The Best American Poetry

Blast from the Past: Rigoberto González tells his truth about BAP 2007

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’Fess up. You bought a copy.

I did this year, anyway. I actually buy the essay and short story anthologies in the Scribner Best of series year after year without fail because I tend to use them as inexpensive readers for my writing students, but I’m more selective with the poetry volumes of the same series. In fact, when I took inventory from my personal bookshelf, I only have (or kept) the volumes edited by Adrienne Rich, Rita Dove and Yusef Komunyakaa. I refused to buy the edition The Best of the Best, which was edited by Harold Bloom, who excluded anything from Rich’s selections and then gave a lame explanation for it. I do remember buying the anthology edited by Lyn Hejinian, mostly out of curiosity, though I didn’t keep it.

Why am I so picky with the poetry series? Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve never been included. . . 

(though I was short listed for the Best American Essays once). I tell myself (just like I tell my students) that this is one editor’s selections and therefore quite subjective. I tell myself that I really don’t care that I can’t put that little gem of a recognition on my CV or even in my bio. I tell myself that when I read the list of contributors in the collection listed on the back cover, that it’s more out of interest and not because I’m looking to make crazy gesticulations like “Her!”.

This year, the volume is edited by Heather McHugh, a poet I read, respect and admire, so out of my loyalty to her work and her politics I bought my yellow copy with the Lichtenstein graphic on the cover. The purchase was further encouraged by the fact that I recognized a few of the names: Kazim Ali, Denise Duhamel, Peter Pereira, Natasha Sajé—friends who are heretofore demoted to acquaintances because I’m so jealous. (Kidding, kiddos!)
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Click here for more: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet-books/2007/10/the-best-american-poetry-2007. "If criticism has degenerated into blurbery, the serious conversation takes place covertly, and sometimes noxiously" -- Freddy Chervil

O My Papa!

So she says Princess Leia's pop gave up the ghost.
I said that's a hell of a way to describe Eddie Fisher.
She said I never heard of Eddie Fisher.
Did you know he had a national television show sponsored by Coke?
He was for the spokesman for Coke.
I get it, she said, but what was the big deal?
Well, he could sing. This was back in the early 1950s.
Name one of his songs.
OK. O My Papa.
Never heard of it. Tell me about the scandals.
He left America's sweetheart Debbie Reynolds for America's top femme fatale, Liz Taylor of the violet eyes.
Thaink of it like this: he was Brad Pitt and he left Jennifer Niston for Angelina Jolie.
I get it now, she said.
Say have you noticed that Liz Taylor narrates the Montgomery Clift puff piece on TCM and Paul Newman narrates the one about her? Clubby set.
I heard he also married Connie Stevens. Eddie Fisher, I mean.
Carrie Fisher's Papa?
I hear he wrote two autobiographies about getting laid.
Actually, he sounds like a really fun guy from a different era.

times have changed and we've often rewound the clock since the Puritans got a shock when they landed on Plymouth rock

Man in drugstore loudly proclaims he wants a three-pack of Trojans then lowers his voice, "and a carton of Marlboros."

"Do cigarettes in movies mean sex?"

"Why do you bring that up?" she said accusingly.

"I read that somewhere in American Studies."

And I walked away and thought of the beautiful packaging of a box of Gitanes, blue background with the silhouette of a gypsy (gitane) dancing amid the fumes of a cigarette.

Here's to the Gitanes of yesteryear. -- DL

Found Poem - Downtown A Train, 8:15 a.m.

To the author: If this is your homework, you can tell your teacher that you're published.

-- sdh

Overheard on the Elevator 11/24/09 8:30 a.m.

He (to nobody in particular):  They’re all a bunch of clowns.  Did you listen to the news?  I can’t believe what they do.  Crooks.  They’re crooks.  We should get rid of all of them, I tell you.  We’d be better off. Health care.  Sure.  That’ll be the day.  And how about that trial?  Right up the block.  Do you know what it’s going to be like? A  circus.  You think we’re late to work now? Wait till the trial begins. We’ll never get here.  Not that that would bother me.  Still, what were they thinking?  Clowns.  Or worse.  I would use stronger language if there were no ladies present.  And this is going to be some winter.   I don’t even read the paper anymore. It makes me sick.  Of course nobody reads anymore so I guess I’m no different.  But this craziness has to end.  We never should have gone in there in the first place.  If they asked me.

