The Best American Poetry

¡1.1.11! A Resolution Suggestion [by Moira Egan]

Happy New Year!

I'm just sorry that I couldn't find the scratch-n-sniff version of this image that is intentionally out-of-season for many of us who read this blog. Time passes, seasons change: yep, that's what they do. Hope you're dug out from under that snow!

Just thought I'd pass along the time-altering, season-shifting resolution that I'm really going to try to keep this year. This one is not about going to the gym or eating fewer carbs or being nicer to your neighbors (though those things might just alter time, or create that feeling anyway!)

Here it is: Take ten minutes out of your day, put everything else aside, and read a poem. Just sit with it, see where it takes you, feel what it makes you feel. Read it again, and see what else you see, hear what else you hear in it. Then (maybe this sounds like poetry as yoga, but that's ok!) just sit for a minute and breathe in the air that the poem has made around you, that little poem bubble of altered thoughts and/or feelings. And then go off--or back--to work, or school, or the gym, to the rest of your regular day.

I'm going to be teaching a lot of poetry this semester, and I'm very happy about that. And yes, in those classes, we will do a certain amount of tying the poem to a chair and poking around to figure out which of those rhetorical techniques with strange names in Greek might be at work to create the effect of the poem. But the more important thing I want impart to my students is that the poem is there for the reader to sit with, to enjoy, to learn from, to laugh or cry along with. The poem as a little blip of time out of time.

And to start the New Year off right, how about this little time-stopper of a piece by Miss Emily Dickinson. 

Essential Oils -- are wrung --
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns -- alone --
It is the gift of Screws --

The General Rose -- decay --
But this -- in Lady's Drawer
Make Summer -- When the Lady lie
In Ceaseless Rosemary --

Mom, Michelangelo, and Me [by Moira Egan]

Happy Mother's Day to all of you moms out there!

Like many wandering Americans, I've spent much of my adult life living in places that happen to be far away from my mother, from New York to Dublin, from Thessaloniki to Rome. This, I should say at the outset, has been driven by my desire to wander rather than a desire to be away from my mother, who is a very cool mother and, by the way, also a dear friend.

So this last move, which brought me here to Rome, also began to pose interesting possibilities for spending good mother-daughter time together. A couple of years ago, Mom came up with the good idea of making pilgrimages to see the works by Michelangelo that she hadn't yet seen, and guess who was going to be her daughterly tour guide.

Il Premio Napoli a New York [by Moira Egan]

We can't be there, but we hope you can. 

Venerdì Nero (?) [by Moira Egan]

That floating, tooth-shaped thing and the wiggle beneath it are murmurations of starlings. Yes, that really is the collective noun for starlings: nice, isn't it? There was a beautiful photo essay about Rome's starlings in the NYT a couple of years ago that's well worth checking out: go here.

Of course, we don't have "Black Friday" in Rome, since we don't have Thanksgiving, but I thought I'd post some pictures that feature black in honor of the day. I'm not going shopping, no. Are you?

But we did have Thanksgiving dinner. Did you see that New Yorker essay about expat Thanksgivings? (Very funny, all too true, but I think I want to introduce Jane Kramer to our butchers.) One serious advantage to living abroad, though, is that you can decide on Wednesday to have Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday (we just sorta forgot it was coming up, being really busy lately, and not being bombarded by images of turkeys and pilgrims, etc.) but we said, Hey, yeah, let's do it.

[Vegetarians might want to skip the first paragraph after the jump.]

Premio Napoli [by Moira Egan]

[Vesuvius looming over Naples]

Things I remember from the first time I visited Naples: it was mercilessly hot. Our hotel room was tiny, brown, and stifling, and the toilet paper was, well, awful. I couldn't sleep because, out on the streets, they were playing music very loudly, especially, over and over, "Delilah" by Tom Jones: it was the summer when that was a huge and ubiquitous hit, even in Italy.

More recent impressions of Naples have concerned the Camorra, described by Roberto Saviano in his best-selling, terrifying book, Gomorra. The garbage strike, millions of Euros spent putting that trash on trains and chuffing it up to Hamburg, where they could actually dispose of it. The overarching corruption. Etc.

I had the opportunity to update my impressions of this old harbor city when Damiano and I went down there for the Premio Napoli, an annual literary prize that celebrates Italian and foreign writers, and that is doing a great job of causing people to reevaluate what they think about Naples.

The Italian winners this year were Alessandro Leogrande, Luigi Trucillo, and Franco Arminio, while the foreign winners were Avraham Burg, Robert Harrison, and Charles Simic.

