron [by Alan Ziegler]

August 16 would be Mal Waldron's 97th birthday (he died in 2002). I spent a moment with him in 1983.

     “Look,” I say, pointing to a sign in a Greenwich Village club window, “Mal Waldron is playing.” Mal Waldron (when I first saw his name in print I thought it was a typo) was immortalized in the last line of Frank O’Hara’s poem “The Day Lady Died,” in which O’Hara recalls leaning on the john door of the 5 Spot while Billie Holiday “whispered a song along the keyboard / to Mal Waldron and everyone and I stopped breathing.”

    Someone who performed with Billie Holiday and was written about by Frank O’Hara is within reach. We get a table.

     Mal Waldron is in the middle of a set, playing melodic bebop. I am transfixed by his eyes, which seem to float in his head, not looking at the keyboard or the audience but seeing everything inside and out, past and present. We can’t see his hands, there is only Mal Waldron’s eyes and the music. I want to lean up against the john door and briefly stop breathing. 

    After his set he sits alone at a table with a drink. I muster the courage to approach him. I ask him about the O'Hara poem and he says that lots of people have mentioned it to him.

    “Do you remember the night—when Billie whisper-sang only for you?”

    "It could have been a lot of nights,” Mal Waldron says.

from the archive; first posted October 2015

"Woodstock '69" [by George Green]

The fabled festival began on August 15, 1969. Here is a link George Green's poem "Woodstock '69" on E-Verse Radio: 
https://www.everseradio.com/woodstock-69-by-george-green/?_thumbnail_id=35257

Woodstock '69 

  On the occasion of the 50th anniversary


Friday

Anne chauffeured us in her dad’s Ford Galaxy,
Linda and Judy and me, each born to be wild
with tickets to an “Aquarian Exposition."
When Ravi Shankar played that night, the teeming horde
grew oddly reverential, because samadhi,

so it seemed back then, is mass induced
by ancient ragas spun out in the rain,
though I stayed mad because Jeff Beck had cancelled.

Saturday

I dropped an obligatory cap of acid,
not brown, thank God, but Owsley, guaranteed

unspeedy, pure, and easy on the chakras.
After a year on the Barbary Coast (the Haight)
psychedelics weren’t that challenging,
so I sat against a fence surrendering
to Hieronymus Bosch in 3D Cinerama

for five or six eternities, while half a million
melting gargoyles did their unholy boogaloo.
Then came that long, incredible feedback note,
the "Born on the Bayou" note, and I rose to meet
the horde on the crowded plains of ecstasy,

and pastures of transcendence. Then came Janis!!!
I went back to the car to sleep, where Judy told me
that a zonked-out-Linda had been raped in a camper
by three jocks, and I mustn’t tell a soul,
or let on that I knew. The jocks were “straights,”

not “freaks” like us, and Linda was in another tent
or teepee on the ridge, with several “Healers.”

Sunday

I went out in heavy rain and ducked
under a jeweler’s awning, where tightly crammed
dripped members of the Woodstock Generation.

A girl snuggled against me with a joint,
and, so help me, she looked like a Burne-Jones model,
that is to say exactly like. We were
so squashed together I should have tried to kiss her,
but I was a gentleman, and an idiot.

Ten minutes later she announced her need
to visit the facilities, demanding that
I stay and “save her spot.” You know the rest,
she disappeared forever from my life,
and for 18 hours I searched the farm for her,

Woodstock’s Wandering Aengus on the trail
of King Cophetua’s willowy Beggar-Maid,
staggering on and on through the soggy grass,
only to collapse beside the road,
where I saw the boots-of-many-colors on

Mitch Mitchell’s feet, from whom I bummed a Marlboro,
and chatted with, down to the front of the stage,
where Gypsy Sun and Rainbows were tuning up
for my big moment in the history of the world.
Then it was over but the girls weren’t at

the car, I’d have to search the wikiups on
the ridge, where I found the current issue of Time
in a pile of trash, creased open to the news
that the eight-and-a-half months pregnant Sharon Tate
was slaughtered with some friends out in L. A.

Originally published in The Hopkins Review (Winter 2021 14.1)

George Green’s book, Lord Byron’s Foot, won the New Criterion Prize, The Poet’s Prize, 
and an Academy Award from the American Academy of Arts and Letters. His poems have
appeared in ten anthologies. He is from Trump County, Pennsylvania, but has lived 
in New York City for forty years. He is obviously a proud member of the Svengoolie cult.

