Poetry Anthologies: Man oh Man ...

In response to a comment left earlier today ... a great one, at that:

... if i may digress, i’d like to mention a delightful anthology of international poetry assembled by the polish/lithuanian poet Czeslaw Milosz. it is a wonderfully idiosyncratic collection and i was drawn to it because it contained so many poets i’ve never heard of: Jaan Kaplinski, Li-Young Lee, Oscar Milosz (a distant relative), 'Yoruba Tribe' ... any suggestions of other anthologies?

This post reminded me of all the creative, funny advertisements that I find myself thinking about days later ... without being able to remember what the heck the advertisement was shilling! (That talking baby with the clown still amuses me, but I always have to look up the video to remember the product.)

But this must be the book the anonymous poster was referring to. Yes, Anon? Thanks for the recommendation; I'll have to check it out soon.

I love poetry anthologies. They're like eating tapas: Grab the proscuitto-wrapped melon, seize the beet chip with goat cheese, skip the fried sardine balls. (Unless you like sardine balls, in which case, well, good luck with that and please don't breathe on me.) I've discovered so many poets through good anthologies -- John Engman being one of those -- and just love the sense of meandering exploration they provide.

A couple recent faves, several of which are in the giant book pile beside my bed:

The Oxford Book of American Poetry (David Lehman, editor) - complete with controversial inclusions such Bob Dylan. (No Jewel yet. Maybe next edition.)

The Poets' Grimm: 20th Century Poems from Grimm Fairy Tales (Jeanne Marie Beaumont and Claudia Carlson, editors) - Started reading this one while working on a series of poems reworking the Red Riding Hood story. It's full of gems.

Staying Alive: Real Poems for Unreal Times (Neil Astley, editor)

Finally, I bought this one a few months back and really dig a lot of the poems in it. About the male experience, yes, but some poems by female writers too.

But it's such a terrible title, one that immediately made me snort. There is something about the word "Man" -- that flat "ah" sound, the connotation of pulsing testosterone? -- that makes it hilarious when you put it in front of another noun.

(Try it: Man-teeth. Man-pants. Man-cake.)

It just does not communicate the soulfulness and gravitas that this collection has in spades.

Other great anthologies? Weigh in!

New York Envy Pt. II

Working on a draft ... in lieu of moving to the city immediately, which doesn't seem to be in the cards right now, and is likely better as a fantasy anyway ...

***

Everyone is Having Interesting Conversations in New York

 

They rise like a haze of bees; they hum.

Talk of traffic and real estate

scintillates, as though 

the shine off curved sheets 

of mirrored glass rising toward satellites

 

has cast itself across every tone and tongue-

shaped syllable, turning

dullards sharp and spangled, making

 

an odd chin and offset eyes into goddess: 

a sheer thin bolt of fire made flesh

who wheels on her heel;

whose steel stiletto turns the earth.

 

The set of couples on the 6—their fine

disheveled coifs, their foreheads

glistening with sweat, their eyelids

glazed with copper—speak 

 

of the weather in such a way

No One in History has ever talked of heat

 

(which is unbearable: every step

into the tunnels a descent

into the throat of a dragon, the hot 

 

blasts of breath the trains leave in their wake

smell of cheese and rank river) and I 

 

want to be the shine on their faces, 

their impatience,

 

want to be the rat making its ginger way 

over this greenish crust of pigeon,

 

the eye of Horus inked beneath

the salt-pepper moss on a sixty-year-old

bicep, the pile of flour-dust bagels

in the window off Houston, the gleaming olive 

fallen dirt-caked into the gap of a grate;

 

I want to be the ridged veins

in the arms of the guy in the Jeter jersey

shooting up the tracks toward

the crumbling house of Ruth, 

 

to be his metallic green sneaker 

jittering against the gum-grayed lino,

 

the Shiba Inus, freshly groomed, their pluming tails 

weaving through the moving sleek leg forest

on Madison Avenue, their fur

shining with awapuhi oil, their mouths

stretchy with heat,

  

the girl with the neck of a geisha

checking the strap of her sandal,

her eyes flicking across me—

 

I agree with her judgment, I am

insignificant;

whole blessed hours 

careen past without me noticing

myself;

 

I want 

to not notice myself—

 

to sit instead

above this pond nicked with ripples, filmed

with cigarettes and duckweed,

and watch one golden koi float  

through the heart of the park, 

this glow of fish in which 

all the city’s 

wound and wheel and tremor

reaches, under milk-green water,

 

an almost

perfect

stillness.

Dylan Thomas Rolls Over Drunkenly in His Grave

O curse you, Internetz. How many poems and stories have you stolen by providing such interesting toys?

I spent a good half hour playing with this Wordle thing a few days back. This is, of course, because I do not actually enjoy writing and like to distract myself from distraction with distractions. A half truth: There are moments when I'm "in the stream" when writing feels close to ecstasy, a rapture-of-Saint-Theresa-the-cosmos-is-flowing-through-me-and-I-am-but-its-humble-vessel sort of feeling -- but a vast majority of the time it is work, work, work. More mind-numbingly pleasant to screw around online.

(Aside: How much of blogging and Internet-surfing is people trying to avoid their vocations? Discuss.)

Wordle takes whatever text you give it and creates word collages in which the more frequently appearing words are largest. (This would be fun and horrifying to do with some of Bush's speeches. I'm expect EVILDOERS, FREEDOM, and POOTIE-POOT would make a big show.)

I plugged in a couple of my own poems and found that the word "one" is a biggie for me. Wordle has flagged some ongoing quest for communion and unity I didn't even know I was on about! I'm thinking this could be a way quicker method of therapy: After an hour on the couch, your shrink plugs everything you've said into Wordle and finds that the word FATHER is huge in your collage and tells you to go make your peace with him.

Also, for lazy college students assigned to poetry analysis. So much more accessible!

"So, John, what do you think Thomas is talking about in this poem?"

"He's talking about, um, greenness, the state of being, you know, green, and young, and about living on a farm and how like, living out with nature and apples almost feels like being high. Also, about time and stuff."