This paper gives a close reading of a number of poems by Fernando Pessoa, in particular by his ‘heteronym’ Alberto Caeiro. On that basis, a poetic ontology focused on the concept of ‘surfaciality’ is sketched which is then made more concrete through a discussion of the concepts of understanding and interpretation in Heidegger’s Being and Time. As an elaboration of this ontology, the paper concludes with a close reading of important long poem by Wallace Stevens, ‘Description Without Place’.

Several years ago, the poet & critic Joan Houlihan offered a scathing and hilarious indictment of a lot of postmodern poetry for using words in a way that treats them as meaningless (or, perhaps, renders them meaningless). She suggested that word choice in such poems doesn’t really matter, and that the poet could just as well have substituted in other words without any change in meaning or aesthetic qualities. I argue that she’s wrong about this. I offer an account of (...) how interpretation and meaning function in poems that use words in highly non-standard ways. In such poems, there are associations and implicatures that one can reasonably expect a suitably backgrounded reader to grasp, rescuing interpretation from being a purely subjective and arbitrary activity. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Three Poems RICARDO PAU-LLOSA panta rhei¿Quién es tu hermano? Tu vecino más cercano. (Who is your brother? Your nearest neighbor.) —Spanish saying In emergencies, the closest will do. Love, even a few blocks away, fails when the stranger next door rises in charity unknown to him till then. The day is saved by those whose names you’ll forget: the driver in the next car, the gardener who rushed into (...) a house he’s never seen to pull, guard, rescue. All the verbs which were alien and will resume their callous grip, now storm the sudden heart that just then fled the wolf condition. But it hears the lunar groan returningly. Homo homini lupus est, teach Romans who knew so much about impenetrability. Ovid and Hobbes differ, Erasmus equivocates, Freud surrenders. A pack of thinkers have torn at the flesh of our layered psyche, wishing to find an identifying center. We are the poker hand, tossing and assembling bluff and triumph. We fold, we hold on. There is nothing Chaos, our secret god, cannot bestow. arion 28.2 fall 2020 70 three poems Proteus In the dream, the man is bathing a large dog whose breed changes as the chore unfolds, starting with a rottweiler, then bulldog, great dane.... Starts on the lawn, then shifts to the groomer’s, the man’s bathtub, a creek from his childhood.... First it was a dog he owns, then a former pet, then a friend’s, a dog from a commercial.... It is as if the dream announced this thing, then that, then changed its mind, and it is then that the man understands he cannot truly embrace the idea that the dream has a mind to make up or change, for then life would have a toolbox, a menu, program tabs, training schedule.... hence throwing into the acid of questions whether he has such powers—to alter, navigate, reflect, cure, develop.... this tumble of paradigms, themselves becoming a chain, sequence, sentence, syntax, metonymy.... because the thing —the announcement— cannot simply be a fate but a motion, a variance, an effect that churns the weather of effects, topples the still life on the table just when the painter had caught the just-so light, right before the supper, the sole ingestion point of the thing, the call to itself, begins and leaves everything else twirling. Ricardo Pau-Llosa 71 puddle 2 Samuel 14:14 My student sees filth everywhere, even in this dank, rotten-leafed, cigarette-butt poisoned tongue of late morning bronze. It laces the oak branches above it and folds the mid-day sky in green convections. Allow me to introduce you to squallor’s gorgeous mirror who taught the golden youth to catch himself in love. This silent bed whose many sheets are one mellifluous of shade, has hosted boot and quandary, astronomy and betrayal. I cannot hold it accountable for accuracy or permanence. Surely it knew from the start how short the mission and how stark the light. But linger, pupil, where an eye might brave the trough whose vapid depth dared frame the trees, their sky.... (shrink)

The Japanese poet-scholar John Solt is perhaps best known in the United States for his excellent biocritical study (Harvard, 1999) of the avant-garde poet Kitasono Katue, who served, from the mid-1930s on, as Ezra Pound's primary conduit to the stylization of Japanese poetics that he so admired. “Kit Kat,” as Pound fondly called the poet he knew only via their extensive correspondence, was Pound's translator, editor, and sometime collaborator; in return, Pound (who did not read Japanese) wrote admiringly of Katue's (...) work in Guide to Kulchur and elsewhere.Solt has now published a beautifully produced volume of his own distinctive poetry—a poetry that fuses the concision of Japanese tanka and haiku with very up-to-date explorations of what Pound called moeurs