 

Toi Derricotte: Pick of the Week [ed. Terence Winch]

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Toi Derricotte. Photo by Ted Rosenberg

__________________________________________________________________

Lauds

 

Good morning, fat chair.  Your frame is slight-

Ly askew, your wooden bones tilt, but padded

With foam & polka dotted, you seem sprite-

 

Ly, good-natured.  I’ve known a chair to rise

Out of a night’s darkness & provide a ride

For me, above the furry carpeting, defy-

 

Ing gravity.  Even one cock-eyed, cheap,

Can be a tilted ship climb-

Ing waves of mourning.  Whatever light

 

Shines through this morning’s slatted blinds—

Smoky with undelivered rain—I’ve turned aside

To praise my last-legged you, for (like Jessye

 

Norman’s lungs) your soul breathes blithe

Operatic air, & your polka dots climb

Atmospheric strophes like poems I memorized

 

In school.  Do not go gentle, fat chair.  What we write

About we are, so you are me, plumped with an extra

Twenty pounds, a bear, lumbering. But, in a poem, we

Dance with a relic of imagination &, by imagination, live.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

Toi Derricotte is the recipient of the 2021 Wallace Stevens Award from the Academy of American Poets, for outstanding artistic achievement in the art of poetry over a poet’s career, and the 2020 Frost Medal from Poetry Society of America for distinguished lifetime service to American poetry.  Her sixth collection of poetry, “I” New and Selected Poems, was published in 2019 and shortlisted for the 2019 National Book Award.  Other books of poetry include The Undertaker’s Daughter, Tender, Captivity, Natural Birth, and The Empress of the Death House.  Her literary memoir,The Black Notebooks,won the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award for Non-Fiction and was a New York Times Notable Book of the Year. With Cornelius Eady, Derricotte co-founded the Cave Canem Foundation in 1996. She is Professor Emerita from University of Pittsburgh and a former Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets.

________________________________________________________________________________________________________

                                                      Susan F. Campbell, Armchair, color pencil drawing, 1987 

Kenward Elmslie, 1929-2022 --- Poet, Lyricist, Publisher

What I want to know is:
When I'm dead and gone.
Who'll prop me up in the dawn? -- Kenward Elmslie

Born on April 27, 1929, in New York City into a distinguished family—his grandfather was Joseph Pulitzer—Kenward Gray Elmslie grew up in Colorado Springs, CO, attended St. Mark’s preparatory school, and then Harvard, receiving a BA in English in 1950.

In 1952 his passion for musical theater led to a romantic relationship with Broadway librettist John Latouche, who wrote “Taking a Chance on Love,” “Lazy Afternoon,” and a number of Broadway shows and operas. Latouche's vibrant New York City artistic salon was frequented by Truman Capote, Lena Horne, Jack Kerouac, Gore Vidal, Marlene Dietrich, Frank O’Hara, Lotte Lenya, and Duke Ellington.

Shortly after arriving in New York, Elmslie wrote a song (“Love-wise”) that Nat King Cole recorded.. Over the years Elmslie wrote librettos for musicals and operas with composers Ned Rorem, Jack Beeson, Thomas Pasatieri, Steven Taylor, and Claibe Richardson, which were performed by the NYC Opera, Houston Grand Opera, Seattle Opera, Glimmerglass, York Theatre Co., on PBS, and at Broadway’s Martin Beck Theatre. 

In 1953 Elmslie and Latouche bought an 1840s farmhouse and surrounding property in Calais, VT. The two divided their time between New York City and Calais until Latouche’s death in 1956. Elmslie retained the property, spending increasing amounts of time there and finally becoming a resident of Vermont. Although for many years Elmslie maintained a low profile in the community, he opened his home to his many writer, actor, and artist friends, such as John Ashbery, Alex Katz, Richard Thomas, Ruth Ford, Harry Mathews, and Joe Brainard. In 1963 Brainard and Elmslie became not only romantic partners but also artistic collaborators. Brainard spent months every year with Elmslie in Calais, painting and writing. It was there that he wrote his classic, I Remember, while Elmslie and Richardson worked on what has become a cult favorite Broadway show, The Grass Harp.

