The Best American Poetry

The Winning Entry: "When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan" [by Angela Ball, with judge Jim Cummins's comments]

Charles Bukowski in One Corner; in the Other, Bob Dylan

If anyone should take eighteen-shot Dylan Thomas’s name,
it’s me. I challenge you to a duel
with two bottles of Four Roses.

--Chuck, that may be you, but
me, I crossed the green mountain
I slept by the sea.
you’re walkin’ in dreams
where black is the color
and nothing the number.

Bob, I got to tell you
I’m sorry for my wife
I’m sorry for anyone’s wife.
If you want me, find me clinging to a freight car,
Find me underground.
But you’ll never find me
vagrant in the rain, nabbed by a rookie cop,
a skirt, no less,
in Long Branch, New Jersey.

-- Angela Ball

James Cummins writes:

As with most of David's prompts, this one resulted in some terrific entries.  I went with Angela Ball's poem for the first prize, but there was a good pool to pick from (I counted eight entries as possibles).  For me, it came down to some great lines.  Angela wrote (in Buk's voice) "I'm sorry for my wife / I'm sorry for anyone's wife" which seemed to me to combine the compassion B. tried to keep hidden with the world-weariness we love about the guy.  And the ending, referring to Dylan's run-in with the police in 2009, who thought he was a homeless vagrant, was perfect; the word "skirt" was inspired.  George Schaefer's prose-poem "scene" takes second; it combines the grittiness of many of the entries with a lyric grace I love.  "The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour" and "Poetry only happens when nothing else can" are two examples.  And again, the ending is perfect.  Finally, Adam Baron's poem gets honorable mention for the use of the word "dumb," the moon sitting on Bukowski's solipsistic rim, and the friendly atmosphere of two schmucks having a moment together.  The difference between these three and at least four or five other entries is as thin as the bill Buk slides into his favorite pinball machine.  Thanks to all. 

The New York School Diaspora (Part 77): David Hernandez [by Angela Ball]

Hello I Must Be Going

Really nice meeting you sorry
I have to hurry off there’s this thing
happening this thing I must do
you too yes dying is the thing
everyone is not talking about it
why ruin karaoke night why discolor
the air between you and the bartender
hello what can I get for you
it’s miraculous we’re here and then
the world is yanked from us and then
time dismantles our bodies to dust
okay um can I help the next customer
see it would be awkward
let’s not bring it up mum’s the word
come on now we’ve still got
some living to do pick up that trumpet
I’ve got mine already never mind
we can’t play any instruments
the point is to make a sound
any sound in this endless parade
shimmering toward silence

                                             - David Hernandez

David Hernandez's most recent collection of poems, Hello I Must Be Going (Pitt Poetry Series, 2022), was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. His other books include Dear, Sincerely (Pitt Poetry Series, 2016); Hoodwinked (Sarabande Books, 2011), winner of the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry; Always Danger (SIU Press, 2006), winner of the Crab Orchard Series; and A House Waiting for Music (Tupelo Press, 2003). David has been awarded an NEA Literature Fellowship and two Pushcart Prizes. His poems have appeared in Iowa Review, Kenyon Review, Poetry, Ploughshares and Southern Review. He is also the author of two YA novels, No More Us for You and Suckerpunch, both published by HarperCollins. David teaches creative writing at California State University, Long Beach and is married to writer Lisa Glatt.

The New York School Diaspora (Part 77): David Hernandez

David Hernandez’s “I Really Must be Going” is in a terrific hurry but never blurs.  Its title (and that of the book it lives in) originally belongs, of course to Groucho Marx in Animal Crackers, performing what is possibly the funniest comic production number in movie history. Groucho twits the assembly of adoring guests (including the hostess, the redoubtable actress Margaret Dumont) by singing his true desire while performing the role of pith-helmeted “African Explorer” perfectly in every other way, proving that once a gestalt is established, it can withstand almost any amount of silliness, so long as the pretentions of onlookers keep it afloat.

In Hernandez’s poem, a tacit understanding avoids morbidity while it invokes “I,” “you,” and “we” in a way that surrounds us with a universal problem: death, when it comes, breaks off every interaction--even having a drink in a bar (some victims at Pompeii were surely lavaed in a bôite).  It’s a delicate subject, one that must be stumbled into:

     . . .there’s this thing

     happening this thing I must do

     you too yes dying is the thing

     everyone is not talking about it

     why ruin karaoke night why discolor

     the air between you and the bartender

     hello what can I get for you

Just as Groucho’s song accelerates, so does the poem, without sleeping policemen of punctuation. It’s clear that what Philip Larkin calls “unresting death” is everywhere precisely because “everyone is not talking about it”—why “discolor / the air”?  We agree, for the most part, to keep things light, preserve appearances—it’s why we say of someone dead that they’ve “passed.” Kenneth Koch’s brilliant late poem, “Proverb,” literalizes that speedy passing: “Les morts vont vite” while “We living stand at the gate / and life goes on.” Hernandez’ poem, more comic but just as scarifying, x-rays the social. It resembles a jazz funeral’s second line, that aims to replace sadness with celebration—at the same time poking fun at itself, knowing it must fail.

We are reminded of Frank O’Hara’s posthumously discovered (by Kenneth Koch) “Talking to the Sun at Fire Island,” when at the end of the poem the sun says, “. . .go I must, they’re calling / me.” Frank wants to know who “they” are. “Some / day you’ll know,” says the sun. Somehow, the exuberance of O’Hara’s poem survives the darkening at its close—but also depends on it. The exuberance in Hernandez’s, forced by custom, must obey strict rules:

     let’s not bring it up mum’s the word 

     come on now we’ve still got

     some living to do pick up that trumpet

     I’ve got mine already never mind

     we can’t play any instruments

     the point is to make a sound

The sound that “Hello I Must be Going” makes is urgently, supremely dramatic. Simply put, it surrounds us with what matters. Hollis Summers, a fine poet who taught at Ohio University, used to say that any good poem should be worthy of being “carved in stone.” Hernandez’s poem—as colloquial and broken-off as it is—somehow achieves this state. We participate in its monologue, resort to trumped-up gaiety replaced in the end by eloquent despair: “make a sound /any sound in this endless parade/shimmering toward silence”  - Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Six): Melinda Wilson [by Angela Ball]

Scene Under

Two beetles hammock on the thin algae skin / of the lake’s edge.
Two lake chars lounge in the black nether depths,
fat and content to be trout together.
A couple reclines on the city park’s lawn,
overgrown as it is. Deer ticks tingle at the proximity of warm blood.
The woman turns from her back to her stomach,
and feels the pulse of the underground train through the soft skin / of her belly.
It feels like a baby swimming
                                                                        in her wanting underwater.

                                                                                                                    -Melinda Wilson

Melinda Wilson is a poet and educator living in the Bronx, NYC. Her first full-length poetry collection, What it Was Like to Be a Woman, is available for pre-order from Indolent Books. 

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Six): Melinda Wilson

Melinda Wilson’s compact and compelling “Scene Under” is a contretemps between surface and depth reminiscent of Frank O’Hara’s “A Step Away from Them “:

     First, down the sidewalk

     where laborers feed their dirty

     glistening torsos 

O’Hara gives us the urban surface and makes the laborers centaurs—the human halves feeding the ugly-beautiful “dirty / glistening torsos” that contain the stygian distances of digestion.

Wilson begins with animals in physical repose, an interplay of pairs. The “two beetles” companion the lake edge, “hammock” on its bright green lid. The lake chars—large, loguey creatures, are equally at ease in its lower depths. The poem’s satisfaction seems to escalate; the couple “reclines” serenely, uncaring that it’s overgrown. The poem becomes granular, giving us minute ticks that can’t believe their luck “at the proximity of warm blood.” We are reminded that what is ominous from a human viewpoint—possible Lyme-disease inflicting bites—is pure pleasure for the tiny vampires, multiple instead of paired. The scene bristles with life, over and “under.”

Then, suddenly, there’s a lone being, “the woman,” “the” endowing importance. It seems, at first, that she’s simply employing an ordinary sunbathing move, turning “from her back to her stomach” but then she is umbilicaled to the thrum of an underground train, “through the soft skin / of her belly”—the expressed caesura of the back slash reiterating the lake edge of line one, but also emphasizing the delicacy of what occurs, which is this astonishing image: “It feels like a baby swimming.”   Somehow, the woman is being discovered from below by her missing other. The poem provides a wide space in which to draw breath before delivering its close: “in her wanting underwater.” Like O’Hara’s poem, Wilson’s ends “down the dark stairs.” Implications glimmer; the woman’s perhaps-suppressed “wanting,” her watery, generative depths—capable, on their own, of longing: a reverberation orgasmic in its portmanteau of fulfillment and dawning sorrow. – Angela Ball

Late News from Poland (on O'Hara, Koch, and the NY School) [by Angela Ball]

 

I had imagined discussing the big four New York School poets in an orderly fashion, one by one.  But since their work percolates from shared springs, it seems to me better to talk back and forth among them. 

As I have said, my class and I are collaborating on understanding the ongoing collaborations of the New York School poets.  Here is one example: wonderfully, Kenneth Koch found Frank O’Hara’s previously unknown “Talking to the Sun at Fire Island” after his death (and read it at O’Hara’s funeral).  That Kenneth Koch wrote of the circus is very apropos—so much of what he did (for one thing, the tremendous range of his teaching of poetry, including even children at the M.D. Anderson clinic, where he himself was being treated) was death defying.

Here’s graduate student and fiction writer Jennifer Brewington discussing him in her reading journal.  (We’re using the American Poets Project Selected Poems, edited by Ron Padgett.) 

Kenneth Koch is my favorite New York School poet so far, and I am very surprised. I thought it would be O’Hara. Though I’d never read him before, I wasn’t expecting to be so taken in by his work. It’s no wonder to me that O’Hara writes often about him in his poetry. He uses a lot of the same techniques that I’m now realizing are a part of the school. The naming of friends and places and events in poems puts all of them in conversation with one another in a way that feels inclusive. I noticed that before but did not realize it was a common technique among them. Still, there is something about Koch’s ability to turn a phrase, to contradict himself within the same line, to conjure just the right image that makes him stand out for me among all of these brilliant writers. In “Days and Nights,” he writes, “It came to me that all this time/ There had been no real poetry and that it needed to be/ invented” (96).  Going into this book, I felt like I knew something about poetry. I had almost the opposite feeling. Now, though, I feel he’s done just that. He’s invented poetry, or reimagined it, in a way that is haunting, daring, and incredibly effective.

The images in his poetry are so clever and lovely. My favorite poem in this collection is “Alive for an Instant.” The title itself draws me in and the first line keeps me present. “I have a bird in my head and a pig in my stomach/ and a flower in my genitals and a tiger in my genitals/ and a lion in my genitals and I am after you but I have a song in my heart” (45). How perfect is that! The repetition of genitals somehow perfectly captures how it feels to be both physically and chemically attracted to someone and how it feels to also love them.

Speaking of love, in class, graduate fiction writer Nick Benca talked about the build-up of feeling in Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died.”--about how, paradoxically, all the present-tense distractions of Frank’s loud bright day are advance embodiments of the memory—triggered by the newspaper face—of the intimate dark Five-Spot, where Lady whispered “along the keyboard” and “everyone and I stopped breathing.”  All along, the present has been preparing us to be ravished by the past. 

This poem, along with many of O’Hara’s, lacks a final period—indicating that experience stops for no one, that we must continue to be “present.”

Recently, graduate poet Annette Boehm alerted me to the presence in Poland of a group called the “O’Harists.” They are described by Joanna Niżyńska in an article entitled, “The Impossibility of Shrugging One’s Shoulders: O’Harists, O’Hara, and Post-1989 Polish poetry.” (Slavic Review, Vol. 66, No. 3, Fall, 2007, pp. 463-483.)

Niżyńska asserts that the O’Harists’ brief prominence beginning in 1989 was a side effect of the arrival of freedom—in response, certain poets felt the need to throw off solemnity and transcendent meanings, and concentrate on the present moment.  It all started with the July 1986 issue of a literary journal, a slim volume bound in blue (O’Hara’s favorite color!), its cover showing a ticket stub for admission to the Museum of Modern Art.  Inside were seventeen poems translated to Polish—enough, apparently to start a movement! 