contemporaines: riddling short lyrics laced with humor and a telling irony that makes the reader smile with a shock of recognition. In the spirit of Kenneth Rexroth, with whom he studied in Santa Barbara, Solt's seemingly “simple” free verse is carefully structured. The minimalist poems are placed, one per page, in different spatial positions, with the Japanese translation en face. The volume contains a sprinkle of elegies and occasional poems, but Solt's signature poems are epigrams or aphorisms in the vein of the Zen koan: i held my tongueas if it werea ticketThe pun on the word held and the ticket metaphor can be read quite variously: I said nothing, saving my “ticket” for future gain. Or I “held” my tongue as one holds on to a precious ticket for some form of entrance, perhaps erotic. Indeed, Solt excels at the erotic poem—one that is never directly confessional or even personally expressive but that gives the reader a strong sense of a particular moment, as inice cubes meltin the crackleof your nakednessyou roll down your lace stockingsexposing the same designin tattoo... where it is the imprint the lace leaves on the skin that produces arousal. We never know who the “you” of these poems is, nor does it matter. We only know—in the case of a neighboring poem—that the lovers have “met again / and again / like spinning tops,” until “with centrifugal force / we easily slipped / outside the windows / of our eyes.” Caught up in the moment of ecstasy, they no longer see one another.In this complex and subtle poetry, comparisons come readily, only to be given an ironic twist: the mind is a kitehe thoughtletting goof both stringsAnd things are never quite what they seem: you toasted“happiness to usand confusionto our enemies”and I laughedsecureuntil a cloud formedin my mindWe have all had this experience of group approval only to wonder—the next minute—whether we really agree. Solt's minimalist lyrics not only make us smile: they also make us think. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Two Poems MICHAEL TROCCHIA SEE FOR YOURSELF The gods, in effect, have given Euenius the gift of inner vision…because he has lost his outer vision. —Michael Attyah Flower, The Seer in Ancient Greece Come to a field of stones baking in the late sun. Drop your knee to the groundup earth and feel the warmth climb your thigh. Run your finger across a palm-sized stone, as if inspecting the (...) liver of the shegoat, the white one who follows you everywhere, always. Follow that old vision of yourself, its light dying in your eye as you look and look for one last rock one last time, its edge weathered into a fine and deadly thing. Hold the stone high—a red sun sinking behind you— and count down to the day’s complete darkness and in that completion between you and what will be arion 28.1 spring/summer 2020 64 two poems a darker endlessness, carve out the gift of sight, hearing only shivers of your own body, hooves running off. YOUNG CALCHAS SLEEPS And down he sat again as Calchas rose among them, Thestor’s son, the clearest by far of all the seers. —Homer, The Iliad Calchas, you dream of children dreaming of the sparrow’s head, of the bird’s eye deadened into view, of flutter and firelight, of the nest shredded at your feet and then spring again, berry, and leaf-meal and petalwind and whole glossaries of bone and egg bloodied in the hollow of your hand. But never a sure sign, no second sight clear and bright within the first order of things. No opening widening out of wing or song. Just the nearness of living, a feather suspended by a string, the halfmeaning of seeing the whole world suffer and sway— youth divined and past and forecast into the fray and saying this ruin and sacrifice again, this blueness sailing back in with the breeze. The world circles outside our window and light gives way to more light and you sleep soundly in a bed of down. Rise, Calchas, rise and walk out of the god’s mouth and see image after image fall away. See this life lifting out of one dream and into no other. Michael Trocchia 65... (shrink)

This article examines a poem in the Kaludayittherapadanavannana which expands on the poem attributed to Kaludayitthera in the Theragatha; the poem in the Kaludayittherapadanavannana did not make it into the final canon. The hypothesis of this paper is that the poem may be a popular Dravidian song adapted to Buddhist use and translated into Pali, and this is the primary reason it was excluded from the canon. This conclusion is based on several factors. 1) The author (...) of the Pali poem was not well versed in the Pali language and made constant mistakes in translation. 2) Gratuitous repetition; the poem itself is not very good poetry, containing the kind of needless repetition one associates with a popular song. 3) 13.4% of the words in the poem are direct lifts from Dravidian words; this compares to only 3.9% of the words in the Theragatha poem itself, of which this poem is an extension. While this does not prove that the source was a Dravidian poem, it raises the probability quite significantly. In addition, this kind of literature—making lists of biota in the natural world for comparison, personification and poetic effect— is common in Dravidian Sangam literature. 