It was also in Vermont that Elmslie founded Z Press, a nonprofit literary publishing company whose authors included Ashbery, James Schuyler, Edwin Denby, and others associated with the New York School of Poetry. When the Calais post office was in danger of being closed due to a low cash flow, Elmslie rescued it by funneling all Z Press business through it. Elmslie also organized a series of local poetry, film, and musical events. Early on in Calais he had become friends with culinary expert and writer Louise Andrews Kent, perhaps better known as Mrs. Appleyard, but he was also very close to local people who worked for him, notably the loyal handymen Ralph Weeks and Harold Clough, who in turn found him to be a remarkably cordial, entertaining, and slightly eccentric fellow. In the 1970s, the Town of Calais surprised him by renaming the dirt road he lived on: Elmslie Road.

Elmslie published ten books of poetry, including Motor Disturbance (Frank O’Hara Award, Columbia University Press) and Routine Disruptions: Selected Poems and Lyrics 1960-1998, and gave numerous poetry readings and performances around the country. Those who saw his funny and moving performance—he had a very fine singing voice—at the St. Johnsbury Atheneaum have never forgotten it. He also published a novel, The Orchid Stories (Doubleday/Paris Review) and saw his play City Junket performed by New York’s Eye and Ear Theatre, with sets by Red Grooms. Two of Elmslie's most memorable lyrics are "They" and "Change Your Name to Woolworth," which he performed for an admiring audience at Hamilton College in Fall 1978.

As a Pulitzer heir, Elmslie was able to make many charitable gifts to needy writers, poetry organizations, and civil rights groups, as well as to the Town of Calais and the Vermont Land Trust. In doing so, he always maintained a strict anonymity. He was a shy man. He owned a house in Greenwich Village and thre great parties there in the 1970s and 80s.

In his later years Elmslie’s health declined, due to dementia, and on June 29, 2022, he died peacefully of natural causes. He is survived by his half-sister Alexandra Whitelock of Calais, VT, nephew William Weir of Marathon, FL, nephew Gordon Weir of Cambridge MA, and niece Vivien Russe, of South Portland, ME. His ashes will be scattered in Vermont, as he wished.

Adapted from VTDigger . See, too, W. C. Bamberger's moving obituary in Rain Taxi. From gunslinger Neil Genzlinger's obit in the New York Times:

<<< In New York in the 1950s and ’60s, [Elmslioe] mixed easily with an artsy crowd. A 1965 article in The Times about a trendy party in the Bowery had him among the guests, with [Andy] Warhol, the photographers Diane Arbus and Richard Avedon, the pioneering electronic composer Karlheinz Stockhausen and others, all gathered to hear a reading by William S. Burroughs.

The year before that party, Warhol had given Mr. Elmslie one of his Heinz ketchup box sculptures, a classic example of Warholian Pop Art. More than four decades later, in 2009, the work was stolen, along with other valuable items and several million dollars. “Pulitzer kin hit in pop art scam,” the headline in The Daily News read.

In 2010, James Biear, who had been Mr. Elmslie’s chauffeur and caretaker, was indicted in the thefts. News accounts at the time said he took advantage of Mr. Elmslie’s dementia, which was already in its early stages. In 2012 Mr. Biear was sentenced to 10 years in prison.

In 1963 Mr. Elmslie began a long relationship with Joe Brainard, an artist and writer with whom he also collaborated on various projects. Mr. Brainard died in 1994. Mr. Elmslie is survived by a half sister, Alexandra Whitelock. >>>

Alfred Hitchcock's Fate Was In His Stars [by David Lehman]

At 3:15 in the morning, in London, England, one hundred and twenty-something years ago today, the great film director Alfred Hitchcock was born, a solid Leo with a macabre imagination (moon in Scorpio). When August 13 falls on a Friday, as in 1993, 1999, and 2021,you may expect bats to fly in through the slightest opening in the bathroom window, and the phone will ring at 11 PM and it will be someone you have never met, who asks you for a job and sounds drunk. Hitchcock was short (5'5) and stout and perhaps unaware that he shared his birthday with both Annie Oakley and Fidel Castro.

There is a tremendous amount of fire in his natal chart (see below): more than 50%. This accounts for his energy, drive, ambition. The water in his chart, topping 18%, indicates a man of subtlety and sensitivity. He has three times as much yang as yin in his personality, and no one should be surprised to learn that a man whose dominant planets are the sun, Venus, and Mars may luxuriate in bathtubs in the English manner and have an almost phobic distrust of showers, which comes through in such movies as "Vertigo" (in which Kim Novak does not drown in the Pacific Ocean) and "Pyscho" (in which Janet Leigh meets her shocking fate behind a torn curtain). Leo, Sagittarius, and Scorpio are the predominant signs of a man whose self-confidence can lead him to commit the sin of pride. I hear that Janet Leigh greatly prefers baths to showers and has ever since working with Hitch.