But, Niżyńska tells us, “even those Polish poems that exhibit the characteristic linguistic traits of O’Hara’s poetic mode leave the reader with a sense of a literary project different from that of the charismatic New York Poet.”  Here are some lines from “Olyztyn.Shopping,” by Jacek Podsiadlo:

Two heads of cabbage.  Four refills for a “Zenith” pen.

The Cumming volume, Steinbeck’s “Tortilla Flat.”

“Encounters with Utopia” by Szacki and “New Ways

in Psychoanalysis” by Karen Horney.

A thick, ruled notepad.  Thirteen packs of cigarettes.

“Jacobs.”  Granulated, instant coffee.

Vodka “Polonaise.”  A ruler and a triangle

with a multiplication table and three-dimensional picture.

Twenty stamps.  A few magazines.

Done.  Time to go get some beer at Santos

by the station.  Drink two mugs.  Leave.

 

Sit on a bench.  Light a cigarette.

A commonly pretty girl passes pointing at me with her breasts.

…………………..

In the parking lot before the hotel Cormorant

Among the shiny limousines stands a small Fiat, red

From exhaustion, a tiny phallus of communism.

A different literary project indeed!  There is something pugnaciously casual about this shopping trip, something militantly trivial—triviality with an iron fist.

Because O’Hara was lifted from his context (transplanted without soil) to fill a temporary need, his influence didn’t “take” permanently.  (All the same, Niżyńska says, John Ashbery has many fans in Poland.) Who knows, perhaps the times are propitious again, perhaps already a poet in Poland, woken by the sun’s words, is making her own day.

from the archive; first posted by Angela Ball on March 04, 2014 at 11:02 AM 

See also this post on Kenneth Koch by Angela Ball: https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2014/03/giving-up-solemnity-for-lent-angela-ball.html

this one on John Ashbery https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2014/03/ashes-ashes-all-fall-down-angela-ball.html

this one on James Schuyler https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2014/03/a-blue-towel-angela-ball.html

I had imagined discussing the big four New York School poets in an orderly fashion, one by one.  But since their work percolates from shared springs, it seems to me better to talk back and forth among them. 

As I have said, my class and I are collaborating on understanding the ongoing collaborations of the New York School poets.  Here is one example: wonderfully, Kenneth Koch found Frank O’Hara’s previously unknown “Talking to the Sun at Fire Island” after his death (and read it at O’Hara’s funeral).  That Kenneth Koch wrote of the circus is very apropos—so much of what he did (for one thing, the tremendous range of his teaching of poetry, including even children at the M.D. Anderson clinic, where he himself was being treated) was death defying.

Here’s graduate student and fiction writer Jennifer Brewington discussing him in her reading journal.  (We’re using the American Poets Project Selected Poems, edited by Ron Padgett.) 

Kenneth Koch is my favorite New York School poet so far, and I am very surprised. I thought it would be O’Hara. Though I’d never read him before, I wasn’t expecting to be so taken in by his work. It’s no wonder to me that O’Hara writes often about him in his poetry. He uses a lot of the same techniques that I’m now realizing are a part of the school. The naming of friends and places and events in poems puts all of them in conversation with one another in a way that feels inclusive. I noticed that before but did not realize it was a common technique among them. Still, there is something about Koch’s ability to turn a phrase, to contradict himself within the same line, to conjure just the right image that makes him stand out for me among all of these brilliant writers. In “Days and Nights,” he writes, “It came to me that all this time/ There had been no real poetry and that it needed to be/ invented” (96).  Going into this book, I felt like I knew something about poetry. I had almost the opposite feeling. Now, though, I feel he’s done just that. He’s invented poetry, or reimagined it, in a way that is haunting, daring, and incredibly effective.

The images in his poetry are so clever and lovely. My favorite poem in this collection is “Alive for an Instant.” The title itself draws me in and the first line keeps me present. “I have a bird in my head and a pig in my stomach/ and a flower in my genitals and a tiger in my genitals/ and a lion in my genitals and I am after you but I have a song in my heart” (45). How perfect is that! The repetition of genitals somehow perfectly captures how it feels to be both physically and chemically attracted to someone and how it feels to also love them.

Speaking of love, in class, graduate fiction writer Nick Benca talked about the build-up of feeling in Frank O’Hara’s “The Day Lady Died.”--about how, paradoxically, all the present-tense distractions of Frank’s loud bright day are advance embodiments of the memory—triggered by the newspaper face—of the intimate dark Five-Spot, where Lady whispered “along the keyboard” and “everyone and I stopped breathing.”  All along, the present has been preparing us to be ravished by the past. 

This poem, along with many of O’Hara’s, lacks a final period—indicating that experience stops for no one, that we must continue to be “present.”

Recently, graduate poet Annette Boehm alerted me to the presence in Poland of a group called the “O’Harists.” They are described by Joanna Niżyńska in an article entitled, “The Impossibility of Shrugging One’s Shoulders: O’Harists, O’Hara, and Post-1989 Polish poetry.” (Slavic Review, Vol. 66, No. 3, Fall, 2007, pp. 463-483.)

Niżyńska asserts that the O’Harists’ brief prominence beginning in 1989 was a side effect of the arrival of freedom—in response, certain poets felt the need to throw off solemnity and transcendent meanings, and concentrate on the present moment.  It all started with the July 1986 issue of a literary journal, a slim volume bound in blue (O’Hara’s favorite color!), its cover showing a ticket stub for admission to the Museum of Modern Art.  Inside were seventeen poems translated to Polish—enough, apparently to start a movement! 

But, Niżyńska tells us, “even those Polish poems that exhibit the characteristic linguistic traits of O’Hara’s poetic mode leave the reader with a sense of a literary project different from that of the charismatic New York Poet.”  Here are some lines from “Olyztyn.Shopping,” by Jacek Podsiadlo:

Two heads of cabbage.  Four refills for a “Zenith” pen.

The Cumming volume, Steinbeck’s “Tortilla Flat.”

“Encounters with Utopia” by Szacki and “New Ways

in Psychoanalysis” by Karen Horney.

A thick, ruled notepad.  Thirteen packs of cigarettes.

“Jacobs.”  Granulated, instant coffee.

Vodka “Polonaise.”  A ruler and a triangle

with a multiplication table and three-dimensional picture.

Twenty stamps.  A few magazines.

Done.  Time to go get some beer at Santos

by the station.  Drink two mugs.  Leave.

 

Sit on a bench.  Light a cigarette.

A commonly pretty girl passes pointing at me with her breasts.

…………………..

In the parking lot before the hotel Cormorant

Among the shiny limousines stands a small Fiat, red

From exhaustion, a tiny phallus of communism.

A different literary project indeed!  There is something pugnaciously casual about this shopping trip, something militantly trivial—triviality with an iron fist.

Because O’Hara was lifted from his context (transplanted without soil) to fill a temporary need, his influence didn’t “take” permanently.  (All the same, Niżyńska says, John Ashbery has many fans in Poland.) Who knows, perhaps the times are propitious again, perhaps already a poet in Poland, woken by the sun’s words, is making her own day.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Five): Pam Rehm [by Angela Ball]

This Tender Riot of Chaos

The undeniable pull
of passion
is impossible
to let go of

Quite in love|
with
the comfort
of walking

the weather,
having attuned to the light
that grows deeper
into the day's fading,

this empty awareness 
is beneficent

A pulsing of pulses

Listen
to the place

Embrace
a weathered loneliness

Outdoorsy through the moss
and quietness

of colors
before Spring's beginnings

                                             - Pam Rehm

Pam Rehm is the author of Time Will Show (Shearsman Books, 2018), The Larger Nature (Flood Editions, 2011), Small Works (Flood Editions, 2005), Gone to Earth (Flood Editions, 2001), To Give It Up (Sun & Moon Press, 1994), and The Garment in which No One Had Slept (Burning Deck Press, 1993). She lives in Manhattan.

                                                                        Photo by Angie Rehm

The New York School Diaspora (Part 75): Pam Rehm

Pam Rehm’s  “This Tender Riot of Chaos,” from her forthcoming collection, Inner Verses, mysteriously resets the balance between outer and inner weather, the abstract and the concrete. Her poetry saints may include both the William Carlos Williams of Spring and All and Robert Creeley, whose off-kilter lines keep us surprised. In her matter-of-fact meditativeness she has something in common with James Schuyler.

The poem’s title—one of the best descriptions of romantic love I’ve ever heard—and first stanza prepare us for a tortured affair—as does the first line of the second—but no, the comfort on offer is, literally, pedestrian.  We are invited into the surround of a place. Somehow, against known rules, we enter it via abstraction:

     the weather,

     having attuned to the light

     that grows deeper

     into the day’s fading,

 

The poem takes on a radical intuitiveness, saying that the weather has tuned itself to the light, while both grow “deeper” into “day’s” departure.  How is it possible to grow into a disappearance?  Does meditation presuppose oneness?  Maybe so.  A series of vivid abstractions shows how:

    This empty awareness
     is beneficent

     A pulsing of pulses

     Listen
     to the place

      Embrace
      a weathered loneliness

Maybe the key here is our participation. We can’t but listen. The poem is as open as a ruin; it admits everything. By the time it becomes a series of commands—to the poet and to us—we are receptive.  To the “awareness,” “empty” as it is, completely friendly.  To “A pulsing of pulses” that suggests a welter of images: animal life, including our own; the stir of “passion,”; the stir of air; the moment-by-moment changes of atmosphere. Listening is accepting; it leads to “embrace.” We don’t ask how it’s possible to do that to “a weathered loneliness.” The poem has released us from ordinary doing.

How lovely, the fresh surprise of the casual “outdoorsy”—that applies, with stunning generality, to all. “Moss” and “quietness” are natural companions—but the quietness finds itself leaping a stanza break to apply, also, to “colors”—too many, perhaps, to name? The last line, with its gentle leap, brings us a broad sense of cycling into newness. Not the fierce corporeality at the end of William Carlos Williams’ Spring and All [By the Road to the Contagious Hospital], where “objects” “grip down and begin to awaken,” but an accommodating openness, an unspecified array of new starts.

Poets are often asked, “What are your poems about?” But poems aren’t “about” anything. They are in it. The best ones, like Pam Rehm’s “This Tender Chaos,” transform and erase time and all its “aboutness.”--   Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Six): Matthew Rohrer [by Angela Ball]

PRISONERS

A distant beat comes
from the melting snow.
A delivery truck slowly
backing up. I have been
inside our apartment for centuries!
Trapped on a small blue-
and-green planet, spinning
through space, a prisoner.
But there is no jailor.
Just a cloud that appears
overhead in the shape
of a sword, severing
afternoon from evening.

                                      -Matthew Rohrer

MATTHEW ROHRER  is the author of Army of Giants (Wave Books, forthcoming 2024), The Sky Contains the Plans (Wave Books, 2020), The Others (Wave Books, 2017), which was the winner of the 2017 Believer Book Award, and many others. He has appeared on NPR’s All Things Considered and The Next Big Thing. His first book, A Hummock in the Malookas, was selected for the National Poetry Series by Mary Oliver in 1994. He lives in Brooklyn, New York, and teaches at NYU.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Six): Matthew Rohrer

Though his work shows affinities with all the original poets of the New York school, Matthew Rohrer’s deft “Prisoners” combines the existential with the metaphysical in a way reminiscent of Charles Simic. I am thinking of the poem, “The Partial Explanation, “in which the speaker seems trapped forever in a café with only a smudged water glass for company,  Simic, though often comic in his invocations of another world, courts its mystery—unlike, for the most part, the poets of the New York school, who have a cooler metaphysic, saving their wonder for the artistic process itself. The magic, in other words, is in the making.  Arriving in the United States at sixteen, in New York somewhat later, Simic saw the city through a peculiar lens: the Slavic folktales that he tracked though the shelves of the New York public library and kept alive as saints for his poems. A devote of Latin American poetry and fiction, he winningly contrasts magic with realism, intensifying each.

Rohrer’s poem immerses us in a realm neither magical nor actual, but somehow caught in between.

The fascinating image that begins the poem, the “distant beat” that “comes from the melting snow,” places us in a world realistic but indefinite. “Comes from” leaves things open—refuses to call the sound anything so precise as “dripping”—and indeed, such a situation seems to produce an infinitesimal creaking and/or incipient drips and/or drips upon drips.  It’s a complex articulation packed into “a beat”—that modest word that encloses drama and drums.