She (about to exit):  Why don’t you shut up for once?  You think you could do a better job?  Give it a try and then complain.

He (after door closes):  Geez. What’s her problem?  I’m just saying. . .

 

-- sdh

The Limits of Palmistry [from a conversation with David Shapiro]

David Shapiro (pictured left with son Daniel): "Leonardo believed in reading palms until he saw the long life-lines on the palms of young soldiers dead on the field."
David Lehman: "That's a great line."
DS: "I used it in a poem."
DL: "Which one?"
DS: "It's in one of my last ten books."
DL: "Which one?"
DS: "Can't remember but here it is."

The only palm presentation I will make
will be reading your palms one day
for long life-lines on the field of battle
and intricate lovelines and laughlines
on the field of your face.

DS: "Circa 2000. In the book the poem is called 'Little Low Tech'."
DL: "I think you should change the title."
DS: "I can't. It's already in a book."
DL: "That doesn't prevent you from changing the title. Then it becomes a different poem and eligible for inclusion in a new book."
DS: "OK. How about 'Reading in the Dark'"?
DL: "Much better."

                                                          David Lehman

Till There Was You [by David Shapiro]

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Today I was thinking that the only time the Beatles sang a Broadway song was when they recorded "Till There Was You" from Meredith Wilson's "The Music Man," and then a few thoughts occurred to me about poetry readings:

As a violinist I can't imagine reading the score alone, though it gives great pleasure, and I associate poetry as a sister art. Most of us think Homer was a singing bard, Sappho had a lyre she discusses, and the poems of the Bible are sung by those like my grandfather, the chazzan (cantor). The good cantor so moving that Cossacks are said to have stopped and not killed that day.

I learned so much from Stevens' exorbitantly slow grey voice. I ended a love affair with Roethke when he grunted drunk at the Y.
It's true I loved to imitate each poet I loved.
If I loved them, I loved their voice.
When Ashbery read 'The Skaters" whole
[When was that, David?]
In 1964. It was amazing, David. Every word was right.
[Where was it?]
In New York. At the end Allen Ginsberg tried to recruit him for some political action and John said "I'm a political exile."
I knew that any Dylan Thomas saxophone in me had died and was reborn. Horowitz admitted he exaggerated for his audience. Do you mind?
I hate poetry readings, they are the worst thing in nature, but they are not in nature. Lowell sd he changed for Ginsberg--well, it was still RL.
Would you like to hear Trakl read or Rilke?
Those who heard (like Marianne Moore) Meyer Schapiro's lectures were listening to a god's golden sound. When Paul Robeson spoke, when Gielgud read Shakespeare, when Celan reads Todtfugue,we stop breathing. It is bad poems you hate and minor performers, but to hear Shakespeare do the Ghost I would give up the ghost. Forget Allan and what can be comical pathos. Forget the imitators. Get the old Caedmans and listen to that essential science of sound that Keats mentions.
O imagine Donne reading Donne. I would be undone. If a poet bores you, just wake up and look for another voice. Lovers know that the voice is a sexual organ (see Jewish law). If your love's voice doesn't please you, you are already divorced. If an architect's drawings are better than his house, you have made an ontological mistake.
Chekhov on the page, Vanya say, lies inert.
Alive in sound, he is the greatest writer.
My mother said, If you have a good speaking voice, you will have a good singing voice.
Many poems grow from music, the best are already music. Even this topic makes me happy. What is better than Sappho? Catullus? No, Sappho as she once may have been heard.
Pound I can mock, not Anne Porter at 95 reading a poem about her son.
There is a poem that reduces us to tears and wonder without school. Of course, I am one who believes you can speak between poems. Of reading twice, my wife says: Oh no, that poet is horrible enough and now we must hear him twice. But privately, I recite my favorites over and over like a song.
Most poetry readings are bad, but so are most paintings and dances.
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-- David Shapiro