JA on RAI [by Moira Egan]

This just in!

Tomorrow (Thursday) at 5 p.m. Rome time (11 a.m. East Coast Time), listen to an interview on RAI with John Ashbery on the occasion of Un mondo che non può essere migliore: Poesie scelte 1956-2007 (translated by Damiano Abeni and Moira Egan, with an introduction by Joseph Harrison) having won a Special Prize from the Premio Napoli.

Go to http://www.radio.rai.it/player/player.cfm?Q_CANALE=3

Another sonnet [by David Lehman]

And here's another hot one by David, for your sizzling summertime reading delectation.

Here’s to the duality of flesh
and blood, neck and rope,
and the temporary flush
of skin, absence of hope.

As far as foreplay is indicted,
here's to his length and her depth.
The whole vice squad is invited:
gambling, booze, dope, and death.

He will paint her not as a painter paints
a woman but as a painter paints a wall.
If fucking is the athleticism of the saints,
here’s to her autumn and his fall.

You will become addicted to his smell,
so use it well or not at all.

To Summer [by David Lehman]

It's sizzling summer sonnet time here on the BAP blog. This one by David Lehman first appeared on Nerve.com.
Enjoy!

To Summer

Shall I compare a season to a day,
a woman to a body like a violin?
Summer is the reason for my grin,
and on that violin I would play.

In the nave of her church I would pray.
Though summer’s lease hath all too short a date,
I shall fall into winter and spring to my fate,
and while you wait I’ll be frank and sing “My Way.”

But just as a whole is greater than the sum
of its parts, or `twere a bummer, rank indeed,
so a garden outlives its fiercest weed
to blossom under my green thumb.
On her I shall gaze from head to bum.
Where summer follows I shall lead.

Happy Birthday John Ashbery [by Moira Egan]

[photo Giovanni Giovannetti / Effigie]

For your reading pleasure on this auspicious date, following are excerpts from an interview that poet Massimo Gezzi conducted with John Ashbery for the Italian journal POESIA, the prestigious (and very lovely) poetry monthly that's been edited and published by Nicola Crocetti since 1988.

Massimo Gezzi: The collection Un mondo che non può essere migliore, edited by Damiano Abeni and Joseph Harrison for the publisher Luca Sossella Editore, which is the first volume, in Italy, composed of poems chosen by the author – comes out exactly fifty years after some of your poems appeared for the first time ever in translation. Even then it was an Italian anthology, namely Poesia americana del dopoguerra edited by Alfredo Rizzardi. What do Italy and Italian readers represent for you?

John Ashbery: I’m not sure how my poems got in the Rizzardi anthology, since I was barely known then, even in America. In the seventies my book Self-Portrait in a Convex Mirror attracted a great deal of attention and some literary prizes and was translated into Italian by Aldo Busi. I hoped that it would be followed by translations of my later poetry, but this did not happen until now, though one Italian publisher had taken an option on another book, which was repeatedly renewed, though no book ever appeared. How can I say what Italy and Italian readers represent for me? They are obviously tremendously important, as they would be for anybody. I’m very pleased with the generous selection of work translated by Abeni and Egan. My Italian is such that I can read a newspaper but not really judge the quality of poetry. But from my conversations with the translators and from other comments, I believe they have done an excellent job.

MG: In a 1991 essay, Franco Fortini, an Italian poet and intellectual, distinguished between difficult poetry (in any case understandable by willing readers) and obscure poetry (always incomprehensible, even to the poet). Do you agree with this distinction? Do you think your poetry is more difficult or more obscure?

JA: I can’t see a poet sitting down to write and choosing between writing “difficult” poetry or “obscure” poetry. How does one know what will be “understandable to willing readers,” or, for that matter, “always incomprehensible even to the poet?” Your question “Do I think my poetry is more difficult or more obscure?” is like asking me which poison would I chose to end my life. I never set out to be one thing or the other. However, my literary tastes were formed during what now seems like the distant era of twentieth century modernism, that is, the period of Proust, Joyce, Kafka, Faulkner, Henry James, Gertrude Stein, and the Surrealists, to name a few who have undoubtedly helped to shape my sensibility as a writer. Obviously some of these writers are difficult, and I’ve always been attracted to what Yeats called “the fascination of what’s difficult” because it seemed to me that I would be wiser once I had read it. People don’t seem to feel this way very much anymore, at least in America, where “accessibility” is highly esteemed. I have nothing against “accessibility” and I don’t favor “inaccessibility,” but I believe that the best poetry and art often demand a certain amount of effort to be appreciated.

