Oy vey, my country! I would sob if it weren't such … an American crisis: goofy, headstrong, distracted, with a bunch of old men in dark suits running around looking for their mommies. And we're poets: what do WE know?
-- Jim Cummins
Sporting Life
Wilt Chamberlain
discovered sin
required a log
to log them in.
*
Pete Rose, brother,
by any other
moniker would stink,
is what I think.
*
Joe DiMag
ruled like the Raj.
But when he passed,
they capped his ass.
Stiff
If you can keep revising when all around you
are bringing polystyrene cups into
those windowless rooms with the long tables;
if you can keep on journaling while all
around you mask feelings and ideas
in words that don't say what they think they say;
if you can 'kill your babies,' and also
adopted children, siblings, spouses, friends,
then send out miscalculated packets
of what's left to journals called Femaelstrom,
Foetid (English), Quisling (Norwegian)), Gland;
if you can welcome onslaughts of SASE's
with curses, yet Christ-like humility;
then you'll be a poet, my friend.
David Yezzi's post and David Lehman's comment following bring up the basic issues all Larkin lovers (I don't think there ARE any Larkin haters, except maybe Czeslaw Milosz) mull over frequently. When you read Andrew Motion's biography you see what a controlling, often obnoxious personality he was; the compartmentalizing of his love/emotional life is particularly repellant. My favorite index to this side of his character is the spanking; he found spanking young girls very titillating and belonged to at least one circle of fellow spanking-lovers, the members (!) of which traded spanking magazines among themselves. Thus assuring a spanking good time was had by all! (I love the word 'spanking.' Perhaps I'm a closet spanker. Wanker, more likely.) And of course, as both Davids imply, this control-freak aspect permeates his work and career, along with his great erudition, love of jazz, amazing intelligence, and all the other qualities that blend to give us these fabulous poems which I personally have loved since I was fortunate enough to discover them.
But my story is only indirectly about this stuff; and it comes to me from Phil Levine, another great admirer of Larkin, who was visiting England with his wife, Franny--this would be sometime in the late 60s or early 70s--and who wangled an extraordinarily rare and precious appointment with Larkin for dinner. I don't have the details as to how this came about, but I know Phil relates it as an event that was so rare--a visiting American poet granted an audience with the Bath librarian--that he regarded it with awe and gratitude. He and Franny were tremendously excited and felt greatly privileged; they showed up at the restaurant and eagerly awaited the poet. Phil was particularly keen on talking to him about jazz: Artie Shaw, Coltrane. Phil was friends with guitarist Kenny Burrell in Detroit. Larkin was about a half hour late, or more; and when he showed up he was exceedingly shy. Conversation was imposingly difficult; and about 15 minutes into it, Larkin contrived to spill a pitcher--not a glass, a pitcher--of water all over his stomach and lap. He jumped up, made apologies about going to get towel--and never came back! Phil and Franny never saw him again.
I love this story for many reasons, not least of which is Levine's ingenuousness and enthusiasm, though the joke is on him: as he tells it, he's completely on Larkin's side. And of course it's a quick look into the personality of maybe the best British poet of the last half-century; certainly one of them.
from the archive; first posted April 18, 2009. See also https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2009/04/larkin-in-the-tls-by-david-yezzi.html
After the prostate is removed,
The male gaze, straight from the savannah,
Turns inward, toward the clinical.
The perusal of breasts is no longer
The perusal of breasts, but the aesthetics
Of proportion: how the breasts
Relate to the shoulders, the neck, the waist,
The chest—the male gaze without desire
Is curatorial at best.
After the prostate is removed,
The male gaze turns inward, toward the past.
“Ass” becomes memories of individuals,
The “legs for days” measure the dregs
Of the heart, not the organ warming up
For the show, with its cathedral tunes.
The penis still removes toxins,
But gone is the illusion of the great lover:
Those days whizzed by too fast.
After the prostate is removed,
The male gaze turns inward;
For some women that’s a win-win,
Though the new order panics the men.
The mind still “gets” the appeal,
But the body finds it harder to feel;
And no fantasy life can spin
The predicament one finds oneself in:
The male gaze confronting the real.
for D.L.
When Eliot wrote his thesis at Harvard,
He said philosophers doing philosophy was “ridiculous”—
That two thousand years of this insanity had gone on
Because they tried to explain existence
From the point-of-view of a platform outside it,
Which didn’t, and couldn’t, exist. One has only
One's sightlines; and wherever you find yourself,
You're in the middle; and your sightlines
Are better or worse depending on the intelligence
You bring to whatever it is you’re looking at.
