A good poet
friend, Nils Peterson, recently lent me an out of print gem. Perhaps some
remember the book since it was in print in the early 1960’s and likely has hung
around in many poets’ bookshelves long since the way it has in Nils’ (along
with a good many other out of print gems, that emeritus elf). The Contemporary Poet as Artist and Critic
edited by Anthony Ostroff is subtitled as Eight
Symposia and proves to be just that, an intelligent and revealing meeting
of opinion. Each symposium is comprised of three poets’ critiques to a “recent”
poem of an “important contemporary,” followed by the author’s own response to
the poem and to the peer commentary. What an intelligent idea! As Ostroff remarks
in his 1964 foreword, “the scheme introduces something new in literary
criticism,” that is, “calling upon poets
to perform the essential critical task.” Which puts me in mind of the Foreword
to this year’s Best of.
While 1964
no longer serves as contemporary, the list of participating poets is stellar
and to which I do a disservice by merely highlighting: Auden to Berryman to
Bogan, Deutsch to Dickey to Justice, Kunitz to
Richard Wilbur's poem referred to above, "Love Calls Us to the Things of This World" speaks of angels and love and I think particularly appropriate to this season so I've included it beyond the extended entry, below. I hope you enjoy its mysteries as I have.
And as for real men? See ya
tomorrow for that one.
Love Calls Us to the Things of This World
The eyes open to a cry of pulleys,
And spirited from sleep, the astounded soul
Hangs for a moment bodiless and simple
As false dawn.
Outside the open window
The morning air is all awash with angels.
Some are in bed-sheets, some are in blouses,
Some are in smocks: but truly there they are.
Now they are rising together in calm swells
Of halcyon feeling, filling whatever they wear
With the deep joy of their impersonal breathing;
Now they are flying in place, conveying
The terrible speed of their omnipresence, moving
And staying like white water; and now of a sudden
They swoon down in so rapt a quiet
That nobody seems to be there.
The soul shrinks
From all that it is about to remember,
From the punctual rape of every blessed day,
And cries,
"Oh, let there be nothing on earth but laundry,
Nothing but rosy hands in the rising steam
And clear dances done in the sight of heaven."
Yet, as the sun acknowledges
With a warm look the world's hunks and colors,
The soul descends once more in bitter love
To accept the waking body, saying now
In a changed voice as the man yawns and rises,
"Bring them down from their ruddy gallows;
Let there be clean linen for the backs of thieves;
Let lovers go fresh and sweet to be undone,
And the heaviest nuns walk in a pure floating
Of dark habits, keeping their difficult balance."
Thanks for letting us know about this book, Sally (and Nils). Fortunately, you can find quite a few copies of this on-line, inexpensively to boot. Out-of-print books are my favorite gifts to give...and receive. Let's start filling those amphora!
Posted by: Kelly | December 09, 2009 at 11:20 AM
Thanks for posting about this book, Sally--sounds wonderful!
Posted by: Joelle Biele | December 09, 2009 at 08:13 PM
I'm glad you enjoyed the post Kelly & Joelle. I hope you find a copy and see what you think.
Posted by: Sally | December 09, 2009 at 08:47 PM