Cetonaverde Congratulations [by Moira Egan]

[the prize ceremony looks up to this view]

We over here in Hot Hot Bella Italia are very pleased to pass on the news that our friend and poet-we-like-to-translate MASSIMO GEZZI has won the category "Poesia Giovane" of the Cetonaverde Prize for 2009. We are very happy for Massimo.

This year's winner of the Premio Cetonaverde for lifetime achievement in poetry was Seamus Heaney. The prize is a biennial, very prestigious affair, decided upon by a committee of writers, editors, and journalists (many wearing multiple hats of course). The pictures were taken by Damiano in 2007, when he was accompanying Mark Strand, who won that year's prize. So we're talking some good company!

Good company deserves good poetry: below the jump you'll find a couple of Massimo's poems, in translation.

Roaming Around [by Moira Egan]

[Backdrop to La Festa dell'Editoria Romana]

With all due apologies for my bloglessness, I can blame it on jet lag. Well, for a while I could, now I'll have to blame it on something else. I'm glad Jill Essbaum reported on West Chester and that David Yezzi mentioned how weird it's felt to come to this space since Craig Arnold has left us. I've been reading both of Craig's books these weeks: what a gift, and what a terrible, strange feeling it leaves.

Speaking of strange feelings, all day, helicopters have been flying overhead. G8 protests. It's going to be interesting to see what happens up in L'Aquila, and I wonder if our world leaders will actually get to experience any aftershocks, because, as you probably know, they are still happening. Did you see this in the NY Times? 

And in case you were wondering, yes, Michael Jackson's memorial service was broadcast here.

Miscellany from Rome [by Moira Egan]

We're watching the European Parliament Election Returns. The center right is winning, and that's no news, but it's far from the triumphs that have been predicted by Mr. B______ in the past few days. And he's not telling whether Kaka' is going to Madrid until tomorrow, after the elections.

* * *
I have learned a new Italian word. It's "gossip." Imagine!

* * *
There is a wonderful shop in Rome where I found some much-needed summery shirts. It's called POEMS. Now I have some shirts whose labels say POEMS. I love to wear POEMS.

An Aqueduct Runs Through It [by Moira Egan]

[Moon through aqueduct on the Villa ________ grounds] 

It's been a rough several weeks, hasn't it? It's hard to say much in the face of these days of loss after loss, though I do want to send out my love and sympathy to those who've lost someone close to them. But that almost seems like it's all of us: one really heartening thing has been to see how this community has pulled together in caring and support. 

I'm not usually the kind of person who walks around with Bible verses spinning around in her head, but lately I have been, and thanks to the useful hippie mnemonic of The Byrds' version of this song, here's what I've been singing as I walk among the ruins and the dust:

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;

a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;

a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;

a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;

a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; 

a time to rend, and time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;

a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace...

That greatest hit brought to you in Ecclesiastes 3, King James Version.

Close Encounters of the Royal Kind [by Moira Egan]

[Tropical Weather Patterns in the Eternal City]

Please excuse my radio silence, which was mostly due to having spent the past couple of weeks bopping around with my mother, who timed her visit to coincide with two Bob Dylan concerts here (one in Rome, one in Florence) and who had never been to Paris and decided that her daughter would be a good tour guide. (Thanks Mom!) Well, Florence was evocative and lovely as usual, and the City of Light was its usual beautiful and welcoming self (I say that with no irony; I love Paris). More on close encounters with Dante, Petrarch, and Montaigne later, but for now, here is the funny story about Her Royal Highness (Ma'am), the Keats-Shelley House, and poetry prizes.

Another poem by Deborah Digges [by Moira Egan]

I am so sad to hear of the death of Deborah Digges. She was one of my professors at Columbia; in fact, she was the instructor of my very first graduate workshop. Over those months, she made a couple of infinitely useful comments about my work, things I still sometimes think about when writing, and certainly when teaching. Another thing she often did was to credit the "source" of a particular assignment or prompt or way of looking at a poem. "This came from Larry Levis," or "This is what Gerry Stern said about..." I think it's valuable to pass that information on to students, to let them know they're part of a continuum of poets and teachers.

I always loved her poem "My Amaryllis," which first appeared in Ploughshares and then in The Best American Poetry 1992 (edited by Charles Simic). Here it is.

Terremoto in Abruzzo [by Moira Egan]

[from our visit to L'Aquila in October]

[Vincenzo Pinto / AFP /Getty Images]

Many thanks to the people who've written to ask if we're ok. We are fine here in Rome, and feeling very grateful for that.