Avuncular language-riddles infuriated him,
And he made his disgust quite clear in his thesis.
Harvard offered him a chair on the basis of these ruminations;
And after he said no, Bertrand Russell screwed his wife.
From Recalcitrant Actors by James Cummins (2021). Published by Dos Madres (www.dosmadres.com). T. S. Eliot is pictured above.
Last night I read “Part Ten”
Of Archie Ammons’s Garbage
Out loud, twice, in an empty room.
Then stopped in embarrassment
To hear if anyone was listening.
I’d bought the book so many years ago
And carried it with me to New York
The only time I’d ever meet him.
I’m not one for book signings, autographs;
I always thought if what I had left
At the end of life is a bunch
Of signatures, I’d be very sad,
So rely on my imperfect memory
That doesn’t kick in often enough
To recover what is lost;
Like what is lost from that evening:
Me, standing, sweating coldly, empty,
Waiting to read, the rictus grin
What those around me fled from,
Including Archie; and then he couldn’t
Stay after because his wife was ill,
So was gone before I could get up
Enough nerve to ask him
To sign my Garbage. At the late
Dinner, I sat between two women
Who were interested in me
Up to a point, and then that point
Was reached; and I sat for a while longer,
Listening to some lunatic who later
Became a professional poker player,
Or perhaps already was one;
And then it was time to go.
I went back to the hotel alone—
I always do, the rictus, you know—
Thinking death is an interesting display,
And maybe I’m caught up in the grip
Of a final illusion—that the light
Reaching me on a given day is truly
The light of that day—and maybe
I still exist for now in an infinity
That will be revealed as an illusion
When the countdown to death begins,
When hope is reduced to a number,
The number of days. So I walk out
Each morning under many different suns,
Some causing my shirt to stick
To my skin, some covering the park
In an antebellum light I often feel
In certain parts of Kentucky. First,
Archie died, then that good man’s love,
Phyllis, and I was never known to him,
Nor he to me, except in “Part Ten”
Of Garbage; and in his face as he stood
On the stage and introduced me,
And I got up and pretended my poems
Were a reality as real as morning light,
Or the willfulness of dinner-speak,
Or the light a true poet’s face can have
As he stands in a spotlight looking
At his watch, wondering at the illusion
He has set in motion, but only
With a sidelong glance, as it were,
Because he’s gazing beyond it, helpless,
To the numbered days, and feels
The need to get home quickly, quickly.
Ed. note: Archie Ammons (1926-2001) was born on February 18. He is pictured above in his office at Cornell University..
“Look for me under your boot-soles” – Whitman, “Song of Myself”
I don't have to rage;
I don't have to cry;
but I'm at that age
I'll be passing by.
I'll wave as I go;
I'll smile if I can.
Don't let your tears flow--
I'll give you a hand--
I just won't have speech,
except in your head.
Which will be a reach,
considering I'm dead.
It was intra-squad, not a real game,
But teenage boys don’t know the difference;
And to the pitcher who’d just thrown
An adrenaline-powered fastball at my head,
I was a pretender he could intimidate.
When the next pitch nearly took off
The top of my left knee, I knew,
With all the force of a mystical vision,
This talented boy, this ace of the staff,
A senior expected to bloom after showing
Such promise last year, such grit, such
Competitive fire, would fail. I saw it
In his eyes when I got back up; I saw
The momentary hesitation, the confusion.
I knew the next pitch would be right
Down the middle of the plate, and as fast
As all the pride in his body could muster.
And he knew I knew; that was the key.
He didn’t know how, but he knew;
And it scared him, this giant of a boy,
That a stick of a kid he could break
In half in study hall, or a parking lot,
Would stare back at him as I stared back.
You never know who’ll relish the arena;
Who won’t care what he looks like,
As he approaches the game from his side,
Watching you watching him as he steps up.
The pitch was pretty, a beauty of a pitch,
But it depended on my believing what
Had transpired between us the last two.
His arrogance became my coldness;
I’d done this before, and he hadn’t.
The pitch was pretty, a beauty of a pitch,
And a few seconds later it hit a limb
Of a sycamore behind the left field fence.
“You’re going to have a bad year,” I yelled
As I trotted down the first base line,
Even then disliking myself for shouting it;
But something will rip out of you
In those moments, both you and not you;
It's not just triumph. Bullies, sociopaths,
Narcissists—you have to demarcate—
You have to spell out a moment’s meaning
For them, in words they can’t mistake,
Because to them others have no outlines—
Other people are just blurry shapes
At the edges of their self-absorption.