A picture of the master of suspense emerges from a study of Hitchcock's chart. He is a Roman Catholic; a lover of blondes (especially American blondes); and a prankster of the imagination who knows that a straight face is best for effects either comic or scary and that the best way to get an actor and an actress to understand their parts as quarreling lovers is to handcuff them together and lock them in a room overnight, as in the filming of "The 39 Steps."

When he was a boy, Hitchcock's dad sent him to the local police constabulary with a note instructing the officer on duty to lock the boy in jail for a few hours. This experience had the desired effect on the lad, who worked out his guilt complex by dispatching heroes, heroines, and villains to their deaths from the top of a church tower or the Statue of Liberty; from a moving train, or in a wood stove, or by an attack of killer birds, or in an out-of-control merry-go-round at an amusement park, or by a nasty piece of goods who uses his necktie as a strangling device, or sometimes with a gun, a knife, or a pair of handy scissors. The leonine Hitchock had his sun and his Venus in Leo. This makes him a most logical man, a constant man, generous in his affections but domineering, and almost tyrannically loyal to his lovers and friends.

Given this man's stellar combination of assertive confidence and deep-seated guilt, it comes as no surprise to students of the great man's chart that (1) the great Hitchcock actors (male) tend to be old-fashioned types (James Stewart, Cary Grant) rather than the method-trained new breed; (2) in some (not all) of the best Hitchcock movies, the villain is either more interesting than the hero (Robert Walker versus Farley Granger in "Strangers on a Train"), suave and attractive(James Mason in "North by Northwest," Ray Milland in "Dial M for Murder") or exceptionally complicated in an attractive way (e.g., Joseph Cotten in "Shadow of a Doubt,"  the birds in "The Birds," the real imposter in "Spellbound")); and (3) the perfect Hitchcock heroines are Ingrid Bergman, Grace Kelly, Kim Novak, Doris Day, Janet Leigh, Teresa Wright, and Tippi Hedren. Hitch shows us the craziness inside every man and his (almost invariably) blonde fantasy lady.

A tip of the fedora to Bernard Herrmann, a June Cancer, who wrote the music of Hitchcock's mind as well as soundtracks for such movies as "Citizen Kane" and Brian de Palma's  underrated "Obsession." -- DL

Note: Readers of "astrological profiles" know that the use of astrological terms is laid on pretty thick but with tongue in cheek, firmly so, on the nervy assumption that the horoscope -- like the "haruspicate or scry," "sortilege, or tea leaves," playing cards, pentagrams, handwriting analysis, palm-reading, and the "preconscious terrors" of the dreaming mind in T. S. Eliot's "The Dry Salvages" -- may be a bust at prediction bur may turn out to be not only "usual pastimes and drugs" but the means of poetic exploration.

from the archive; first published August 13, 2015

Dante, Near and Far [by Robert P. Baird]

There is much strange in La Vita Nuova, the libello or “little book” that Dante composed fifteen or so years before starting in on the Divine Comedy. Take, for starters, the form of the book, an alternation of prose and poetry that produces effects as dizzying as any in Williams's Spring and All. Or take the central narrative, which describes a love—young Dante’s, for the slightly younger Beatrice—so intense that it causes the poet to faint in public and forces him, poor lad, to write lying love poems to the donne dello schermo, the “screen ladies” he uses to hide the real object of his affection. Take even Beatrice herself, who begins the book as a girl in a girdled dress only to reveal herself not long after as a miracle made flesh.

All of this is strange for us to read, or should be, even if, grinning behind our commentaries, we spot in the donna dello schermo an unacknowledged ancestor of the celebrity beard. After all, when Dante says that Beatrice is a miracle, he isn’t indulging mere hyperbole, the way Roxette did in that song I remember too well from seventh grade. Nor does he mean it less merely in the manner of an established trope, as John Donne did at the end of “The Relic.” Uniquely for the time and all but blasphemously, Dante meant that his beloved’s appearance on earth was a miracle that repeated (and maybe even competed with) Christ’s Incarnation itself. In the young poet’s eyes, Beatrice was the agent of his religious salvation and the summit of all Creation, the radiant filament that binds together heaven and earth. 

Dante’s strangeness, his distance from us in time and cultural space, is the reason Eugenio Montale took T.S. Eliot gently to task for suggesting that the Commedia was “extremely easy to read…for a foreigner who does not know Italian very well.” It’s not that Montale felt any need to defend the reluctant intricacies of his native tongue. His point was to insist that “Dante is not a modern poet…and that the instruments of modern culture are not ideally suited to understanding him.”