4) The poem contains wrong or awkward phrases in Pali which can be better understood as Dravidian imports, and 5) an extensive and growing body of linguistic evidence shows that the adoption of Dravidian terminology into Buddhist thought and practice was not an uncommon occurrence. It has long been assumed that the Buddha spoke more than just Indic languages, and that his oral teachings in Dravidian or Munda languages were lost. Although this poem is probably not in itself a teaching of the Buddha, but a popular Dravidian song adapted for Buddhist purposes, its analysis is the first attempt to show that some Pali transmissions may be adaptations or translations of indigenous languages; the ramifications and conclusions of such a hypothesis, if proven, open up a whole new area of Buddhist studies, i.e., the transmission of the Buddha’s teachings through indigenous, non Indo-Aryan languages. (shrink)

Born in 1315, Shamseddin Mohammad, known as Hafiz, grew up in the city of Shiraz where he studied the Qur’anic sciences. In his youth he learned the Quran rigorously and assumed the epithet ‘Hafiz’ which means the one who knows the Quran by heart. Also known as the ‘Tongue of the Hidden’ and the ‘Interpreter of Secrets’, Hafiz utilizes grand religious ideas and mingles them with Sufistic teachings, thereby creating a kind of poetry which baffles interpretation. The poetry of Hafiz (...) has intoxicated and continues to intoxicate many in the world. The exhilarating effect of his poetry was also known to the poet himself. In one of his poems, he says that the angels are memorizing his poems in heaven and that Venus is enraptured and that Christ rjoices in his songs: “What marvel that in heaven are sung/ The dulcet words by HAFIZ strung?/Or that, by Venus’s air entranced,/Messiah in his sphere has danced?” As Friedrich Nietzsche has said of Hafiz: “Bist aller Trunkenen Trunkenheit/ wozu, wozu dir-Wein? (the intoxication of all intoication you are/what need do you have to ask for wine?)”. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Three Poems JANE BLANCHARD Persephone This business of dividing time is not The easiest. Six months below with him; Six months above with her—such means a lot Of moving out and settling in. For them, I must abandon home and habits twice A year and never have a moment to Myself. It seems the greater sacrifice Is mine than theirs. I come and go when due As set forth (...) in a compromise once made Or rather ordered. Being loved so much Is less a blessing than a curse. Afraid I may get used to staying out of touch, My husband and my mother have proved loath To understand I always care for both. arion 26.3 winter 2019 Midas Whatever touched would turn to gold! Allowed one wish, he made his choice, Then reached to grasp all he could hold: Whatever touched would turn to gold! The impact could not be controlled. The wish he wished he could unvoice? Whatever touched would turn to gold! Allowed one wish, he made his choice. 70 three poems Sisyphus I roll the bolder up the hill. The bolder rolls back down again. There is to be no standing still. My efforts take no thought or skill; The next is what the last has been: I roll the bolder up the hill. Repeatedly, I find no thrill In this relentless discipline. There is to be no standing still. Time after time, the selfsame drill Gets old and even older when I roll the bolder up the hill. The chance of any change is nil. Since I am doomed, to my chagrin, There is to be no standing still. According to some greater will, The bolder rolls its rolls, and then I roll the bolder up the hill. There is to be no standing still. Jane Blanchard 71... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Poems Ancient and Contemporary HELAINE L. SMITH On the cover of Like: Poems by A. E. Stallings is a double photograph of a double image: two ancient carved heads, in profile and facing each other, of the pole horses of a quadriga, a four-horse chariot, dated about 570 BC, and currently in the collection of The Acropolis Museum. The marble horse in profile on the right side of the (...) cover, looking to the left, has a longer neck and face, and is undamaged except for a hairline crack at the neck. Its counterpart has a broader cheek, with light chipping above the nostril and an ear broken off. But they so mirror each other, they are so “like,” that at first glance one might suppose the photographs to be the right and left sides of the same horse. The bottom half of the cover of Like is an exact replica of the top, but the tinting is different, the heads in the top band cream-colored, in the arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Like: Poems by A. E. Stallings was published in 2018 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York. Stallings’s earlier books of poetry include Archaic Smile (1999), Hapax (2006), Olives (2012), and a verse translation of Lucretius’ The Nature of Things (2007). bottom a delicate ochre or sand. There is, then, on the very cover of Like a promise of complex correspondence and subtle variation within the volume itself. Stallings’s title suggests poetry as the art of locating and articulating likeness or as the act of finding one thing in another. And in Stallings’s delicate, robust, witty, and humane use of the past, “like” also and most significantly means that they—the figures of ancient myth—and we are alike in our shared experience and shared humanity. Stallings sometimes presents classical and mythological references glancingly, and that is part of the delight—catching the joke in Hermes’ epithet, “lord of florists,”1 finding in “The Rosehead Nail” that the local blacksmith in Monteagle, Tennessee, “was a god / Before... the tasks / That had been craft were jobbed out to machine.” Likeness is, of course, the mode of Homeric simile, and in “Selvage” Stallings turns the simile of Odyssey 22.468–73, in which Homer compares the hanged maids to thrushes caught in a net, into a different but contextually relevant parallel: “they hang... From the warp like a dozen ancient loom weights,” a likeness that evolves from Stallings’s double entendre in line seven describing the maids as “spinsters of their own doom,” an allusion both to the task, properly theirs, of weaving and to their disclosure to their lovers of Penelope’s secret unravelling. Stallings can expand as well as adapt Homeric similes. At Iliad 2.87–2.90 Homer likens the Achaians’ assembly at Agamemnon’s command to arm and attack Troy to bees leaving the hive: Like the swarm of clustering bees that issue forever in fresh bursts from the hollow in the stone, and hang like bunched grapes as they hover beneath the flowers in springtime fluttering in swarms together this way and that way so the many nations of men from the ships and the shelters along the front of the deep sea beach marched in order by companies to the assembly2 178 poems ancient and contemporary Homer finds likeness in the orderly setting forth—of bees, of men—to do what is required. This, on the other hand, is what Stallings does: Colony Collapse Disorder (Iliad, 2.87–2.90) Just as a swarm pours from a hollow rock In one long beeline for the wild thyme, Alighting in clusters on this purple and that, But is stricken with a mass amnesia That disorients the compass of the sun, And they forget the steps to traditional dances, And each helicopters into a different dimness Taking their saddlebags of sweetness with them, And the hive goes dark, the queen is left to starve, And the drones humbug the whimper of the world, And the palace falls to ruins, broken into By vandals who would loot the golden stores Left in the brittle wax hexameters, Just so... And “so” her... (shrink)

In this article, I focus on the way one can avow emotions and beliefs in poetry, with an emphasis on emotional expression. I want to show how the so-called Neo-Expressivism concerning self-attributions and avowals can help us understand the nature of emotional expression in poetry. The emphasis is on the way people use poems as vehicles for avowals of emotion and the way that emotions can shine through poems even though the poets did not intend to show those emotions. In (...) order to show that this is possible I shall give a short defense of a moderate, Wittgensteinian intentionalism and interpretative pluralism with respect to the understanding of literary works. What is an avowal? The Israeli philosopher... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Five Poems AMIT MAJMUDAR Observing Orpheus I hear the meaning turn back in his throat like Eurydice on the way up from the darkness. Music’s meaning is its making. As for me, I am one more animal in his entourage, learning a new thirst, finding a new south. None of us knew we had this instinct in us. If deserts hide wildflowers until first rain, bright ears are blossoming (...) out of our skulls. He doesn’t have much longer. I know this myth. A God douses the fire with a beehive. The Maenads smear their faces with a warpaint made of stoneground fireflies and pine sap. Hands—hands like his, that drew music through lyre strings into our forest like pieces of bread through a prison fence— are reaching for his body now, his lyre. Their weapons are hands, nothing but hands. They are infinite. They are enough. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 Her Metamorphoses First a beetle, body armor forged of chitin, exoskeleton he’ll never bruise, Undiscovered, unapologetically hermetic on her own Galapagos. Next a fruit bat, echolocating tangerines like a blind woman singing up at stars. Then a patio lizard, sunning herself for as long as she needs, A better place for keeping warm than bed with him. Next a sleek water moccasin, quick to make out another woman’s heat signature on his neck, Even quicker to strike. A caterpillar to poke holes in his lying roses And from that destruction to fashion two beautiful wings for herself. A buzzard, to clean up the roadside pile he left of her. A woman in full with no more soft blind pupa stages of her life cycle left, No more forms to force herself to fit for the sake of his pleasure, No more shapeshifts, no more slimming stripes, no more abdominal crunches: Just this body, just this last name, just this apartment, just this bowl of midnight cereal. Just her. 106 five poems Sisyphus Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent Till your boulder goes weightless and races ahead in descent. Force its dark door open inch by grim inch, Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent, Heels dug deep in hell’s steep hillside, teeth clenched. What gravity strips from you, gravity grants you again. Shove hard, shove, shove hard, eyes bloodshot, knees bent Till your body goes weightless and races ahead in ascent. Amit Majmudar 107 A Trinket for Persephone A deathwatch beetle burrows in the pale hall of your marrow, your underground, your tube of bone on which you’re riding home alone. This blackwinged locket with your soul emerges rattling from a hole, a rattle in your emptied throat, the diva’s final, graceless notes, a clicking echoed in the rafters, this bugbear insect coming after to scuttle across the marshy chest, sinkhole navel, and pubic nest out to the yard, below the porch untrackable by any torch until this bug with you inside has burrowed to the other side. It drops into the underworld, as if from some cocoon unfurled, to scale a queenly wrist and rest your brooch of black upon her breast. 108 five poems Four Ways of Looking at Argus 1. His Vigil These hundred eyes, these hundred balloons Tied to the boy-small wrist of my mind Are down to ninety-nine. I lost one to a bee sting late last June— I never thought of them as fragile Until that pinprick broke my vigil. I’m slowing down. I didn’t blink in time. I have no inkling why I keep This vigil—surely not to watch, Panoptic from this mountaintop, A heifer drifting off to sleep? I’m here, I must be here, to see A signal fire from the east That warns of Olympus under siege And Ares gory from a rout, Athena’s owl’s eyes gouged out, The naiads naked in a pen, The whole world given up to men. The Gods will need a monster then. 2. After Martial Hermes was in a fix: He needed lullabies To shutter Argus’s one hundred eyes And get the tethered heifer—coal-eyed Io—free Of Hera’s... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Two Poems JOSEPHINE BALMER The House Opposite (Walbrook, London, 78 CE) Give this note to the cooper Junius, just opposite the house of Catullus... —Bloomberg Writing Tablets, 14 I unpack my treasures of Syrian glass, plates sourced from the slopes of Vesuvius. The walls I paint with frail shoots of grass and a poppy—my own hidden message for those who know the poet, my namesake: a flower fallen at (...) the meadow’s edge... I had pictured myself as a pioneer composing stark, startling, northern poems as fêted (one day) as my famed forebear. Besides, I’d been priced out of Rome. Yet each word I write I later delete. I watch the starlings rising up at dusk above the teeming, cloud-fogged streets like a simile slipping out of grasp. I hear the drunken Rhenish equites chant their taproom verse, swilled in vomit our bleak reward for six months’ back pay. My voice still clogs with Londinium clay. All I am here is the house opposite the cooper, two doors from the brewer. The only lines that come, come in error and for them: barrels, bills, more calls for beer. arion 27.2 fall 2019 Catullus the Slave (Walbrook, London, 79 CE) To Catullus the slave of Romanius Faustinus: 2000 units, 65 denarii [lines struck through] —Bloomberg Writing Tablets, 70 Six months on, the ice kicked in. My page was frost-white, its lines still frozen. By the following year I had given up, sold everything— volcanic crockery to the cooper, ink-smudged glass to the brewer who was branching out to wine. When even that was not enough I sold myself to Romanius Faustinus, a scrawny Gallic works contractor (a literary man, he said, was worth more than most). I did his books. I counted bricks, tessera for mosaics shifting back into the face of Orpheus, accounts closed, nothing outstanding. I learnt silence where once I spoke— he owned the air, he owned my breath— so I mouthed the verse I used to quote, the finest Catullus (snr) had written: you pea-brain, hairy-legged hick whose farts are your best feature... And concurred re bastard Caesar: why did he ever eye up Britain, that cursed place, ugly and remote? two poems 136... (shrink)