The delivery truck, in its slowness, the rhythm of its [unheard] warning beeps, prompts a sudden exclamation: “. . . I have been / inside our apartment for centuries!” The choice of “our” rather than “this” brings us into the poem as roommate, lover, and/or distant co-sufferer of an isolation that might be occasioned by COVID 19—but, if so, that’s merely circumstantial. The speaker’s focus abruptly goes long: “Trapped on a small blue- / and-green planet, spinning / through space, a prisoner.” Here Rohrer does what folklore does—he takes the cosmic literally. And why not? But the poem backs away from the magical with “But there is no jailor.”

A wonderful thing happens with “Just a cloud”—our foreboding sense of the metaphysical transfers to the sky:

     Just a cloud that appears
     overhead in the shape
     of a sword . . .

Here, the natural points toward the mystical, the more powerfully for the poem’s restraint. That word “Just”!

In “of a sword, severing” is embedded the story of Eden and the cherub Jophiel waving a fiery blade that divides Adam and Eve from immortality and innocence. In place of timeless days and nights, they receive a world cut with sorrow.

In the astonishing understatement that follows, “severing / afternoon from evening,” we are set down again, rather roughly, in reality—a reality forever changed by meaning summoned and dismissed. But not entirely. That afternoon becomes evening is as big a mystery as ever. And because the mystery lives in us, no matter how confined, we are stunned each time by its appearance, and so remain child-like, perhaps hopeful—inhabiting a planet both impoverished and impossibly rich. -Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Five): Charles North [by Angela Ball]

CREPUSCULE WITH PAULA

 

Does realism get your vote? It gets mine.

The plants with their insatiable thirst for appearances,

the heart-stopping 7:00 p.m. air moonlighting as a pressed-

cardboard Korean ashtray

(server, modest coaster) decorated with a single blondish branch

holding six leaves and a piece of rose-colored fruit (pear,

plum, ripe peach)

slightly raised as if applied to the flat, creamy space behind

flecked with light gray, light green, and brown marks of varying

size

from pinpricks to ashes, pencil (it looks like) to brush.

The romance of the window panes (I'm squinting a little) has

nothing

to do with the misguided view, the one with the Fates schmoozing

under the maroon awning of the high-rise (schmoos is more like

it)

and the embarrassed-looking sycamores revealing for all they're

worth

in their slightly fictionalized but emotionally accurate way,

which contributes to the overall tone

without detracting from the realistic participation,

a motorbike taking the corner too fast, a cat knowing the worst

that can possibly happen and managing to avoid it,

which could be the key signature if not for a free-standing

radiance just outside, unmoored, a hint of plum or Anjou pear.

                                                                                                    -Charles North

                                                                                                   (EVERYTHING and Other Poems, 2019)

Charles North’s first, self-published, poetry collection, Lineups, was featured in two New York Post sports columns. He has published 20 books of poems, essays, and collaborations with artists, reviewed for Art in America, and served as Poet-in-Residence at Pace University NYC. With James Schuyler, he edited the poet-painter anthologies Broadway and Broadway 2. The Nearness of the Way You Look Tonight (2001) was a finalist for the inaugural Phi Beta Kappa Poetry Award, What It Is Like (2011) headed NPR’s Best Poetry Books of the Year, and Everything and Other Poems (2020) was a New York Times New and Noteworthy Book. Among his awards are two NEA Fellowships, four Fund for Poetry Awards, a Poets Foundation Award, and a Foundation for Contemporary Arts Fellowship.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Five): Charles North

Charles North’s lyric of controversy, “Crepuscule with Paula,” explodes the romanticism of its title in its first line: “Does realism get your vote?  It gets mine.” The poem is named for—and thus is ekphrastic of—a composition by Thelonious Monk in which the contenders are beauty and cacophony, the off-handed and the sublime.

This poem is out for blood: to let two worlds duke it out via whatever is at hand, which is in this case “the heart-stopping 7:00 p.m. air moonlighting as a pressed- / cardboard Korean ashtray.” Among other things, this statement reminds us that everything we see is a collaboration between materials and the light that hits them. (A curious idiom, that.)

The plants’ “insatiable thirst for appearances” references both their need for water and their need to present to the sun.  It’s why wildflowers arrange themselves in bouquets--each flower head gets exposure. The ashtray can be multi-purposed “(server, modest coaster)”—the “modest” slyly humorous—can there be an “immodest” coaster?

North’s description of the object—humorously thorough—takes on the careful, hesitant rhythm of artistic creation:

     decorated with a single blondish branch

     holding six leaves and a piece of rose-colored fruit (pear,

     plum, ripe peach)

     slightly raised as if applied to the flat, creamy space behind

     flecked with light gray, light green, and brown marks of varying

     size

     from pinpricks to ashes, pencil (it looks like) to brush.

The careful approximation of North’s description, supplying alternative “rose-colored” fruits and including even a suggestion of relief (“slightly raised as if applied”) ; his verb, “flecked,” embodying quick strokes, his color designations both accurate and modest—especially “brown marks of varying / size / from pinpricks to ashes” resemble and reenact the artist’s care with his own ashtray creation. The insertion of the tentative “(it looks like)” reminds us, again modestly, that the poem is guessing. This ‘guessingness’ is essential. It allows the lines to float free of what they describe, giving room for doubt, as in James Schuyler’s masterful “Korean Mums,” which ends with his one certainty, their name—a certainty that will “one day” vanish.

   . . . what

   is there I have not forgot?

  Or one day will forget:

  this garden, the breeze

  in stillness, even

  the words, Korean mums.

Without preamble, North’s poem moves outward—to “the romance of the window panes” undercut by “squinting” and irrelevance: “has // nothing // to do with the misguided view” (is not every city a concatenation of these?).

With an incongruity worthy of Monty Python, the fates appear, comically “smoozing” / under the maroon awning of the high-rise (schmoos is more like // it //)  and the poem’s archness, its high-handedness, its Monkian clatter intensifies:

     and the embarrassed-looking sycamores revealing for all they're

     worth

     in their slightly fictionalized but emotionally accurate way,

     which contributes to the overall tone

     without detracting from the realistic participation,

The orphaned words—the ones that hang like ledges—not only emphasize a tentativeness but also a brittleness that spreads from the depiction to the thing depicted. The poem seems to scramble here, with willed awkwardness, to piece together its romanticism and realism, through a process of digging and filling: “slightly fictionalized but emotionally accurate,” “without detracting from the realistic participation” that includes

     a motorbike taking the corner too fast, a cat knowing the worst

     that can possibly happen and managing to avoid it,

     which could be the key signature if not for a free-standing

     radiance just outside, unmoored, a hint of plum or Anjou pear.

The poem’s final movement is given over to the chaotic, phenomenal urban world, with the luck of a savvy cat we can hope to emulate as a “key signature”—a locus of meaning, a codification of tone—“if not for a free-standing / radiance just outside, unmoored, a hint of plum or Anjou pear.” How terrific that “radiance” is not a ledge word, that it washes over the words that follow, that denote closeness and freedom and nuance but are secured in place, tentatively, by the felt accuracy of “hint of plum or Anjou pear.” Charles North’s entrancing and enlivening poem leaves us a in a realm of romantic realism and/or realistic romance. Not only is it unnecessary to choose, but each choice gives way in the face of new ones. We are left in uncertainty, where we belong. It is, after all, the home of luck. – Angela Ball

"Largo" [by Donald Revell]

Largo

Schubert was poorly. Sun motes danced an arc
Of emptiness over the lens of Vienna, and staves,
Rivers of them, purled towards the brute frontier.
Romance is the kindergarten of savagery.
Striving for health, music presses backwards
Against time, against the walking woods
And bleached-out sunlight of tomorrow—tomorrow
Morning worst of all. A clear lens, a stave
Crowded with sharps and signatures, opens
Onto a hastening multitude in old clothes—they
Were the music, once upon a time, returning
Ragged and boisterous from Arcady.
Schubert is among them, youthful and macabre.
The sun is the Romani walking beside him.

 --Donald Revell

from Canandaigua by Donald Revell (Alice James Books, 2024), a book that "compounds itself of archaic beauty and immediate freshets, of fair vigils of praise aand invention." -- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Four): Rosanne Wasserman [by Angela Ball]

Museum Quantity
for Dara and Jim

You were tending your virtual garden of
turtles that turn the tides alive,
sticks and circles like a game of hangman,
raking sand
          You were collecting mouths of broken bottles from the shore,
          then writing the notes their bellies must have held
You were lighting a fire in the attic
using a mirror and the moon
         Old paint curls off your ceilings, Palmer’s cursive exercise:
         you read all night when shadows join the letters
You had to turn the cheese around twice daily;
you kept it in the cellar, braving foxes, ghosts, ghost foxes,
rising damp, dark corners, till Thanksgiving
         Visitors asking about your quilts will learn about their makers,
         the Old Order Amish wives, needle guides marked with flour

You saw them fighting, hawk and fox,
scrabbling a foot-wide ditch into the earth of the backyard meadow:
hawk feathers in a tall clear vase of glass
          You saw the stone ram standing in the thicket by the shed
          a mist-reflection, backed by blackened pines
You settled a centipede sphinx on a model of Congress
          You put porcelain angels on moldings above the stairs
You hung portraits of poets laughing, of suited gents in huge sombreros,
words framed on the walls, walls lined with bookshelves
          You found jars of rare spice. You had Tiffany dragonflies,
          boxes of brand-new chapbooks, strings of solar-powered lights,
photographs of the bear in the hemlock tree, axes and brooms by the screen door,
          a shrine to Saint Rita and Sta-Puft, smooth wet lakestones in the soapdish,
bees celebrating the lilac just in blossom beside the porch,
          artichokes and limes in a wooden bowl—the photographer hovered around it
          for fifteen minutes—and what is that stuff upstairs, the green cloud of
          tiny round leaves above delicate stem-strings afloat in a crowd in a pot on the
          northern windowsill?—baby’s tears, angel’s tears, mind-your-own-business?

In classrooms remembering one another’s voices
          in the same house writing on your own—
one chocolate apiece for energy, fingerlicks,
         crumple-toss wrappers away from the typewriter table,
or unwrap foil, finger-smooth crinkly silver, keep flat forever
         inside the book you were reading for inspiration—
in two houses, both of you alone
         whole days, those great and limited collections,
too big to know all about—delta, mountain chain,
         whose time is a language shared, rushing marvelous objects
to your hands, so you become a culture, combed
         by the same comb in different ways,
catalogued, curated, civil, uncivilized, joining around separate anarchies of need;
        pieced and quilted brilliants and intenses,
arranged by your choices and by what you did not choose

                                                                                              -Rosanne Wasserman

Rosanne Wasserman’s poetry collections include Apple Perfume, The Lacemakers, No Archive on Earth, Other Selves, and Sonnets from Elizabeth’s, as well as Place du Carousel and Psyche and Amor, collaborations with Eugene Richie, with whom she co-edited John Ashbery’s Collected French Translations. They run the Groundwater Press, which has published New York School and NYS-adjacent poets since 1981. Having retired from thirty years of teaching at the United States Merchant Marine Academy, she is now catching up with some projects on hold for decades.

   photo credit: Joseph Richie

“Museum Quantity,” Rosanne Wasserman’s brilliant tribute to Dara Barrois/Dixon (formerly Dara Wier) and James Tate, is the only New York School-inspired poem I’m aware of that commemorates a couple’s life together. Frank O’Hara, that friendliest of poets, name-drops; gives us vignettes and tributes—I’m thinking of the Rachmaninoff’s birthday poems—but he doesn’t celebrate coupledom apart from the magic railroad of his own couplings.

At first glance this astonishing array of objects and tasks may resemble what is known in some quarters as ‘a stuffed dwarf museum’: outsize, tatty, and random. But we must remember the title—what’s asserted is “quantity” not “quality,” as in the usual phrase.

A partial key to its origins lies in Barrois/Dixon’s “official” biography:

     She drew pictures of poems before she could write properly with our

     conventional alphabet in our conventional ways. Once she could read

     and write she wrote poems in imitation of what she could read and she

     self-published these by putting them in small jars with tight lids and

     gently launching them off into the currents of the mighty Mississippi River whose

     banks bordered the little farm on which she was raised. . . .