And yet even if we accept Montale’s reminder as well warranted, and I do, I don’t think it’s careless or unfair to say that there are times when Dante can feel close to us, “strangely close,” as Montale admitted. Graduate school is far enough behind me that I won’t bother you with theories of transhistorical subjective affiliation. My effort here is only to point out, a little like a finger before the moon, a single small moment that I love in the Vita Nuova.

The moment I mean happens early in the libello. At the start of the third chapter, Dante is describing his second encounter with Beatrice. (The first occurred nine years earlier.) The meeting is brief and profound: eighteen-year-old Dante sees Beatrice in the street, she waves hello, and her greeting causes the young poet so much giddy distress that he decides he can only go home and put himself to bed. 

That night Dante has a dream, and—perhaps predictably, dreams being dreams—this is where things get weird. In his sleep the poet sees uno segnore di pauroso aspetto emerge from a fiery cloud. Despite his fearful aspect the lord is happy, very possibly because he is carrying in his arms a naked woman asleep beneath a crimson drape. After Dante realizes that the woman is Beatrice, the lord holds up a burning object and tells the dreaming poet, in Latin, Behold your heart. At that moment the lord wakes Beatrice and starts to force-feed her Dante’s flaming heart. With understandable reluctance, Beatrice eats the thing until the lord’s happiness mysteriously turns to grief and he carries her away, presumably to heaven. 

As I said: weird. 

It was weird for Dante, too. So weird, he tells us, that he woke immediately afterward and decided to write a sonnet about what he saw. Not only did he write a sonnet but he told his readers, in the poem's second and third lines, that “these words I have composed are sent for your elucidation in reply.” And not only did Dante include this request (which I like to think of as the thirteenth-century equivalent of a self-addressed stamped envelope) he also decided to send the sonnet to molti li quali erano famosi trovatori in quello tempo, “many of the famous poets of that time.”

And here, finally, we get to the moment I love, the slender moon my finger’s been wagging after all this time. Here we see Dante—newly a poet, desperately in love—appealing to the judgment of his literary betters. Ostensibly, of course, the point was to ask about the dream, but who could doubt that what Dante really wanted was a judgment on his poem? What writer, what person of any ambition whatsoever, can’t remember that feeling of wanting to know—wanting to test—the quality of her nascent talent? 

It’s in this way that Dante comes to occupy, in my mind, anyway, the head of a secret history of such events, the benedictions or baptisms that link one poetic generation to the next. This is the history in which a young Walter Whitman sends Ralph Waldo Emerson an unsigned and unattributed copy of Leaves of Grass. This is Emily Dickinson asking T. W. Higginson, “Are you too deeply occupied to say if my verse is alive?” This is Paul Muldoon sending Seamus Heaney a sheaf of poems topped with the question “What's wrong with these?” (“Nothing,” the older poet responded, or so the story goes.) 

Among those who responded to Dante, the Vita Nuova acknowledges only Guido Cavalcanti, whose response “Vedeste, al mio parere, onne valore” marked the start of the poets’ friendship. On the reading of his future primo amico, Dante’s dream was a vision of “all value, every joy and goodness that one can feel.” Cavalcanti suggests that the lord “who rules the world of honor” wanted to bring Beatrice back from near-death with the flaming food of Dante’s love.

It’s no surprise that Dante would choose this response to quote in his Vita Nuova, even while he would insist, as well, that “the true meaning of the dream I described was not perceived by anyone then.” As scholars have argued, Cavalcanti’s interpretation of the dream, while not strictly coincident with Dante’s own, was nevertheless close enough to buttress the latter’s dramatic sense of his love’s significance. 

Not all of Dante’s respondents, however, were so encouraging. Of the three reply-sonnets that survive, one, by the Tuscan poet Dante da Maiano, is about as far from Cavalcanti in spirit and tone as we can imagine. In so many words da Maiano tells Dante that it’s simple love-sickness that’s got him bothered, and probably bad hygiene besides. If Dante really wants to heal himself he needs to get rid of the noxious vapors infecting his brain. And the only way to do that, da Maiano says, smirking down the centuries, is for the young poet to go and give his testicles a good washing.

Here, too, we get the chance to meet Dante at his most queasily familiar: not as a prodigy reveling in the warm validation of his peers, but as a callow poetaster hearing harsh words from a poet he respects. It’s probably too easy to admire da Maiano’s sonnet for its precocious snark, but I appreciate his poem even more for the rare gift it affords: the chance for once to meet Dante outside the glare of his own genius.