And facts aren’t facts; you have to replace
The voice in their heads with a new voice:
I glued that home run to a voice
That jeered like the voice of his father,
Perhaps, or his mother, or a brother;
A voice that said this is your stupid soul
Flying over the fence after being struck
By the oldest weapon in the world,
A wooden stick.
From Recalcitrant Actors (2021, Dos Madres Press) by James Cummins,
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). 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.
George Schafer's prose poem (second place):
When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan
A jaded old bard pounds a shot of J.D. and mocks an idealistic young troubadour. “So just how many beers must one man drink before he’s allowed to pass out?” The bartender chuckles at the joke. The young troubadour debates if Jesus will ever forgive these sins. Loose leaf papers holding his poems gets blown away in the wind. With a soul deader than a dead Christmas tree, the jaded old bard orders another beer and another shot. The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour. After all, poetry only happens when nothing else can. The sooner this kid learns the ways of the world the better. The young troubadour claims everyone gets stoned so he can abide. He pulls up a stool and throws down the shot. Old poet says “Don’t try.”
Adam Baron's poem (third place)
When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan
Night fell, broke.
One day they'll reward you old man.
Chuck laughed. Me? Not me, but I'll tell you
this: if I knew guitar I'd strum the
moon out of the dumb sky. I'd make it sit on
the edge of my glass - and stare
at me for a change.
But you don't, Bob said
and Chuck laughed. Then I'll leave it
where it is, which he did, and
though Bob tries now and then, he
can't shift it.
When his gods are fragments, man’s of a piece;
But once he put his Higher Self in charge,
Man languished in a dualistic grief,
Always seeking a demon he could purge.
The desert was empty, so Self learned late
It didn’t have to bellow like a Fool—
Dark rants about its destiny and fate,
Prostrate before a statue of a bull.
Then ‘new man’ rose—hypocrite lecturer—
And the Obsequious found they could sway
Whole empires, built on fault-lines of the Slave.
Now artists are agents-provocateur,
Returning home to Ithaca’s blue bay,
Lashed to the mast against the song and wave.
From Recalcitrant Actors (2021, Dos Madres Press) by James Cummins, who judged this year's BAP poetry challenge. Tomorrow we will post his pick for the best submitted poem titled "When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan."
On September 02, 2021 we accounced
"When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan": A Contest
As we head into Labor Day weekend, we announce a new contest:
"When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan"
With this as your title, write a maximum of 14 lines (verse) or 140 words (prose).
Post your entry in the comments field.
Entries will be judged on the criteria of excellence, lucidity, wit, and brevity. Prizes, including a copy of The Best American Poetry 2021, will be given to the best and to the briefest coherent piece of writing.
Judge: Jim Cummins
Contest end date Sept 30
Previous BAP contests were judged by Mark Strand, Paul Violi, and Mark Bibbins.
http://www.bestamericanpoetry.com/pages/contest1winner.html
http://www.bestamericanpoetry.com/pages/contest2winner.html
http://www.bestamericanpoetry.com/pages/contest3winner.html
See the winners for 2007 and 2009.
To see the entries, check the comments field here -- and click here for a couple of others:
https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2021/09/when-charles-bukowski-met-bob-dylan-terence-winch.html
It was Fred Steiner, who died at age 88, at his home in the town of Ajijic in the Mexican state of Jalisco.
but let's not overlook, Jerry Goldsmith, who wrote the music for Patton and did some of the incidental music for many episodes of Perry Mason,
and while we're at it, let's saluter another Jerry, Jerry Fielding, who wrote the music of The Wild Bunch.
When Eliot wrote his thesis at Harvard,
He said philosophers doing philosophy was “ridiculous”—
That two thousand years of this insanity had gone on
Because they tried to explain existence
From the point-of-view of a platform outside it,
Which didn’t, and couldn’t, exist. One has only
One's sightlines; and wherever you find yourself,
You're in the middle; and your sightlines
Are better or worse depending on the intelligence
You bring to whatever it is you’re looking at.
Avuncular language-riddles infuriated him,
And he made his disgust quite clear in his thesis.
Harvard offered him a chair on the basis of these ruminations;
And after he said no, Bertrand Russell screwed his wife.
From Recalcitrant Actors by James Cummins (2021). Published by Dos Madres (www.dosmadres.com). Cummins is pictured with John Ashbery, circa 2009.
after A Moveable Feast
We only have Papa’s account of this,
That Scott Fitzgerald asked him to weigh in
With ‘absolute honesty’ on the question
That filled Fitzgerald’s heart with fear and dread:
Was he big enough? Was he man enough
To please a woman? “Zelda?” his friend asked.