Thus began a life-long association between poems and objects that might be called “intra-ekphrastic”—poems that desire identities in dimensional life. But in “Museum Quantity,” “turtles” bring “tides” to life; the flow of transformation goes, brilliantly, in the opposite direction--

          You were collecting mouths of broken bottles from the shore,

          then writing the notes their bellies must have held

 --and I realize that “poems wanting to become objects” is much too simple a description. What happens is, instead, a multivalent alchemy: “You were lighting a fire in the attic / using a mirror and the moon.” There is ritual that may well be part of the reality of cheese curation: “You had to turn the cheese around twice daily.” Borders between daylight and dream light dissolve. “Visitors asking about your quilts will learn about their makers, / the Old Order Amish wives, needle guides marked with flour.”  How ghostly, those flour markings.

The alternation between italics and regular type suggests a double voice appropriate to a poem with a double subject. Rightly or wrongly, I read the italicized lines as more documentary-like than the ones in standard type—perhaps addressed more directly to the couple. In any case, the alternation adds to the poem’s playful sense of being several places at once: here and in the past; inside poems and inside rooms; in realities belonging to nature and to imagination.

The poem proceeds outward from the couple to include multifarious juxtapositions: the lovely conjunction of “curling paint” with cursive; “centipede sphinx on a model of Congress,” “axes and brooms by the screen door; “a shrine to Saint Rita and Sta-Puft,” “lakestones in the soapdish.” And much more:

          artichokes and limes in a wooden bowl—the photographer hovered around it

          for fifteen minutes—and what is that stuff upstairs, the green cloud of

          tiny round leaves above delicate stem-strings afloat in a crowd in a pot on the

          northern windowsill?—baby’s tears, angel’s tears, mind-your-own-business?

Wait—there’s a photo-documentarian on scene, visually recording what Wasserman records verbally. And a magic plant, “green cloud of tiny round leaves,” that may have a name—“mind-your-own-business”—that declares us nosy.

Through attentiveness, Dara and Jim have access to natural agons, hawk versus fox; images of animals radiate life in Rilkean splendor: a bear in a tree, a stone ram, “a mist-reflection, backed by blackened pines.” The “centipede sphinx” juxtaposed with “a model of congress” suggests something ineluctable about both.

For many years, Dara and Jim both taught poetry writing at the University of Massachusetts, Amherst. Even teaching in different rooms, the poem tells us, they were together: “In classrooms remembering one another’s voices.” I think the poets and classrooms join in this remembering. And when workshop was done they went to dinner together to share the afterglow of their students’ poems.

As the poem moves toward its close, its ‘collectivity’ accelerates, fueled by chocolate so present that we can taste its “fingerlicks,” hear its “crinkly silver,” the poets writing together in separate rooms and/or separate houses (there were two), coming together to exchange the day in the form of a single poem, each read aloud by the other. No comments. The poems joining “those great and limited collections, too big to know all about—delta, mountain chain, / whose time is a language shared. . . .”

     . . . both of you alone

          whole days, those great and limited collections,

     too big to know all about—delta, mountain chain,

          whose time is a language shared, rushing marvelous objects

     to your hands, so you become a culture, combed

          by the same comb in different ways,

     catalogued, curated, civil, uncivilized, joining around separate anarchies of need;

          pieced and quilted brilliants and intenses,

      arranged by your choices and by what you did not choose

Jim and Dara’s—and the poem’s—museum is joined to geological collections, “delta, mountain chain. . .”  Their loving microcosm becomes macro:“time is a language shared, rushing marvelous objects / to your hands, so you become a culture. . .”  Then the beautifully homely “combed / by the same comb / in different ways” and the marvelously linked “brilliants and intenses” continue the fusion “arranged by your choices. . . .”

Wasserman’s closing phrase declares the importance of exclusion. Every poem, every house of ideas, outlines itself with the unchosen; discovers identity by negation..

As Emily Dickinson famously says, “The Soul selects her own Society.” A poem says to its words, “I choose you.” Love says to its object, “I choose you.” A house says to its surround, “I am of you, but I am not you.” Rosanne Wasserman’s absorbing, affecting poem includes us in a complex, constructive, and beautifully dreamlike union. --  Angela Ball

 

Note: All "NY School Diaspora" posts by Angela Ball are copyright (c) 2024 by Angela Ball. All rights reserved.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Three): Jordan Davis [by Angela Ball]

FOR A DOLLAR I'LL TELL YOU WHAT YOU ARE DYING TO HEAR, WHICH IS ALL OF IT

The social impulse and the roaches and the throb
no one brings me what I heard.

The window's great --
along with your four walls, you are more gorgeous
than an afternoon

I don't watch that kind of fucked up.

The presidents walk across the broken windows.
Stop thinking like I need a thing.

How much worse than being talked about
is it the war or the collision of galaxies.

‘He flew into the bonfire to celebrate
being on the roof of my heart,’
Sunset light on my phone.

                                         - Jordan Davis

Jordan Davis's third book, Yeah, No, was published by MadHat in 2023. His poems have appeared in Poetry and The New Yorker and his reviews have appeared in Slate and the Times Literary Supplement. He is a former Poetry Editor of The Nation.

                                                                      photo by Adalena Kavanagh

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Three): Jordan Davis

Jordan Davis’s “For a Dollar I’ll Tell You What You Are Dying to Hear, Which is All Of It” is an unruly poem that challenges usual ratios between clarity and mystery.

It begins with three self-conscious entities “The social impulse and the roaches and the throb,” representatives of our urge to mingle, our vermin, and our pain or excitement or both—and the frustration of feeling as though we’ve lost the plot: “no one brings me what I’ve heard.”

We seem to be inside a house, one worthy of praise: “The window’s great-- / along with your four walls, you are more gorgeous than an afternoon.” I love the familiar comparison (“more gorgeous”) applied to something utterly abstract: “an afternoon.” (I first read such a comparison on a teabag tab: “You are as beautiful as the universe,” so grandiose, so funny, yet somehow ravishing.) 

Then a one-sentence stanza that, for me, serves as a kind of reset: “I don’t watch that kind of fucked up.” It might apply to what we see next.

Again a proud entity: “the presidents”—who “walk across the broken windows.” What? And the window was “great”! Catastrophes attract our leaders, who have the opportunity for empathy.

Visiting, they offer the stricken ‘anything they need’--sweepingly useless.

The stanzas are now clearly reverse magnetized, repelling each other as much as a villanelle’s are locked within a minuet. 

This one tells a purely unnecessary truth: “How much worse than being talked about / is it the war or the collision of galaxies.” But how I first read it—as war or colliding galaxies being worse that finding oneself the subject of gossip—is inaccurate, because of the word “it.” Two statements have been joined without a clear relationship, as though an ordinary sentence in New York is being interrupted by disaster.

Then this beautiful sentence:

     ‘He flew into the bonfire to celebrate

     being on the roof of my heart,’

     Sunset light on my phone.

The quotation is Shelleyan in grandeur, combining ecstasy and mayhem, like an opera.

Who says it? No clue. Who responds? The poet’s phone, perhaps switching to “evening mode.” We are torn between sublimity and usefulness, with no time left to decide. This is unexpectedly blissful.

What is the takeaway? We are. Thanks to Jordan Davis’s stirring poem, we move ahead, somewhat electrified. -- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Two ): Trey Moody [by Angela Ball]

The Way to Work

A billboard asks me
if I can name five types of apples.
I am listening to classical radio.
Suddenly, I am driving past the graveyard
and realize I can name only two:
red and green. So naturally I wonder
what, exactly, is wrong with me.
The DJ says there have been explosions
at the Boston Marathon. That’s it.
The graveyard is now gone. Too far
behind me. Stores are trying to sell
office supplies, but they are fooling no one.
Now back to the music. The sun
all around. In ways I cannot touch
and in very gradual increments
somehow brightening the day.

                                                -Trey Moody, from Autoblivion

Trey Moody is the author of Autoblivion (Conduit Books, 2023), winner of the Minds on Fire Open Book Prize, and Thought That Nature (Sarabande Books, 2014), winner of the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry. The recipient of the Poetry Society of America Robert H. Winner Memorial Award, his poems have appeared in The Atlantic, The Believer, and New England Review. He teaches at Creighton University and lives with his daughter in Omaha, Nebraska.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-Two): Trey Moody

Trey Moody’s colloquial and provocative “The Way to Work” illuminates the everyday disjunctions of driving—an activity rare for the original poets of the New York School. It may remind us that “commuting” is associated with just two activities: a trip to work or a sentence. Its first question is asked by a billboard that wants to know if we can name more than five types of apples.

The cheery Food and Wine website reveals that "There are over 7,500 apple varieties around the world (and counting), each with its own unique history. There are heirloom apples that have withstood the test of time, and new types of apples coming into being every year."

The website doesn’t mention the many varieties lost to commercialism: those that don’t travel well, have lumpy or oddly colored skins, are expensive to grow, or just aren’t consumer friendly.

The billboard seems to hold us somewhat accountable for this, especially if we can’t remember five apples. Its message, by necessity brief, is drowned out by “classical radio”—its music differentiated only by type, like the generic apples.

“Suddenly, I am driving past the graveyard” reminds us of human death while the apple challenge, not forgotten, is still being processed. Shades of Eden: “and realize I can name only two: / red and green.” The flatness of the colors is a humorous letdown, as is “So naturally I wonder / what, exactly, is wrong with me.”

The poem’s present tense and mode of rapid-fire reaction to the seen reminds us of Frank O’Hara’s ‘I do this I do that’ poems, especially “The Day Lady Died,” in which the ephemeral—that surrounds us so thickly—is burst by the eternal in the form of a newspaper headline announcing the death of Lady Day: “The DJ says there have been explosions / at the Boston Marathon. That’s it.”

The first announcements of horror are always the briefest, since knowledge, like the poet’s of apples, does not yet exist. “The graveyard,” which may have somehow provided enlightenment, “is now gone.  Too far / behind me.” During the commute there is little time to react. Radio, when there is no more information, must say “Now back to the music.” But the music will not be itself, but a blood-stained thing. The sun that illumines the poem’s close is like the blithe one that illumines the swirling wreck at the end of Moby Dick.

     . . .The sun 

     all around.  In ways I cannot touch

     and in very gradual increments

     somehow brightening the day.

Trey Moody’s “The Way to Work” achieves an ending both immensely understated and simply immense. Like the apples, the sun is beyond grasp. How well and how coldly “in very gradual increments” captures the morning, and "somehow” expresses the poem’s vast bewilderment—not an argument with existence but an uncommuted incomprehension.

Like the poem itself, its title is both modest and expansive. The word “way” has been used in many languages and holy books to advise how to arrive at enlightenment, wisdom, oneness with creation. Here, all that is being arrived at is “work”—so generic (like a “red” apple) that it need not be specified.

Perhaps, Moody’s powerful poem suggests, we—the minions of the ordinary—have created such a quantity of it that bombs appear as agents of transformation—that “what is wrong with me” is wrong with us all. -- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-One): Annette C. Boehm

Iridology

The wild irises are striped, blue and white, and early:
it has been too warm. I fear the frost
will cause their cells to burst, leave them
limp, toppled to the patient ground.
I want a yard full of woodland
strawberries, for them to spread further each year,
until every summer is covered in seeds.
I don’t want to catch dead flowers.
Technically, strawberries are roses. Strawberries
are not true. They will run, any chance they get.

-Annette C. Boehm                                                   (published in Westbranch)

 

Annette C. Boehm (she/her) is the author of two collections of poetry: The Apidictor Tapes (2022) and The Knowledge Weapon. A queer, autistic writer, she has two chapbooks available from Dancing Girl Press. She lives in Bochum, Germany.  Website: annettecboehm.wordpress.com 

                                                                        Photo by Vickie Marschall

The New York School Diaspora (Part Seventy-One): Annette Boehm

Annette Boehm’s luminous “Iridology” begins by designating origin, pattern, and color (“wild. . . striped, blue and white”). Such stripes are sometimes called “breaks”—spontaneous outbursts, an exuberance. The addition of “early” shifts attention to the season: “it has been too warm.” Our flower watching habits have assumed worry in a climate now deranged, erratic. “I fear the frost / will cause their cells to burst, leave them / limp, toppled to the patient ground.” As her title suggests, Boehm, like James Schuyler and his “Korean Mums,” sees her flowers with both a lover’s and a scientist’s eyes.

“Iridology” suggests several things: a study of rainbows?  The study of Iris, the rainbow goddess (in Spanish, a rainbow is an “arco iris”)? The study of the flower, iris?  No. It’s the science of understanding the health of humans by reading their eyes—more specifically, their irises. By putting this science in charge of her poem, Boehm enlists, at a slant, its questionable powers.