Under Fire [by Terence Winch]

Under Fire       

Stop looking at me.  I didn’t do anything
wrong.  I don’t know the words to the song.
That’s all.  I wandered around the mall
with my broken watch.  I had all my receipts.
But no one would take anything back.
I am stuck with the whole mess.  Saved
phone messages, archived email, notes
you wrote on your hand.  The hand you once
held out to me,  the bed where we once slept
together. The dirty underwear in the hamper.
I don’t know how I will get home.  I don’t
need you to tell me I’m an idiot.  I need you
to remember where I came from so I can get
back there and put out the fire and go to sleep.

—Terence Winch
from i.e.  anthology

from the archive; first printed 8/8/09

Ben Jonson tells investors to face the music [by David Lehman]

Ben Jonson, England's first poet laureate, wrote great poems conjoining wit and powerful feeling. Consider "My Picture Left in Scotland") about which I have written a short essay, which you will find here).  His poetry, his plays. his great influence have overcome its one-time state of being universally admired and universally ignored, as T. S. Eliot wrote a hundred years ago. He is a great poet and I should do a little column on his elegy for his son, "child of my right hand, and joy." Ben and the son who predeceased him had the same first name. Benjamin, in Hebrew, means "son of my right hand."

Less well known is that avatars of Ben continue to perform in important and unexpected ways in our culture. In The Wild Bunch, for example, Ben was Warren Oates's brother. 

Now (according to the September 2022 issue of Kiplinger's) Ben Johnson is head of global ETF research at Morningside, the financial data firm, and he has this to say to nervous investors: Worry "is part of the price of admission. If it's too hard to watch, then step out and look at the trees, which at this time of year are mostly green, unlike the markets."  Note the simile's elegant allusion to Ben Jonson's book Timber, or Discoveries Made Upon Men and Matter (1641).

PS. On a separate but related note from

Ben Jonson, England's first poet laureate, wrote great poems conjoining wit and powerful feeling. Consider "My Picture Left in Scotland") about which I have written a short essay, which you will find here).  His poetry, his plays. his great influence have overcome its one-time state of being universally admired and universally ignored, as T. S. Eliot wrote a hundred years ago. He is a great poet and I should do a little column on his elegy for his son, "child of my right hand, and joy." Ben and the son who pre-deceased him had the same first name: Benjamin, which, in Hebrew, means "son of my right hand."

Less well known is that avatars of Ben continue to perform in important and unexpected ways in our culture. In The Wild Bunch, for example, Ben was Warren Oates's brother. 

Now (according to the September 2022 issue of Kiplinger's) he is head of global ETF research at Morningside, the financial data firm, and he has this to say to nervous investors: Worry "is part of the price of admission. If it's too hard to watch, then step out and look at the trees, which at this time of year are mostly green, unlike the markets."  Note the simile's elegant allusion to Ben Jonson's book Timber, or Discoveries Made Upon Men and Matter (1641).

PS. On a separate but related note from the department of onomastics, a double of the late Philip Levine is the former mayor of Miami.

slippage (un)fixed by Bridget Gilmartin [introduced by Thomas Moody]

Brigit Gilmartin achieves a lot within sixteen short lines. “Louis Buvelot is painting” is the kind of opening you’d expect from a Frank O’Hara poem: both casual and direct, and there is an easy brevity to “slippage (un)fixed” that masks the significance of what it addresses. The poem is ostensibly about the artifice in art, the distance between the artwork and that which is being represented, no matter how faithful the attempt. Ironically, the landscape painting Louis Buvelot is working on is continually interfered with by the landscape being captured. “A mammoth gust of wind blows a twig onto the canvas” to mess up a branch of the painting's eucalypt. “Louis / picks out the twig with his thumb and forefinger.” Next a tooth appears in the painting's foreground. The tooth signals a shift (a volta?) in the poem's themes, as Gilmartin masterfully moves us away from representation in art and towards Australia’s colonial history.

Louis Buvelot was a Swiss-Australian painter best known as Arthur Streeton’s tutor, a founding member of the Heidelberg School. Inspired by European Naturalism and Impressionism, the Heidelberg School was a movement in Australian art during the late 19th century which favored painting en plein air and claimed to be the first set of (settler) artists to see Australia “through Australian eyes.” (Up to that point, landscape painting in Australia had neglected the great tonal idiosyncrasies in the Australian countryside.) The movement coincided with the county’s push towards federation, and there is a fair amount of nationalism associated with it—these are the paintings you find reproductions of in textbooks, on the walls of pubs, and as symbols of “Australian-ness.”