Vallejo's Vedic Fiber (as rendered by Tom Clark)

Cesar Vallejo

The conclusion of a Vallejo poem (click here for the rest) makes fortunetelling look easy in the sense that a good center fielder, Carlos Beltran when healthy, say, or the athletic Matt Kemp, makes a difficult catch seem almost but not quite routine:

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What hasn't yet come along won't, but
what's already come and gone,
but what's already come and gone.
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Cesar Vallejo, translated by Tom Clark, on his blog today

Lenore Skenazy Addresses A Conference of Big-wigs, June 2, 2009

REMARKS OF LENORE SKENAZY, AUTHOR OF “FREE-RANGE KIDS: GIVING OUR CHILDREN THE FREEDOM WE HAD WITHOUT GOING NUTS WITH WORRY.”

Hi. It’s lovely to be here and I’m actually glad you let me through the doors because some of you may have heard of me: I’m “America’s Worst Mom.” Really – Google it!

What happened was last spring, I let my 9-year-old ride the subway alone and wrote a little column about it. Two days later I was on The Today Show, MSNBC, NPR and FoxNews with my son, who had – in case you were wondering -- survived. He loved it!

Why did this story hit such a nerve? Because I dared to say we can let our kids have the same kind of freedom WE had. Like, most of us walked to school, right? Today only 10% of kids do. Did you play outside? Less than a third of kids do now, because we’ve got them so scheduled. And even when they’re not, we’re afraid of what’s out there!

I’m a reporter so I decided to see which of our fears are based on reality and which have been foisted upon us by, well, Nancy Grace. AND parenting magazines and all those products we’re supposed to buy now that we never needed before. Like baby knee pads, to protect your baby’s knees when they’re crawling. Excuse me: don’t babies come with built in knee pads called BABY FAT?

Why are we supposed to believe that our children today are more vulnerable than ever before?

That kind of fear has led to “Helicopter parents.”

But what about parents who want to step back a little? We didn’t have a name yet, so I gave us one: We are Free Range Parents raising Free Range Kids.

We’re not daredevils. Come on – I’m a Jewish mom. We believe in car seats, helmets and carrying an extra sweater in case it’s cold. We do not believe our kids need a security detail every time they step outside. We’re sick of being brainwashed with fear, about our kids’ food, and toys and strangers.

That brainwashing is what my book is all about: exposing it, examining it, and finally -- fighting it, with chapters like, “Playdates and Axe Murderers: How To Tell The Difference,” and “Relax: Not Every Little Thing You Do Has THAT Much Impact on Your Child’s Development.”

The book is Free Range Kids. And I’m Lenore Skenazy, America’s Worst Mom.

THE BOOK ON AMAZON (PLUS A LITTLE VIDEO!): http://tinyurl.com/ksmaby
THE BLOG: www.freerangekids.com
And here's the website for Lenore's "Dysfunctional Family Christmas Songbook":  www.dysfunctionalchristmas.com

Overheard at Kitchenette Lunch Counter, 12:45 PM March 2, 2009

  Man on cell phone:  Hi, yeah.  I'm at the gym so, yeah, well, I just started, or, well, I'm about to start so, like, when I'm done I have to go back to the office so I can't really talk, OK? 

See you later. 

(156 Chambers Street, NYC)

-- sdh

Overheard on the Street, Corner of Bleecker and Sixth Ave

She #1 (on cellphone):  Hey. Mom. It's me.  You'll never believe what happened to me last night . . .   Last night . . . Yeah.  Kiefer Sutherland, like, totally hit on me . . . Kie-fer Su-ther-land. From that TV show? . . . Yeah, 24.  Anyway, I was in a club with Gretchen . . . You're kidding, right?  He was, like, totally shit-faced. Totally . . . He's really hot though. . . . You know what he said? . . . He said I was an angel and that Gretch was evil . .  . No,(laughing) I told you, he was shit-faced  . . . He's really hot . . . He was with some other guy from the show . . .Yes, but I doubt he'll call . . . OK. Here's our cab.  Love you.