She involves questions of the value or utility of looking into things, as a German researcher did by becoming the first to peer through a microscope at a human iris. The iris of the poem, it seems, is fraught with complications. Boehm wishes for something simpler, more prolific:

     I want a yard full of woodland

     strawberries, for them to spread further each year,

     until every summer is covered in seeds.

     I don’t want to catch dead flowers.

The worry expressed at the poem’s start seems to have come true, the flower embedded with the human eye and the questionable science founded upon it: “The patterns and colors of the iris have been used / to predict health, but are no reliable indicator.” In dismissing the science, the poem dismisses the flower. This is the labyrinthine logic of superstition, one of the ways we make sense of the world. Predict it. Protect ourselves from it.

There’s something freeing about leaving behind ordinary logic. It can distract us from what there is to dread: bad luck, sadness, the collapse of the natural world.

Boehm’s strawberries arrive like a cavalry to save us from all that. That they are imposters of a kind—“technically . . . roses,” “not true,” and itinerant—all the better. Refreshingly like us, “They will run, any chance they get.” Surprise can be great beauty: simplicity only increases its power. We sign on for a serious study of a doomed flower and end up in an ebullient escape: “They will run, any chance they get.”  Yet this punning statement is tinged with fatality. Nature is a matter of what things “will do,” including us. We end the poem torn between lamenting and celebrating, like Hamlet's King Claudius “With an auspicious and a dropping eye. . . .”

Perhaps, Boehm’s willful poem suggests, this is the truth of spring. - Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part 70): Todd Osborne [by Angela Ball]

 

First, Second, Third Person (with a line from Robert Creeley)
in memory of D.R.

I am still stuck on poetry I said, once,
a lifetime ago, or not too long ago,

depending on who you are, or who I
is, when you reads this or I writes it.

And it’s true even now. An old friend
writes that she has moved beyond stanzas,

and all I can think is—how? I am trying,
even now, to decipher the mysteries

of a couplet, of an amulet and quick surprise
part of me wants to say, borrowing

another poet’s words, or stealing
like great artists are often said to do,

but I’m not sure that’s true. The words
stay the same whether they are mine

or someone else’s. Nothing is new
under the sun, cries the Preacher was

always one of my favorite verses, even
as a child, even young in faith and life,

believing so much in something I cannot
comprehend, like stanzas, like God,

like this life I have found myself happily
wandering into. I hope you found it too.

                                                             -Todd Osborne

 

Todd Osborne is a poet and teacher born and raised in Nashville, TN. His debut poetry collection, Gatherer, is forthcoming this April from Belle Point Press. His poems have appeared at CutBank, Tar River Poetry, The Missouri Review, EcoTheo Review, and elsewhere. He lives and writes in Hattiesburg, MS, with his wife and their three cats.

The New York School Diaspora (Part 70): Todd Osborne

Todd Osborne’s vibrant and affecting elegy begins with a confession more appropriate to a childhood crush than to a lifelong vocation: “I am still stuck on poetry,” a statement whose brash clarity disappears in a contretemps of times and selfhoods: “ . . . I said once, / a lifetime ago, or not too long ago, / / depending on who you are, or who I / is, when you reads this or I writes it”--a confusion worthy of Arthur Rimbaud, Bob Marley--or, in fact, John Ashbery, that master of equivocal identities.

“And it’s true even now” does little to settle the question of who the poet is in relation to his work. Like a contestant on a quiz show he reaches out to a friend, who unhelpfully says that she has “moved beyond stanzas.”  What, is she houseless?

 

     I am trying,

     even now, to decipher the mysteries

 

     of a couplet, of an amulet and quick surprise

     part of me wants to say, borrowing

 

     another poet’s words, or stealing

     like great artists are often said to do

 

Osborne’s couplets move by a process of incomplete figuration, their guide Robert Creeley’s fascinating, enigmatic phrase, “an amulet and quick surprise.” In other words, our luck carries us, along with opportunism—the ability to jump on that which enters our path.

Is Osborne’s late friend also a poet?  Have they, in the process of dying, entered poetry? Yes or no? Or should it be Yes and No?

In asserting that

 

     . . .Nothing is new

     under the sun, cries the Preacher was

     always one of my favorite verses, even

     as a child, even young in faith and life,

     believing so much in something I cannot

     comprehend, like stanzas, like God,

 

Osborne puts his faith in the familiar. But just as at the poem’s start, certainly turns itself inside out to become mystery:

 

     like this life I have found myself happily

     wandering into. I hope you found it too.

 

The poem’s last line, itself a rhymed couplet, expresses, with touching abruptness, many things at once, in a way that only the simplest of statements can. Life, like poetry, mixes familiarity with mystery. Also death. Todd Osborne’s “First, Second, Third Person (with a line from Robert Creeley),” in its unconventional eloquence, articulates how poetry and love arise from the constant benediction of discovery.- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Nine): Eugene Richie [by Angela Ball]

Early New York Evening

After Jane Freilicher
Chelsea Piers, August 15

Sometimes the very sight of you,
of your beautiful face and bare shoulders,
makes me feel faint.
In view of the Statue of Liberty,
you are ever present to me,
as when your naked arm
stretches above you in bed
or falls on my shoulders,
like a protecting aura.
The little waves on the surface
of the summery Hudson River
are like feelings coursing through me,
as I think of you,
or of that sudden blush of red
that rises to my forehead
and descends like the apron of a wave
over my bare shoulders
into the curly black and gray hair
on my chest. I see nothing
in this riverbank landscape before me
that suggests anything other than
the inimitable moments
life with you continually gives me
in the ways your beauty
shows me every day.
                                  -Eugene Richie       from Only Here, Between

 

Eugene Richie is the author of four collections of poems, most recently Only Here, Between (Gnosis Press 2023), with cover art by Win Knowlton, and two collaborations with the poet Rosanne Wasserman. He is the Director of Creative Writing in the English Department at Pace University in New York City.

Photo by Star Black

 

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Nine): Eugene Richie

The day before Valentine’s seems the perfect one for Eugene Richie’s glorious love poem, “Early New York Evening,” after Jane Freilicher’s wondrous painting: https://www.kasmingallery.com/usr/library/documents/main/artists/18/jf_press-kit.pdf 

In a superb coincidence, Jane’s birthday is the same (in different years) as that of the poem’s subject, Ritchie’s spouse, Rosanne Wasserman. Jane Freilicher was one of John Ashbery’s first and most important friends in New York City, and Eugene Richie and Rosanne Wasserman were great friends and collaborators with John in Hudson, NY, in the latter part of his life. In these connections, limned so quickly here, live immensities of love.

Richie’s “Early New York Evening” is multiply ekphrastic: there’s the painting, and the subject’s and speaker’s bodies, but also a third entity: the body of their love.

The poem begins with its dominant sensory mode, vision:

Sometimes the very sight of you,

of your beautiful face and bare shoulders,

makes me feel faint.

But already, “faint” introduces a more visceral sense, that of equilibrium.

Then, in a wonderful surprise, their love’s body is conflated with the famous stature (accompanied by its own poem), The Stature of Liberty. The melding happens in form, gesture, and spirit:

     In view of the Statue of Liberty,

     you are ever present to me,

     as when your naked arm

     stretches above you in bed

     or falls on my shoulders,

     like a protecting aura.

It is worth noting that Freilicher’s painting is statuesque, connecting—with loving irony—the verticals of smokestacks with those of tender irises.

The word “naked” startles, shines out to remind us that love is physical as well as spiritual, as John Donne says at the end of his great “The Ecstacy”:

     And if some lover, such as we,
         Have heard this dialogue of one,
     Let him still mark us, he shall see
         Small change when we're to bodies gone.

Along with “Early New York Evening,” the poem’s ekphrastic body of love encompasses the immediate view from the couple’s bedroom, a “riverbank landscape” including not just the famous statue, but New York’s most famous river, as well:

     The little waves on the surface

     of the summery Hudson River

     are like feelings coursing through me,

     as I think of you,

     or of that sudden blush of red

     that rises to my forehead

     and descends like the apron of a wave

     over my bare shoulders

     into the curly black and gray hair

     on my chest.

What a perfect descriptor, that “summery.” Love, I think, is prone to confuse inner and outer landscapes—as it certainly does here, in the intricacies of these lines, where “waves” become “feelings,” and a “sudden blush of red” . . . descends like the apron of a wave.” How fabulous, how exact, the word “apron.” As above, the female body shelters the masculine—with the descending blush she incites, riverine, over the shoulders that mirror her own; and “into” the very masculine “curly black and gray hair.”

Then there is the wonderful red-herring line break at “nothing,” the playful fake-out continuing through the next two lines before we are overwhelmed with reward in the last four:

     the inimitable moments

     life with you continually gives me

     in the ways your beauty

     shows me every day.

How moving, the ending of this splendid love poem, where a spouse’s beauty becomes both teacher and endless quotidian work of art.

Eugene Richie’s “Early New York Evening” combines body and spirit, art and ekphrasis, representation and interplay. How imagine a valentine more permanent, more true. -- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Eight): Laura Cronk [by Angela Ball]

TO MY TWENTIES

Stop what you’re doing
and come with me. We’ll
walk out into the wild
cold, you in your pink
sequined shell from the
consignment shop –
you can have my coat.
Let’s be out together
in the world, the wind
beating against us, the
sidewalks cracking with
ice. Though you shrink
from the cold, my twenties,
you’re still lustrous, still
throwing off heat. We’ll
walk past the schizophrenic
piano player and the junk
dealer poet, there are bad
boyfriends around every
bend, but we’re together
now and we don’t have
to stop. We’ll go back
to my apartment and
open the door and the
kids’ faces will pop
with happiness. They’ll
run toward us, ram their
heads into our stomachs,
so eager to be held.
It’s not the kind of
greeting you’re used to.
After dinner I’ll get you
a cab, my twenties,
but you’ll take the shape
of a great gray bird
and fly away.

                           -Laura Cronk                  first published in StatoRec  Included in Ghost Hour

Laura Cronk is the author most recently of Ghost Hour from Persea Books. She teaches writing and pedagogy courses at The New School in New York.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Eight): Laura Cronk

Laura Cronk’s sparkling “To My Twenties” takes after a poem of the same name by Kenneth Koch that begins

     How lucky that I ran into you

     When everything was possible

     For my legs and arms, and with hope in my heart

     And so happy to see any woman--

     O woman! O my twentieth year!

Though Koch’s poem is more “excitable,” to use Frank O’Hara’s term for Koch himself, it is a poem of retrospect and nostalgia. It ends this way:

     You never, ever, were stingy. What you gave me you gave whole

     But as for telling

     Me how to best use it

     You weren't a genius at that.

     Twenties, my soul

     Is yours for the asking

     You know that, if you ever come back.

In contrast, Cronk’s poem, a direct rendezvous with her twenties, functions as a kind of sequel to Koch’s. Her twenties catch up with her somewhere in the city, and she invites them home—her invitation an arresting demand:

     Stop what you’re doing

     and come with me

What a brilliant way to involve the reader! We are now part of the poem, impersonating we know not what, exactly. Years? A person? A set of attributes?

Cronk’s twenties—and we—come alive in thrift shop threads, “a pink / sequined shell” both vulnerable and outrageous. It is fun to live them again, both as revealed here and through inserting our own experience. Koch talks about what things were like when he was “in” those years; Cronk diegetically reunites with them in reanimated form. At first. By the time the second sentence has arrived, “We’’ll,” we’re in the hypothetical realm of the future—exactly where Koch hopes to meet his twenties. I’ve misread! But, I believe, reading is a process—and misreading can play a productive part.  Cronk’s scenario somehow manages to be both real and projected as the poem details the perils that will greet her and her third, inclement decade—in which inner and outer weather conjoin:

     Let’s be out together

     in the world, the wind

     beating against us, the

     sidewalks cracking with

     ice. Though you shrink

     from the cold, my twenties,

     you’re still lustrous, still

     throwing off heat. We’ll

     walk past the schizophrenic

     piano player and the junk

     dealer poet, there are bad

     boyfriends around every

     bend, but we’re together

     now and we don’t have

     to stop.

What more accurate evocation of a woman in her twenties than “lustrous”? Though the “schizophrenic / piano player” and the “junk / dealer poet” may be gone, bad boyfriends are eternal (a possible book title?). In the present tense inside the future tense, “we’re together”—and “don’t have to stop.”