Scott nodded. “Yes, Zelda. Who else?”
It’s clear Hemingway wants to reassure
Fitzgerald with a comforting response.
He fumes at women. “They’re all alike.
They want to destroy a man—it’s true!
Crazy Zelda’s trying to kill you.”
Scott looks up from his cherry tart:
“You don’t know anything about Zelda!”
Hemingway backs off that one like hot
Potato soup dropped in his lap by one
Of old Michaud’s careless waiters.
He dips a spoon in his own cherry tart;
Outside he hears the racket of a car.
“Have you tried a pillow?” he asks quietly.
“You’ve got to get some purchase on that slope.
A pillow can facilitate your mount.”
Scott stares at his wine glass. “I never know
Whether I’m in or not,” he says.
“When I ask, she gets disgusted. Cries.”
At this Ernest almost upsets his wine.
He can’t abide a woman’s tears—he can’t!
They’ve tried their tricks on him and found
He’s what a man should be: a stone.
They’ve tried the “too small” line before;
And sure, he’d spent some sleepless night
Reviewing his performance in the sack;
But if a woman can’t be satisfied,
He wasn’t going to take that on himself.
“What if she’s right? What if I’m just too small?
Scott’s question broke through his friend’s reverie,
Who then slammed his hand down on the table:
“Let’s check it out! Let’s go to le water.”
Scott suddenly looked blank. “Well, I don’t know,”
He said. “I mean, they do that in Pigalle—”
“For Christ’s sake, Scottie, I don’t want your balls!
You asked for my ‘absolute honesty.’
Let’s get some sort of assessment in hand.
So to speak.” “So to speak,” Scottie sighed.
“Michaud!” Now Hemingway was all business.
“Michaud, come help us out? And bring Pierre.”
Scott looked alarmed. “Ernie, old man—old sport—”
But Hemingway brushed all dissent aside.
“Don’t ‘old sport’ me! Save it for your prose.
Come on, we’ll have a good old show-and-tell—
You show, the rest of us will tell.” But Scott
Held firm, and only he and Hemingway
Repaired to le water, the dank men’s room,
Where Scott undid his belt and dropped his trou.
Now Hemingway’s a bit unclear about
What happens next: we’re given to believe
He checks Scott out, and then they reappear,
Attabler, with their cherry tarts and wine.
But old Michaud fills in the blanks for us.
One of his waiters, Francois, had the runs
That day, and so was seated in a stall
Reading Le Monde when Scott pulled down his pants
Francois’ account is somewhat vague because
He had to stare through a narrow crack;
But evidently Hemingway squatted,
Then got down on all fours so he could find
The ‘angle of the dangle’ as he called it.|
And Francois swears he heard him say,
“Pull it a couple times, see if it moves.”
But Francois’ English wasn’t, say, the King’s.
Now they’re sitting above their lunch again,
And Ernest is expansive. This might mean
What Scott showed his friend in le water
Wouldn’t keep Hemingway awake at night.
“It’s not the size that counts; it’s the motion—”
His pal was one big friendly smile.
“Let’s hit the Louvre and size the statues up.
You’ll see—their scale is pretty much the truth.”
A frightening image flared in Scottie’s mind:
Ernie measuring statues with a tape.
The Louvre was just a short walk from Michaud’s.
Scott stammered out, “I really should get back”—
Ernie seemed more obsessed with … that ... than he.
“Zelda can't make you any more a man
Than some whore you could pick up in Pigalle.
A pal can boost your confidence, that’s all.”
But Scott was adamant outside the bar.
They let the tarts settle and had a smoke;
Ernie studied his friend as they stood there.
Was that the problem then? Scott was a poof?
He’d never judge a friend. Then he thought
Maybe he’d pushed him too far for one day.
“I guess you’re right,” he said, “it’s getting late.
The Louvre’s a project for another day.”
Except they did go to the Louvre that day;|
And Hemingway explained to Fitzgerald,
“The proper measurement of man is man.”
Scott still had his theories about finance,
How these abstractions can suck out your soul;
And Ernest still thought life a game
Between whose lines a man’s soul finds its measure.
They stopped at Dingo’s on the way back home
To drink apéritifs and watch the sun
Slip through the pink clouds of the Paris dusk.
Ernie held up his glass to catch the light,
And then intoned, without cracking a smile:
“A rosé is a rosé is a rosé.”
Radio
I left it
on when I
left the house
for the pleasure
of coming back
ten hours later
to the greatness
of Teddy Wilson
"After You've Gone"
on the piano
in the corner
of the bedroom
as I enter
in the dark
from New and Selected Poems by David Lehman