She #2:  What'd she say?

She #1:  I told her nothing happened.

She#2:  Smart.

-- sdh

Overheard on the subway 1/7/2009 6:30 PM

He #1:  So where did you go to law school?
She:  Harvard
He #1:  That’s awesome. You must be really smart.
He #2:  Yeah. Like us. We only work construction to pay off our loans.
She(laughs):  Well. I don’t think I’ll be a lawyer for the rest of my life.
He #1: You could work with us.
She: Sure. Sounds good. Ok. My stop. Bye.
He #1:  Later.

He #1:  Nice ass.
He #2:  Forget it.

--sdh

Overheard on the Elevator

She #1:  Are you all set for Christmas?

She #2:  Yes. Well, actually, we're doing Hanukkah this year.  Something different.

-- sdh

Overheard on the Elevator - 12/2/2008 9:00 a.m.

She:  Would you press 13 for me?
Me:   Sure.
She:  The thing is, I'm not going to speak to him when he's . . . I'm not.
He:    No.
She:   I mean, we can proceed without . . .
He:    That's right . . .
She:   I mean, it's just, you know . . .
He:    There's no reason for you to get involved in his law suit.
She:   The thing is, we have to close out the estate . . .

Here's where I got off.  What's going on?  Divorce? Sibling rivalry?

-- sdh

Overheard Outside a Bookstore [by Jim Cummins]

I don't want you to think I'm the kind of person who sneaks around and listens to other people's conversations and writes them down; but I do.  I've arrived at that age--60--where, man or woman, you're invisible.  You're wearing Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak whenever you go out.  You no longer matter to anyone "out there" because of course Americans only have time for pattern-recognition, and your surface no longer has anything to offer.  You can feel resentful about this, but that's self-defeating: the truth is, you're going to die sooner than the people who don't see you are.  They know that.  You're a vague reminder of what's in store for them, too, and they don't like it.  They want to go get some coffee.  I think we invisible ones appear on the eyescreens of younger people as a set of pixels that immediately flash an alarm to the brain.  The brain then takes over, directing further action.  For some, this means whisking themselves out of our presence, posthaste.  But others just don't see us; we're allowed to hang out in their comfort zones for a while, blessedly invisible again, listening.      

I think I'm better than most at this invisibility thing, because I've been invisible most of my life.  This isn't self-pity talking; it's true.  I'm sure at some point in life I was pissed: I wanted to tell my story, not listen to some buffoon tell his.  But the problem is, when I did tell my stories they were pretty boring.  I'm not a good storyteller; I'm a listener.  Perhaps not even a good listener, but a listener.  Even when my friends would generously wait for me to tell my stories, I came to realize they were being polite until the conversation could come around again to their stories.  However miffed I might have felt, I had to admit I enjoyed their stories much more than my own.  I know this goes back to identity issues I probably should have fixed a long time ago.  But I'm sixty; give me a break.  You know that Hollywood saying, You've got to own the room?  I've never owned a room.  Ever.  If I were a camera I could photograph an atom, because I wouldn't displace anything.  I'm like a light rain.

So I'm standing in a light rain, outside a bookstore, near closing time, looking at possible remaindered mysteries.  But they're the guys I don't like: Dean Koontz, a detective whose cat solves crimes.  I'm leafing through a paperback of Walter Isaacson's Kissinger when I hear the following.  The man's voice moves me with its own outsiderness, I guess; he has his own issues with books.  I can understand that: books mock us.  But a sweet feeling for Doris overcomes his fear, and he ventures into perhaps alien territory.  I copied the conversation down verbatim and put it in my notebook later that night. 

   "Darletha!"

   "Hey!  What you doin' here, lookin' at the books?"

   "I thought maybe I'd get Doris a book.  She always sayin' how she love books.  I thought maybe I get her a book."

   "You still got that book I gave you?"

   "Yeah, I still got it."

-- JC