But we do—it’s late, as Kenneth Koch’s poems often remind us. It’s often late in the New York School. Stars would shine through its big windows were it not for the city’s competing lights. Encountering the speaker’s kids in her apartment seems the beginning of the end. After dinner, a cab needs to be called for the brilliant girl, who--suddenly and scarifyingly--becomes Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s “Very Old Man with Enormous Wings”—and the cab goes wanting.

Experiencing Laura Cronk’s comic and poignant “To My Twenties” transports us to a past transfigured by a tangible future. Sadly, we watch the disreputable angel / past self’s flight—hoping, as so many poems hope, that togetherness returns.  -- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Seven): Dylan Loring [by Angela Ball]

Pardon My French

I couldn’t decide between
French bread and French fries,
sipping French roast
I made in my French press,
preparing to cook either breakfast or lunch
for the woman who began the previous evening
in a brown French braid
before we started French undressing
and spent the night French-kissing.

If French bread, why not
French toast, my mind rotated,
biking from Normandy to Paris.

Instead I chose to retreat
through the French doors
to the yard so I could get
some dirty air, chain-smoking
and coffee-sipping, smelling
like someone’s Grandma’s house
until a cartoon-looking skunk walked by.

Inside, she was eating French
vanilla ice cream, thinking about how
she had to take her bulldog
to the vet before showing up
to work for the day
--she’s an au-pair for the CEO
of French’s, the mustard company,
and was supposed to make little Stephanie
onion soup for lunch.
But first she suggested we hop in the pool
and take a French dip.

24 hours of thinking
I was le man later,
we met over cans of LaCroix at the coffee shop,
and I told her the one about the guy who mistook
a bidet for a drinking fountain, after which she stuffed her phone
into her brown, star-covered Louis Vuitton purse
and turned to me all serious,
saying she only liked me
for my American accent, that I spent
most of my time making jokes that weren’t funny.
So I told her I was just trying to show her
my level of commitment
and teach her about American culture,
and she said she didn’t have time
for a relationship anyway and that she would learn plenty
about American culture on her own
since she was going to be in a community
theatre performance where she’d get to wear
a pink jacket and pretend
to be a beauty school dropout.

                                                  -Dylan Loring

Dylan Loring is a poet from Des Moines, Iowa and an Assistant Professor of English at the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire – Barron County. His poems have appeared in New Ohio Review, jubilat, Ninth Letter, The Laurel Review, and Forklift, Ohio. Along with his friends Kate MacLam and Jordan Deveraux, he edits Lost Pilots. Dylan’s first book of poems This Smile is Starting to Hurt (SEMO Press) will arrive March 2024.

The New York School Diaspora (Part 67): Dylan Loring

Dylan Loring’s “Pardon My French” deadpans us through a series of idioms that function both as a challenge for the poet (à la Oulipian obstructions) and a humorously obsessive send-up of our commodified culture.

The poem may remind us of Gregory Corso’s “Marriage” with its oppositional invocations of matrimony; and even more of Kenneth Koch’s brilliant “You Were Wearing,” in which young love is abetted by clothing including an “Edgar Allan Poe printed cotton blouse” and “George Washington, Father of his Country, shoes”—a prophetic example of product placement. All three poems end with a drastic and inspired change of tone.

“Pardon My French” begins with breakfast ideas and a skillfully engineered flashback to the night before:

     I couldn’t decide between French bread and French fries, sipping French roast

     I made in my French press,

     preparing to cook either breakfast or lunch

     for the woman who began the previous evening

     in a brown French braid

     before we started French un-dressing

     and spent the night French kissing.

From the start, the poem mainlines its artifice. That is, it acts as if its Gallicisms are the most natural thing in the world. Rather than tipping its hand, it displays it.

As in life, the real and the ersatz change places. Is the French au-pair’s “bulldog” related to John Ashbery’s “bouldogue,” a real breed that sounds like a humorous affectation?

Loring’s characters’ Gallicism is no matter of mere appearance—it defines them. The speaker may not be able to join the Tour de France, but his mind can. He chain-smokes while sipping coffee and “. . .smelling / like someone’s Grandma’s house”—the latter detail not so much "French" as simply an inspired description. We get a cameo from the much-missed cartoon character, Pepe le Pew. Soon after, the French girlfriend punningly suggests a “French dip” in the pool.

Loring’s poem reminds us of the apparently universal predilection for exoticizing or villifying things or phenomena by assigning them to a foreign country.

Take for example Algernon Charles Swinburne’s choice for the most beautiful word in the English language: “syphilis.”  The English, the Germans, and the Italians termed it "the French disease,” while the French referred to it as the "Neapolitan disease,” and the Dutch as the "Spanish/Castilian disease.”

Such labels may function as distancers of something undesirable; but also, of course, as vectors of glamor. Our speaker has begun to regard himself as “le man”—an affectation whose downfall begins as the two share a fizzy water named “LaCroix.” The name is explained at the website “thrillest” by Meredith Heil, who says, “The fake Frenchy name is actually a cross between the St. Croix, a river that runs along Wisconsin's western border, and LaCrosse, the beverage's Wisconsin hometown.”

     and I told her the one about the guy who mistook

     a bidet for a drinking fountain, after which she stuffed her phone

     into her brown, star-covered Louis Vuitton purse

     and turned to me all serious, saying she only liked me

     for my American accent, that I spent

     most of my time making jokes that weren’t funny.

At least two things of note happen in the poem’s final stanza: the girlfriend defies the poem’s apparatusto become three-dimensional, and the poem’s tone fails to shift into one of transcendence—a shift that happens in both “Marriage” and “You Were Wearing.” It ends by comically exposing the woman’s chauvinistic and superficial notions of “Americanness.” Then she takes her French leave:

     So I told her I was just trying to show her

     my level of commitment

     and teach her about American culture,

     and she said she didn’t have time

     for a relationship anyway and would learn plenty

     about American culture on her own

     since she was going to be in a community

     theater performance where she’d get to wear

     a pink jacket and pretend

     to be a beauty school dropout.

The “genuine” French woman has more specious ideas of America than our speaker does of France. America is a country populated by airheads, and she is going to “learn plenty” from impersonating a “beauty school dropout.”

Dylan Loring’s very funny “Pardon My French” reminds us not only that when we think of other countries we largely think in cliché, but also that we surround ourselves with words and objects that connote glamor and desirability: with “Frenchness.” At every turn, language connives with self-deception. As when watching a play by Molière, we learn that it’s fun to witness the foibles of others—this time by way of a poem that is both a tissue of false attributions and an agent of truth.

-- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Six): Jerome Sala [by Angela Ball]

A Man and a Woman

The woman in green
hates the man in the mist
but the woman inside
the man from hell's edge
loves a woman in flames.

The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
is like a woman who is a woman
or a man, a woman, and a bank
if that woman's name was Moses.

A man-made monster
chases a woman who willed a miracle
and became woman times seven
destroying the man called "Rage."

The woman of the year
teams up with the woman in red
to watch the man from deep river
undress in front of the woman in brown.

The man from Music Mountain
likes to think of himself as woman bait
but to any woman under the influence
he's just another man in a raincoat.

Man Friday
is like a woman possessed
but the woman from the lake of scented souls
is like a man in an attic.

The woman in the dunes
met the man from left field
no longer was he just a man alone
no longer was she just the woman next door.
Now the woman could leave Cell Block #7.
Now the man could leave his glass booth.
He could become a woman of affairs, desire, or distinction.
She could be a man from Cheyenne, Colorado, Cairo,
or Atlantis.
And he from Paris, from Rome, from a prehistoric planet,
in the shadows, in gray, with a past,
with a name like Jackie or Golda.

                                                          - Jerome Sala

Jerome Sala’s latest book is How Much? New and Selected Poems (NYQ Books). Other books include cult classics such as Corporations Are People, Too! (NYQ Books), The Cheapskates (Lunar Chandelier), and Look Slimmer Instantly (Soft Skull). Widely published, his work appears in Pathetic Literature (Grove Atlantic) and two editions of The Best American Poetry (Scribners). He lives in New York city with his spouse, poet Elaine Equi. His blog is espresso bongo (https://espressobongo.typepad.com/).

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Five): Jerome Sala

In his brilliant “A Man and a Woman,” Jerome Sala doesn’t just deconstruct a popular set of idioms, but goes inside them to reveal their workings. The impulse behind the poem, I think, is both satirical and celebratory—a mixture of tones also evident in many of John Ashbery’s poems--I think, for example, of how making the banal fifties’ word “breezeway” a title transforms it into a thing of beauty. It’s as though we finally hear the word as it was meant.

Sala's poem begins by creating a rich confusion of terms:

     The woman in green

     hates the man in the mist

     but the woman inside

     the man from Hell’s edge

     loves a woman in flames

The humor here depends on syntactical betrayal. We are very used to seeing phrases such as “The woman in green” as isolators. That is, they set their subject apart, make it special. Here, there’s no time or room for such specialness. Already, in his first stanza, Sala challenges a notion central to all such designations: that the sexes are discrete, proudly separate from one another. Heavens, there’s a “woman inside / the man from Hell’s edge”—how can we revere an entity so confused?

Rather than unravel these complications, the poem increases them, to hilarious effect.

     The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

     Is like a woman who is a woman

     or a man, a woman or a bank

     if that woman’s name was Moses.

Sala chooses a TV show that depends on the pseudo-gravity of its title and hilariously compares it to a dizzying series of identities, ending with a biblical figure who washes up anonymously on a bank among some rushes—that here could be camera footage.  More accurately, the personage IS a bank. Humor leaps from the language, Groucho-Marxian style.

I think that the poem enjoys both confounding formerly rigid sex roles and satirizing the contemporary penchant for denying said roles. That we’re never sure what we’re laughing at keeps us laughing.

We enjoy the poem’s cultural mash-up (paralleling its sexual mash-up) of movies, novels, TV shows, and songs.

We perhaps think of other stories whose creators sought to supply them with deep portent through the magic of “The Man Who” construction—of course much more popular than “The Woman Who.” Here’s my own short list:

The Man Who Shot Liberty Valence: Successful

The Man Who Loved Cat Dancing: Unsuccessful

The Man Who Fell from Grace with the Sea: Spectacularly Unsuccessful

A Man Called Horse: Ditto

The Man Who Fell to Earth: Successful

One need only pair the construction with something banal to see what it is attempting:

The Man Who Stole Nasal Spray

The Woman Who Forgot to Remove the Clothes from the Washing Machine

The impulse to mythologize is ubiquitous in entertainment—at least it seems so after reading Sala’s poem. This impulse, when applied to material that fails to live up to it, generates hilarity.

This premise is more than enough to create a successful poem—but Sala adds yet more.

“The Man Who” and “The Woman Who,” in an apparent longing for real lives, mysteriously begin rebelling against their pseudo-mythological roles.

     The woman in the dunes

     met the man from left field

     no longer was he just a man alone

     no longer was she just the woman next door.

     Now the woman could leave Cell Block #7

     Now the man could leave his glass booth.

The poem’s last stanza details a dazzling pile-up of possibilities:

But wait, it seems the only way to escape from mythology is into more of it!

The sex assignments and the tags that go with them can’t be thrown off entirely, can only be exchanged for one another. As at the end of any fine comedy, the characters’ roles are cemented in foolishness for perpetuity. For me, “with a name like Jackie or Golda” takes us back to the beginning of the process, to two women heavily mythologized: one as queen of Camelot, the other as mother to a nation.

The nakedness of the poem’s final names underscores its sense of the perpetual.

Our impulse to mythologize personalities strips real people of themselves and makes them what we need them to be. The poem’s comic send-up of a foible of syntax delivers insight into the language and the people who speak it.

Jerome Sala’s genius “A Man and a Woman," a series of enlightening surprises, ends in wisdom.

It could be that laughter leads us to truth, which is destroyed again by laughter. There are worse ways to live. -- Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Five): Jonathan Riccio [by Angela Ball]

Anne Sexton’s Death, 45 Years Ago Today

I don’t smoke but would’ve at your behest.
Truth hasn’t the same domesticity mingling
a throat. I have a doll theory that explains

the orbiters to whom you were malleable:
James Wright, Azel Mack, Mary Gray.
What’s confession but pull-string?

Outlook has downturns in Mississippi,
my umbrella sun guard, halo Kelly green.
The photo of Kayo carving a pumpkin—

Middlebrook’s biography has you archived
from holiday to halogen—his handsome
the kind that scoops seeds. My last meal

wouldn’t be a downtown proofread. Glue
from your out-of-print books flakes my floor.
The ′74 jacket-shot, dress plural floral,

your drink on brick, collarbone a doorstop
of someone who treated suicide like saloon.
No one writes of your shoes on October 4th.