I wrote about the days we spent in L'Aquila back in the fall, when we visited with Mark Strand, who was there to receive a prize sponsored by the town. As part of this prize, the poet is asked to speak to high school students, and to prisoners, in addition to giving a reading in a more traditional setting.  We met so many lovely people who were not just amazingly kind and generous to us, but who consistently showed us the great love that they have for their beautiful city. 

You've seen the pictures. There are people who've lost everything. Last death toll: 179. My heart and prayers go out to them.

More on Pizza, Pasta, & Poetry [by Moira Egan]

[another sunset shot over the Colosseum]

People often ask, "So how's the poetry scene in Rome?" and of course there are two very different answers. I'd say the Italian poetry scene is pretty lively, with a lot of young and/or energetic poets who also edit, publish, write criticism, and give lots of readings in various venues around town. In fact, one of our friends, Marco Giovenale, and several other Italian poets, will be giving readings sponsored by Poets House in New York in May. So go if you can! 

The answer to the other question, as to how the English-language poetry scene is doing, well, let's say it's a work in progress. But progress is being made. Just the other week, for example, I was able to welcome my house-guest Claudette by saying, "We're going to a poetry reading tonight!" We took the #3 to Trastevere and walked over the wobbly-cobbles to John Cabot University. There, Carlos Dews artfully introduced Robert Polito, who was reading from his new book, Hollywood & God, which, if you don't already have, you should go out and buy.

Happy St. Paddy's Day [from Moira Patricia Brigid Egan]

who, bloody hell, can't seem to get the pretty images from the YouTube into her post. 

Meanwhile, I have me' annual Spring Cold that has fallen upon the very Saint's Day of my Persuasion, so Damiano and I are not out celebrating with the many Irish who live in this town, nor with the Italians who are Irish on this One Day in the Pubs, so instead we've been a-singin' and a-dancin' at home to these:

something from the olden days, as it were

and from the more modern, and yet still arse-kickin' and can't we please all just get along days, go here

and if ye' be needin' something slightly more American with yer Creature, go and get your Whiskey in the Jar.

  

Slainte to ye' all.

Wine, Women, Cheese and Song [by Moira Egan]

Pretty good stuff, at La Barrique on via del Boschetto

When I write that inevitable, _I Moved to Italy and Now I Have to Write a Book About It_ book, an entire chapter is going to be devoted to Raffaele and Sandro, our butchers. Their shop is on the storefront street level of our block, and it is a "veritable cornucopia" not only of really exceptional meats (vegetarians, don't fear, I won't talk about that right now), but it also has an entire wall of great wines, many of which are absolutely affordable, and even the top ones are always in the "best value" category; and they carry cheeses from Sardegna and Puglia; and Carnaroli, the best rice in the world for making risotto; and amazing sausages from Calabria and Tuscany (the latter made from Chianina beef); and I could go on and on here, but instead I will do that in the inevitable book.

Now, however, I write about Raffaele and Sandro because the other night, they hosted a "degustazione" in a gallery/performance space right downstairs, and it was one of the best social gatherings that I've attended since I've lived here.  When I was in the States last month, I noticed that Americans (in spite of everything going on right now!) smile frequently. You look at them, they smile. Romans, not so much. You look at them and they ignore you, or they scowl, or they check you out to see that you don't match up to their Prada expectations. But at this festive "degustazione," everyone was smiling. And, according to our host Raffaele, the evening wasn't over until we had some poetry!

Postcard from Perugia (and many other places) [by Moira Egan]

["I summon to the winding ancient stair"? no, we went round the long way. Perugia at night]

These days, for me, jet lag in this direction is much worse than jet lag going to the States. Going that way, my clock is just a little off, so I get to pretend that I'm a morning person (ha!) But coming back this way, I zap right up at 3 in the morning and I'm wide awake until 5 or 6. I'm only happy about this now  because it gives me more time to read Words in Air, the letters between Elizabeth Bishop and Robert Lowell, as I'm sure you know, and if you haven't gone out and plonked down the 45 dollars (or however many Euro it was; I think we got it through Amazon.France--quelle bonne idee pour nous expatries! and I'm not putting in the diacritics because they mess up everything!), please do.

It's a wonderful book, full of humor and love, intelligence, pathos and literary gossip. Last night, for example, I went from EB saying "I feel awful about Hemingway's suicide" to talking about organizing the gift of a Brazilian dress for little Harriet Lowell: "Or how about a monkey instead of a new dress? He would adore your various typewriters and might learn to pick out Beat poetry." Yes that was EB, not me!