 

Louis Buvelot "Summer Evening Near Templestowe"

 

What these artworks refused to include was any representation of Indigenous Australians, their culture or their violent mistreatment by colonial Australia. The exclusion of Indigenous representation was symptomatic of Australia’s historical amnesia, or as W.E.H Stanner termed it “The Great Australian Silence,” in which Australians do not only fail to acknowledge the atrocities of the past, but consciously choose not to think about them, to the point of forgetting they happened at all. In “slippage (un)fixed” we get Louis Buvelot literally "clearing" the landscape of this history from his canvas in real time as he paints “Louis goes on picking out teeth / until finally he pulls a whole skull out of his /canvas. He tosses it away and puts the finishing / touches on the landscape”.

What makes “slippage” (un)fixed” such a terrific poem is that an ignorance of the history it references is no impediment to its enjoyment. Gilmartin's casual tone immediately welcomes us inside the poem, and the deftness of her transitions mean we never linger too long in any one place. It is such a visual poem, and the imagery so exact that once we arrive at pulling skulls from a canvas, we can see it so clearly it is hardly fantastical, an achievement which also might be mimetic of the ease in which history is erased (this process itself a fantasy), and the ease in which we accept this erasure.

 

 

slippage (un)fixed

 

Louis Buvelot is painting. It’s a quarter past

midday and you wouldn’t know out here unless

you looked at the sun but Louis doesn’t look

at the sun because he’s squinting at the trees.

A mammoth gust of wind blows a twig onto the

canvas. It lodges itself in a glob of oil paint. Louis

picks out the twig with his thumb and forefinger.

It messes up a branch of his painted eucalypt.

There’s something else stuck to the grass in the

foreground. It looks like a tooth; human or

animal, Louis doesn’t know. He picks it out but

once he’s done that he sees another appear.

And another. Louis goes on picking out teeth

until finally he pulls a whole skull out of his

canvas. He tosses it away and puts the finishing

touches on the landscape. Calls it The Clearing.

 

[First published at Cordite Poetry Review]

 

Hot Diggity (Dog Ziggity Boom) [with Perry Como and the Ray Charles Singers, 1956]

This was high on the charts when I was eight and riding a bicycle to impress a little girl. I am still fond of the song.

If you're hearing Emmanuel Chabrier's España (1883)
you're not wrong O
America we serve 
hot dogs to the King
and Queen of England
and did you know It was Al Jolson
who launched "hot diggity dog"
in the 20s, a decade famous for phrases,
like digga digga do and making whoopie.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Thirty-Two): Diana Goetsch [by Angela Ball]

YOU COULD

I stood in the middle of my kitchen eating butter.
It was 11 a.m. on an overcast morning
I was wearing—well, let’s not worry about
what I was wearing. I don’t make a habit of this—
I’d never done it before. It wasn’t a whole stick,
though a good half inch. Popped it in
and let it melt into the flesh under my tongue,
the place where you’d insert nitro-glycerin,
if that’s what you needed. I won’t describe
the taste—you’ll have to try it for yourself.

Perhaps when you’re thinking about goals,
that would be a good time to let some
butter have a ride on your tongue,
or stick a thumb in a bowl of icing,
scarf a pie with no hands, like a wolf—
whatever pulls you in from, or shoves you out on the ledge
you might need to come in from, or go out on.
You don’t have to climb Mount Everest,
unless you find yourself in front of it
and can’t come away. Unless something’s
calling you to do something your friends
wouldn’t understand in a million years.

I don’t understand butter. I know it
comes from cows, who have given so much
for so long. But it’s a person I picture,
the first to try it. Others in the tribe
discarded the floating globules, but this one
opted to taste the world, the same world
that has us so worried and confused.
You could do it, and afterwards write it down:
Today was overcast. I put on a full slip, just because.
Oh and I ate butter—incredible!