Was it farewell and barefoot?
The tulip of betterment means one day
my father broke down at the ironing board.

We hugged, bayonet to monsoon. My sickness,
his steam. Don’t know how to light a match,
am incapable of cigarette. I quit turpentining

myself into corners. Maybe there’s a suitor.
I’ve out-delta’d disorder. Still, the engine
took you from diamond to coal.

— 10/4/2019

Jon Riccio received his PhD at the University of Southern Mississippi's Center for Writers. He is the author of two chapbooks and a full-length collection, Agoreography (3: A Taos Press). He teaches literature and creative writing at Western Michigan University and the University of West Alabama.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Five): Jonathan Riccio

Jonathan Riccio’s “Anne Sexton’s Death, 45 Years Ago Today,” combines energy and tenderness in a form reminiscent of ultratalk (Mark Halliday’s term)—the rapid-fire multi-sequiter colloquialism of David Kirby, Denise Duhamel, the much-missed Dean Young, and other poets who have appeared in this column--and also of one-time pianist Frank O’Hara’s pleasure in feting Rachmaninoff on his birthday while entwining him in details of his (O’Hara’s) life.  Here are some lines from his tribute of 1954:

     . . . presence is

     better than absence, if you love excess.

           Oh now it is that all this music tumbles

     round me which was once considered muddy

           and today surrounds this ambiguity of

     our tables and our typewriter paper, more

     nostalgic than a disease . . . .

Riccio is also a musician, with an MA from Oberlin to show for it. He almost conducts the language—commands it, rather, rallying words into phrasing that is both dense and lilting: “I don’t smoke but would have at your behest. / Truth hasn’t the same domesticity mingling / a throat.”

What a funny and lovely confession—the poet’s willingness to adopt his idol’s habit. Perhaps true fandom consists of wanting your paragon to rub off on you, like a fan magazine’s ink on a teenager’s sleeping face.

Indeed, we’re told, Sexton was, in Auden’s memorable phrase, “silly like us”—susceptible to Wright, Mack, and Gray—“What’s confession but pull-string?”  It would take paragraphs to unpack this dense statement, its palpable correctness.

We see the poet in a hot country--“my umbrella sunguard, halo kelly green”—this entwined with a photo from Diane Middlebrook’s biography of Sexton which depicts her young husband “carving a pumpkin”: “his handsome the kind that scoops seeds.” Here a subtle echo of Sexton’s powerful “Her Kind.” And this master precis of Middlebrook: “has you archived from holiday to halogen”—the halogen, presumably, of the coroner’s slab.

Where O’Hara’s tribute is directly addressed to us, his readers, Riccio’s is addressed to Sexton herself (and, of course, also to us, his hearers). What he confides is at first surprising—“Glue /  from your out-of-print books flakes my floor”—then more predictably, her outfit “plural flora,” then surprising again—in fact, amazing: “collarbone a doorstop / of someone who treated suicide like saloon.” To pause and unpack this would take more paragraphs. Suddenly we move to Sexton’s shoes, undescribed in accounts of her death: 

     Was it farewell and barefoot?

     The tulip of betterment means one day

     my father broke down at the ironing board.

What is this “tulip of betterment”? It successfully eludes my understanding, but not my sense of rightness, a rightness that wraps Sexton’s death with the decline of the poet’s father. How heartbreaking, his breakdown before that flimsiest of furnishings!

The father in his gauntness becomes “bayonet”; his son, “monsoon”—could there be a more unlikely pairing? “My sickness, / his steam.” Once again, we hear of Sexton’s cigarettes and the the poet’s inability to adopt them; learn that his own sickness has to do with obsession, eloquently described as “turpentining /  myself into corners.” It’s an obsession conquered: “I’ve out-deltaed disorder.” We find that the poet has turned the disease’s convergences to his own purposes.

Then, the gift of the poem’s final lines: “Still, the engine / took you from diamond to coal.”

Sexton is a poet interested in metamorphoses—those of fairy tales, in particular. Jonathan Riccio portrays the car—running in place and generating her suicide’s poison—as an agent of transformation. By hugging Sexton close to his own life, Riccio brings her close to us. Turning “from diamond to coal”—a different expression of the carbon atom—Sexton becomes the darkness she has written. Perhaps she can be glimpsed as the glow at the tip of someone’s cigarette, its halo a brief expression of breath.

-Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Four): Joel Stein [by Angela Ball]

Through a Country

 

You, on the one hand, see a land

Green and rolling

With chalky marble

And stretches of yellowed sandstone

Patched here and there into the hills,

Coming up for air after eons of sleep.

While I on the other hand say

Here collisions occurred

A hundred million moons ago

With valleys heavy and damp

And sea islands becoming rock above the clouds.

But now all of this

Comes to bear upon

Exit 49, a place

Of rest,

Of a chosen view of the Taconics and the Catskills on the horizon

The geometric fields left half fallow, half

In hope of an early spring,

A pause on our way home.

The time continues

One stop past this moment.

Clairvoyant for a mortal hour

We finish what is in our cup

Then climb back into our debate

As to where the best place is

To eat, to die, or

Start anew.

The land moves down to the sea

And the sea relents

It is getting ready

To begin again.

                                Joel Stein

                                Highland Park, NJ 2010

Joel Stein was born in Denver, Colorado, and grew up in the Hampton Roads area of Southeastern Virginia.  He attended college at the University of Cincinnati, and the Iowa Writers Workshop.  He lived in New York City for several years and then commuted to, and worked in, New York City for many years more.  He was a resident at the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts.  He has been published in The New York Quarterly, The Kansas Quarterly, Glassworks, Icarus, The Vanderbilt Poetry Review, and The Paris Review. He currently lives in Hancock, New Hampshire.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Four): Joel Stein

Joel Stein’s compelling meditation on the landscape of the interstate, addressed to a partnered “you,” dramatizes the temporary clarity—“clairvoyance” of highway travel, which, as we progress, provides illusory panoramas of future, present, and past. Of the “big four” poets of the New York School, its tone shares most with James Schuyler’s wry sense of the limitations of human experience. But where Schuyler’s decision in “June 30, 1974” to “have another piece of toast” suggests contentment, even coziness, Stein emphasizes our apartness from geological processes that take place in a distant and alien time frame. Where Schuyler is domestic and personal, Stein is objective. A “Rest Area,” that oxymoron, provides an anonymous beverage: “We finish what is in our cup.” There is a coolness appropriate to the experience described—but that also extends itself to a characterization of the human. A poet mindful of quantum physics, Stein reminds us that choice is sparse, even illusory.

The poem’s contrary “you” sees an up-to-date landscape, viewing it as a painter might:

     You, on the one hand, see a land

     Green and rolling

     With chalky marble

     And stretches of yellowed sandstone

     Patched here and there into the hills,

     Coming up for air after eons of sleep.

What an excellent image, that “coming up for air.” In it, road cuts become agents of awakening. 

But our poet/speaker penetrates further, reaching underneath to the drama of collisions as perceived by science—possessed, after all, of its own lore—as suggested by the language of “a hundred million moons ago.” Where the “you” sees a quiescent landscape woken after “eons of sleep,” the speaker is most interest in origins, in orogeny—the violence of change.

     While I on the other hand say

     Here collisions occurred

     A hundred million moons ago

     With valleys heavy and damp

     And sea islands becoming rock above the clouds.

That all this is visible or imaginable to the traveler is the work of Dwight D. Eisenhower and the federal interstate system built in the fifties that redesigned travel—in a way somewhat analogous to Haussmann's redesign of Paris in the nineteenth century-- exchanging, for the dark vagaries of Medieval alleys, wide boulevards and their prospects.

Super-highways colonize, neutralize. We must see the marked miles as they have been arranged, an organized text with exits as chapters, a primer we skim in powerful machines. All has been thought out by engineers: grade and degree of turn, depth of road cut, opportunities for drainage, possible wind shear.

A town near me once owned a throwback hairpin curve in its interstate—the source of much excitement and inconvenience. Known as the last such crimp allowed in any major highway, it was, in its time, a thrilling deviation.

It can be said that highways form an enduring metaphor for how we too often live: following a bland prescribed route, observing signs. But, as Stein’s poem brilliantly points out, they also provide moments of clarity:

     The time continues

     One stop past this moment.

     Clairvoyant for a mortal hour

     We finish what is in our cup

     Then climb back into our debate

     As to where the best place is

     To eat, to die, or

     Start anew.

When they deepen into seriousness, free-verse poems tend to wax iambic, and Stein’s “Through a Country,” with its provocatively bland title, is no exception. “As to where the best place is” wisely roughs up the rhythm for a moment, mirroring the difficulty and/or impossibility of choice. So does the line break at “or”—not to mention the wild incongruity of the list itself. Is this what choice comes down to? The list is chilling yet inspiring, ending as it does with (a somewhat ironic) “Start anew.”

“Then climb back into our debate” provides more than an eloquent metaphor for re-starting a discussion. The vehicle itself, powered by the destruction of nature, is the debate. It keeps the dialogue going, for the poem’s couple and for us, who emerge from it with both a clearer and more vexed sense of possibility and destiny. Stein’s masterful “Through a Country” incites us to look beyond ourselves, to question speed’s smooth illusions, and to cast a cold eye on the resurgent sea. -Angela Ball

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Three): Rebecca Morgan Frank [by Angela Ball]

The Grande Dame

And I thought, clarity.
I thought mark and force,
I thought the green canopy.

I thought you, out there
pushing against the door-
knobs as if that could
make them turn, slamming
your body against walls
as if they would give in

to your body, the one giving
like the new playground material,
durable, sinking under
our feet even as it looks
like pavement. And I thought

maybe there is something
to be made of this, the ways
my own persistence plays
like a funny video on repeat–
the persistence of a pet
too innocent to know the move
still won’t work. Or like a ball

bouncing over and over again
slowing down, lowering
into a roll out into the brush,
disappearing. I was told this
is what happens. This is what will
happen to you when, but
I thought, I thought, I thought
maybe it would be different,
maybe it could be, for me.
                                         -Rebecca Morgan Frank

Rebecca Morgan Frank is the author of four collections of poems, most recently, Oh You Robot Saints! (Carnegie Mellon, 2021), and her poems have appeared such places as The New Yorker, American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, and The Kenyon Review. She is currently a visiting assistant professor at Cornell University.

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Three): Rebecca Morgan Frank

“The Grande Dame,” Rebecca Morgan Frank’s lucid and forceful poem of persistence, presents as a persona poem. Like all such poems, it magnifies a component of the poet’s self not always on display—as Browning is, in part, the tyrant of “My Last Duchess” and Pound “The River-Merchant’s Wife.” We think also of Flaubert: “Madame Bovary, c’est moi.” But here the theatrical bows to the subjective.

Of the poets of The New York School, John Ashbery comes to mind most, for his continual suggestion that real life, whatever that may be, drives onward mentally, the world’s fleet/garage/menagerie/Toonerville Trolley of metaphors for vehicle.

This poem’s first engine is thought—often believed to be passive. Here, it’s anything but.

     And I thought, clarity.

     I thought mark and force,

     I thought the green canopy.

These lines somehow combine sureness and doubt—as if the speaker is summoning ammunition, naming values. Then the “you” appears, as the fourth object of the forceful anaphora “I thought.”

     thought you, out there

     pushing against the door-

     knobs as if that could

     make them turn, slamming

     your body against walls

     as if they would give in

The “you” is both us, I think, and someone beloved. Love is frightening in part because its object shares the dangerous, frustrating surroundings everywhere to be seen. This is particularly scarifying for a mother envisioning her child’s stubborn contacts with the immovable.

     And I thought

     maybe there is something

     to be made of this, the ways

     my own persistence plays

     like a funny video on repeat–

     the persistence of a pet

     too innocent to know the move

     still won’t work. . .

The poem surprises by openly implicating its speaker in the persistence she describes—a persistence the repeated “I thought” has already demonstrated. We are ambushed by truth. A less complex poem would keep the speaker beyond the process that the “you” is undergoing—the speaker wised-up, positioned to advise. Instead, she has “the persistence of a pet / too innocent to know the move / still won’t work. . . .”

The poem’s last stanza darkens further, at the same time growing more beautiful:

     Or like a ball

     bouncing over and over again

     slowing down, lowering

     into a roll out into the brush,

     disappearing.