--Diana Goetsch

Poems come out of nowhere and then you see what went into them. “You Could” is a carpe diem/anti-bucket list type poem. I knew a bucketlister whose goal was to see a baseball game in every major league stadium. This same person also said he wanted to die by age 60—which actually makes sense because been-there-done-that-ism is more about dying (“kicking the bucket”) than living. “You Could” was also influenced by Nazim Hikmet’s great poem, “Some Advice to Those Who Will Serve Time in Prison,” which recommends against certain activities (“to think of roses and gardens inside is bad”) in favor of others (“to think of seas and mountains is good”) in order to stay truly alive. Hikmet’s rating system may be cryptic to some, though the incarcerated kids I used to teach had no problems relating to the poem. “You Could” also elevates some experiences (butter tasting) over others (mountain climbing). And yet it ends with a journal entry, which makes every life look like a bucket list. –Diana Goetsch

Diana Goetsch is the author of several poetry collections, including Nameless Boy (Orchises, 2015) and In America (Rattle 2017), and also the memoir This Body I Wore (FSG, 2022), which was pronounced “achingly beautiful” by The New York Times Book Review. Her poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, The Gettysburg Review, Ploughshares, The Best American Poetry, and the Pushcart Prize anthology.  She used to teach at Stuyvesant High School. Her website is www.dianagoetsch.com

The New York School Diaspora (Part Thirty-Two): Diana Goetsch

In her important “You Could,” Diana Goetsch treats us to the miraculous ordinary, like Frank O’Hara and Kenneth Koch when they thrill at “the park full of dancers and their tights and shoes / in little bags . . .” or at staring into, as into a musical telescope, “a bottle of sparkling pop.” Like both O’Hara’s and Koch’s work, “You Could” instructs by delighting.

The poem begins with a bald announcement of the kind a Noir narrator might make, complete with place, time, and weather: “I stood in the middle of my kitchen eating butter.” The speaker begins to tell what she was wearing, then rejects this as unimportant, launching instead into rationalization: it’s something she doesn’t do often and “wasn’t a whole stick / though a good half inch.” The butter dissolves into, in disconcerting coincidence, “the place you’d insert nitro-glycerin, / if that’s what you needed.” The poet declines to usurp our experience of butter by detailing her own encounter.

The poem’s second stanza introduces goals only to supply anarchic ones sure to be rejected by America’s ultra-serious dieters and exercisers, including “scarf a pie with no hands, like a wolf.” There’s no call to go all death-defying—“You don’t have to climb Mount Everest, / unless you find yourself in front of it / and can’t come away.” It broaches matters mysterious and serious, though mentioned casually: “Unless something’s calling you to do something / that your friends wouldn’t understand in a million years.” Something, perhaps, like changing your métier, your name, or your sex, as eels do going to or from the sea?

Then the poem makes a strange and wonderful pronouncement: “I don't understand butter.” Normally, butter does not offer itself to our understanding, not even on cooking shows that display its behavior as an ingredient, but tell us nothing of its inner life, its thisness. After a nod to the all-important cow, the poet moves to what truly interests her, the discoverer of butter—the explorer who, despite unfamiliarity “opted to taste the world, the same world / that has us so worried and confused.” The poem dares us to dare—to assume an MO arcane merely because so few have followed it—among them Frank O’Hara, who in in his poem “Autobiographia Literaria” transforms from reject to poet:

     And here I am, the
     center of all beauty!
     writing these poems!
     Imagine!

“You Could” ends by relating the author’s journal entry for the day as possible model, generous example, happily including the detail withheld at the start, what she is wearing:

     You could do it, and afterwards write it down:
     Today was overcast. I put on a full slip, just because.
     Oh and I ate butter—incredible!

The slip here, a garment now sadly in neglect, is the same one worn by the young Eva Marie Saint in On the Waterfront, and by the character Alison in John Osborne’s Look Back in Anger; garment whose very mention (as “shift”) provoked riots during the run of J.M. Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World in 1907 Dublin. In putting it on, the poet puts on its feminine power, its fierce delicacy “just because”—the very reason we dare to indulge our dangerous and life-affirming impulses, the reason we enter an irresistible poem like Diana Goetsch’s “You Could” not knowing who we might be when we leave.

--Angela Ball

When Life followed Art, which returned the compliment

Life magazine, August 8, 1949. "Jackson Pollock: Is he the greatest living painter in the United States?" The artIcle that changed the art world. Merely by asking the question, Life made it a self-fulfilling prophecy, demonstrating the power of the media and the tendency of journalistic questions (like "Is God Dead?" on the cover of a 1966 issue of Life's sister magazine, Time) to slide into declarations. "Life -- consider the alternative" is attributed to Marshall McLuhan. I had erroneously thought the phrase served as an ad campaign for Life, the alternative to which was either Look or death. -- DL

 On the cover: Deborah Reynolds.