We hear the action of the ball as its persistence flattens to a “roll out.”

     I was told this

     is what happens. This is what will

     happen to you when, but

     I thought, I thought, I thought

     maybe it would be different,

     maybe it could be, for me.

The fatalism here is akin to the sun’s announcement near the close of Frank O’Hara’s “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island” that “they” are calling him away:  “ ‘Who are they?’ / Rising he said ‘Some / day you'll know.  They're calling to you / too.’”

Like O’Hara’s poem, Rebecca Morgan Frank’s “The Grande Dame” possesses the all-too-rare quality of unbroken dream. Or a dream broken just at the end, with the words “for me” that unexpectedly twist the poem back to its speaker and her consciousness of the failure of her own persistence, a failure mirrored in each generation. Those two short syllables deliver a poignant falling off after the climactic repetition of “I thought, I thought, I thought / maybe it would be different, / maybe it could be, for me.” Imagine the poem with one less “I thought,” or without the movement from “would” to “could,” or—horrors!—without its final two words—what a lesser thing it would be. “The Grande Dame” enacts the saving grace of art. In life, our drives so often dead-end unsatisfied. This poem is a triumphant paragon of the very persistence it despairs of. The feeling of those two attributes co-existing is indeed sublime. -- Angela Ball

 

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Two): Ron Horning [by Angela Ball]

Layaway

After offices are flushed, we workers go home or
to a nearby bar, museum, or movie house that fills
the blanks left decades ago, last year, or yesterday.
A wind kicks up again, displacing our own weight,
edging purple between red and gold on a small pad.
She draws a man who looks down to bewilder herself,
turns stern if she isn’t altogether curable, her legs air
when the wave comes in, and how swiftly clouds travel
before fading away, information worth having after all

to serve a double purpose, the grip always equal to bulk
rounded upward unless held by young sailors who learn
to agree with her or not, admitting the impossibility of
a water line, tiers of promenades, a tangle of ventilators
that finish off the appearance, given a smile at the door
of solid green water, knocked senseless against pieces
better suited to an emergency than a fence around it that
prevents accidental falling but gives jumpers an advantage
until she’s sick of the tears he’ll have to sort out himself,

great patches of wet paintwork and the stages and ladders
of a headache she’s endured a hundred times before, the
stranger says, and now it’s too late, they can’t agree more
up and down walls instead of the floor, a sudden ceiling—
space wrong to start with and getting worse with the tact
of a diplomat, part of the canopy cleared, harbor grime
thick, they like to tell themselves, or that’s what she said
about the river’s street, narrow, then widening to the sea
and a period between flashes, either named, numbered, or

just small and tumbling for days of tossing waves before
they stay afloat again, the Cape Cod lighter, some paint
rubbed off, clear plastic turning yellow, as serviceable
as the first day he gave it to her, back when they both
smoked Luckies and none of their friends had cancer yet,
though Jim F hangs himself by mistake in a drinking barn
as the pictures fade and Ghoulardi steps into another flick
about today, front seat that night, yesterday a rowboat
from which they climbed, how far out the shifting flaw

they ignore as if casually in a torn stillness verging on
impatience most of the time, for the tale should unfold
like a summer tablecloth, white linen, from a chest they
hadn’t noticed, calling him to the woman on his arm,
done with land a while but not the steamed and chilled
Dungeness crab it took them two hours and a bottle of
Chardonnay to eat at That Place on Bellflower, right after
the Chardin exhibit, suddenly dark with light described
as death on the highway day or night, fog, broken rules,

and a wave of the hand half the time, just before lunch
on days spent waiting for letters to answer themselves.
He bets on a horse, buys a spread in the football pool:
what was once a major adventure is now an everyday
road atlas with a dozen alternative routes neatly marked
during light hours that won’t bother her as much as the
varnished circulating boy whose compositions break off,
in effect outlawed, a racket disliked by the orthodox, but
slowly, reverently, as the minister makes love to his wife.

Recognition’s simple for members who know the virtues,
faults, and diversity of free fall, with its manifold appear-
ance, the long graceful curves vanishing straight up, and
the sun, behind indexed figures, that gives them an idea
and successfully, much as mourners look back at a video
and realize that they’ve witnessed a raw wound of death,
not their own this time, but close enough to make the care-
fully chosen words cut deeply, in all directions, as friends
appear to listen and attention wanders during the sermon.

They come and go or stay more important than a standard
answer, the sea of discriminating faces, he tells his wife
after hours of activity imperiled by weather, an accidental
contact with every good looking girl who wants promotion,
and he thinks she’s not looking, so he balls up the empty
cigarette pack, misses a wastebasket five feet away, and
leaves it where it bounced to the carpet. Wait, she’ll check
the wall, no ceiling in sight, but the proportions haven’t
changed, she concentrates on the gigantic friction between

as ever, but aware as she hadn’t been, all those years ago,
added to, subtracted from, and generally complicated by
the improvements, developments actually, they have to be
away for anything like abstract to her, or so she’d like to
believe for as long as it takes her to get from where she’s
going to where she’d been, he’s there too, he’s here now,
and gravity’s pull on clear water, thanks to moon and sun,
the same floating a single chip of wood or the new QE2,
his mother searching for her lost wedding ring, worn thin,

as the great ship enters New York harbor in digital color,
not black and white and leaving for Callao, the Santa Rosa
fifty years before, platinum shiny and snug on her finger
and three minutes of film the height of a lighthouse seen
once in Olinda, Márcio must have had enough of Rio then,
half do, half don’t, their democracies enforced by poverty
even if they have jobs, wear nice clothes, and go clubbing
at night, the figures small in vast Cubatão those moments
they show at all, the dance music reverb makes everyone

hard to see, that’s the point, as it is of the naked concrete
hole in the bottom traveling downward, the tone of voice
always visible, even when close enough to swerve a bridge
from city to suburb, she says, fixed herself, even prevailing,
and Pete’s wife still at the register upstairs, crying softly
as she reads a widow’s memoir, invisible to clerks who
watch, at least those who haven’t turned away in respect,
routine on the afternoon shift, a relic of days and systems
likely to hang around the wreck until another comes along

but quiet now that he has misunderstood and confused
everything she told him, having heard it before, clearly,
then settled back to wait for the help he hopes is coming.
She puts her hand on the side of his waist, she’s novice
enough, and the change from the library is exhilarating,
when sudden intricacies of cotton, moist flesh, hair, spit
come first, last longest, her age the same as the number
of her apartment, so he’ll never know whether she told
the truth or not, about how old she is, she had no reason

for the work clothes drying on a wooden rack in a tub that
pushes him sideways then ahead, he expects light bruises
and a smile for breakfast, her eyes the shimmering gold
statues and uneven steps of rooftops standing against a sky
that opens clean bitter aromas. Grass drenched with dew
flows into the rippling sound of a fountain, great carp wait
beneath the pond’s surface under the pines, he’s forgotten
the Top of the Mark, and San Francisco, spread out below,
a bed of embers, São Paulo at night from the circling DC7.

-Ron Horning

Ron Horning lives in Beacon, New York. "Layaway" was published in the online version of the September 2023 issue of The Brooklyn Rail. 

Portrait, “Columbus, Ohio 2012,” by Anna West      

The New York School Diaspora (Part Sixty-Two): Ron Horning

Ron Horning’s “Layaway” is both a welter of memory and desire and a stretch of concentrated experience, starting with its image of offices “flushed” that evokes both scurrying quail and purification. The balance between expectation and surprise that strong poems create tilts toward surprise, and we find ourselves part of a mystery the more compelling for its insolubility. I read it as a poem of love and the memory of love, with a partial likeness to Kenneth Koch’s beguiling “The Burning Mystery of Anna in 1951,” also a poem made of several stanzas whose numbers of lines are uniform (predictable)—in Horning’s case, nine; in Koch’s, two—lines with a suspicion of blank verse, a ghost of the iamb. In “Layaway,” the text has a comforting visual uniformity that belies its vertiginous changes of scene.

Koch’s mysteries clash playfully with the obvious: “She is dancing and I / Think she is pretty.  That’s one part of it” and “It is satisfying to have a nose / Right in the middle of my face.” Horning mixes mystery with geography, with the maritime, and with the landmarks of particular cities and their quotidian associations. The poem’s poles are Ohio and Brazil, areas with no obvious connection but lots of non-obvious ones.

I have always been captivated by Cleveland. When I was growing up, it was King of Ohio, with Cincinnati the Queen. By contrast, I grew up in southeastern Ohio, Appalachia. Cleveland was the height of sophistication. My father, long before the concept of TMI,  loved to recount his treatment at its famous clinic. The poem’s Cleveland includes its now-defunct but still-famous restaurant, That Place on Bellflower, and a former perennial of its late-night TV scene, a gonzo movie host named “Ghoulardi.”

As its title suggests, “Layaway” is in part a poem about what to do before something else can happen, the kind of time-filling that masquerades as unimportant but is really the center of who we are, as “we workers go home or / to a nearby bar, museum, or movie house that fills / the blanks left decades ago, last year, or yesterday.”

In stanza one we meet a woman, apparently an artist: “She draws a man. . . .”  The man is our “he,” “who looks down to bewilder herself,” a bewildering that seems to apply to both parties, and to us. It is not about to stop. There is a hint of majesty in the voice reminiscent of John Ashbery in his meditative mode, and also a stern practicality—“a tangle of ventilators

that finish off the appearance”—seen at moments, as in Ashbery’s “Soonest Mended”:

     . . .the avatars
     Of our conforming to the rules and living
     Around the home have made—well, in a sense, “good citizens” of us,   
     Brushing the teeth and all that

Lost in the poem’s dizzying kinesthetic, we cling to the recognizable: an anti-suicide fence, “yesterday / a rowboat from which they climbed”—what a great definition of “yesterday”—part of the rich lore the poem gives us seemingly in passing, as are “days spent waiting for letters to answer themselves” and “much as mourners look back at a video / and realize that they’ve witnessed a raw wound of death. . . .”

The poem gives us the tips of icebergs and their bluish depths, but no view of a whole berg.

A mother appears, “searching for her lost wedding ring, worn thin”—a poignant image:

     as the great ship enters New York harbor in digital color,
     not black and white and leaving for Callao, the Santa Rosa
     fifty years before, platinum shiny and snug on her finger
     and three minutes of film the height of a lighthouse seen
     once in Olinda, Márcio must have had enough of Rio then,
     half do, half don’t, their democracies enforced by poverty
     even if they have jobs, wear nice clothes, and go clubbing
     at night, the figures small in vast Cubatão those moments
     they show at all, the dance music reverb makes everyone

We are reminded that the role of media in memory, how screens rub off on sight, and how past and present never disentangle. We glimpse dancing in a Brazilian city. Further aggregation ensues, becoming itself a method, a mode, like “dance music reverb,” developing in long periodic sentences that climb over themselves in their haste. How excellent and true the phrase “their democracies enforced by poverty.”

     Consummation, real and/or imaged, seems to happen here:
     She puts her hand on the side of his waist, she’s novice
     enough, and the change from the library is exhilarating,
     when sudden intricacies of cotton, moist flesh, hair, spit
     come first, last longest, her age the same as the number
     of her apartment, so he’ll never know whether she told
     the truth or not, about how old she is, she had no reason
     for the work clothes drying on a wooden rack in a tub that
     pushes him sideways then ahead, he expects light bruises
     and a smile for breakfast,

The woman, though known in “sudden intricacies,” remains mysterious. Koch’s “The Burning Mystery of Anna in 1951,” which like Horning’s poem contains a parent and boating, doesn’t solve itself either. Its fifth section, “A Critical Point,” says, “I went up to her and started to speak. / I felt shy but I had to confront the beautiful.”

Horning’s poem ends with this wonderfully-phrased climactic sentence:

     Grass drenched with dew
     flows into the rippling sound of a fountain, great carp wait
     beneath the pond’s surface under the pines, he’s forgotten
     the Top of the Mark, and San Francisco, spread out below,
     a bed of embers, São Paulo at night from the circling DC7.

North and South America mate as “a bed of embers,” as we circle in our DC7, the last commercial prop plane before the advent of jets, vehicle that holds us in a past we’ve forgotten, a bar at SF’s highest point, watering place in existence for eight decades, looking downward, as the artist’s subject looks downward at the poem’s start. There are worse places to be. Our encounter is at an end, unresolved. Why have we read? “I felt shy but I had to confront the beautiful.” --Angela Ball