Manuel Philes dedicated countless occasional poems to his many benefactors to praise their qualities and ask for all sorts of assistance, both spiritual and material. This article analyses one of these compositions, namely poem Flor. 58, and offers a commentary of its language and content. On the basis of the imagery, repetitions and allusions present in the text, it is argued that this untitled poem was in fact dedicated to the scholar and metropolitan of Philadelphia Makarios Chrysokephalos to (...) request the gift of a hat. The detailed reading of the text aims at showing the presence of several layers of meaning which characterise the whole poem, as well as illustrating Philes' sophisticated poetic technique. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Seven Poems NICOLAS CALAS (Translated by Avi Sharon) hellenizing surrealism: a greek door to europe Nicolas calas (Kalamares) may be considered merely a minor Greek poet, but he had a major global persona and influence. In the middle of the last century he played a catalyzing role in the international avant garde: He was a Zelig-like polemicist in three languages (Greek, French, and English) and across three cultural (...) capitals (Athens, Paris, and New York). But he always fought on a singular front: surrealism. Born in Lausanne in 1907, he grew up in Athens and by the later 1920s began to stand out in literary circles (he was over 6' 4") for his modernist if not revolutionary views. Starting from an interest in Freud and Marx, the subconscious and the revolutionary, Calas soon arrived at their natural synthesis—surrealism. Around the time when a distinctly Greek form of surrealist poetry emerged, with the 1935 publication of “Blast Furnace” by Andreas Embiricos, Calas was on his way to becoming its unofficial spokesman. He moved to the epicenter of the movement in Paris and with the 1938 publication of Foyers d’Incendie became the “most lucid and audacious” of founder André Breton’s acolytes, both prophet and demagogue of the group. Carried along in the current of European artists and thinkers leaving Europe for New York, he would continue the fight on the western wing of the faction (literally, coming to blows at a cocktail party with Clement Greenberg, representing the opposing Abstract Expressionist side). In 1942 he published another clarion pamphlet, Confound the Wise, giving the movement voice in English and befriending its most visible local supporters and practitioners, from Peggy Guggenheim to Marcel Duchamp. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 The Wyndham Lewis of the operation, Calas was a cross-border catalyst, evangelizing the role of surrealism as a liberating and generative force in modern literature and art. For him and other writers and poets, the weapon that would most effectively derange the reader’s habitual conformism into revelatory and revolutionary perception was the surrealist image, poetry’s lingua franca. For Greek practitioners it was completely natural for that magical representation to arise out of their god-infested, sun-filled landscape. Here they had a force that was both blinding and enlightening, penetrating and transformative, local and universal. For Calas, the primary echo or reflection of that essential image was the island of Santorini, referenced in several of the translations here (and reminiscent of his fellow national Nikos Gatsos’s use of the island of Amorgos in a similar context). It stood as the very symbol of fiery transformation, an image monstrous enough to shock the reader into a super-rational embrace of its own form of logic. This Hellenization of surrealism, like the Hellenization of modernism itself, was to become an important, transformative power in its own right. For many, the origin (and likewise, for many, the enclosing border ) of surrealism was France. “But it is French. It is their invention,” was how William Carlos Williams saw it, to his chagrin. Williams was convinced that the objective concentration on the image itself (“no ideas but in things”) could offer a salutary corrective to American poetry of his time. “It is the surrealists who have invented the living defense of literature,” he wrote in a 1929 essay. But for a poet so at one with the American Grain to be reconciled with surrealism’s ‘Francite’ he needed some way to cross the divide. His admiration for Calas’s work in clarifying and promoting the group’s ideas enabled the Greek poet to serve as a mediator, to allow the creative transference of its rebellious wisdom into Williams’s poetry. To borrow the title of one of his early American essays, Calas provided Williams a “Greek door to Europe.” In translating four of Calas’s French poems into English, published in 1941 with a frontispiece by the surrealist painter and magician Kurt Seligman, Williams leveraged Calas as the vehicle through which the “enabling foreignness” of surrealism could be grafted into the grain of his American modernist work, just as he set out on his magnum opus, Paterson. In a similar way... (shrink)

Bishop was both fully at home in, and fully estranged from, Nova Scotia and Brazil. In Nova Scotia, after Bishop’s father had died, her mother went insane; Bishop lived there with her grandparents from the age of three to the age of six. She then left to be raised by an aunt in Massachusetts, but spent summers in Nova Scotia till she was thirteen. Subsequent adult visits north produced poems like “Cape Breton,” “At the Fishhouses,” and “The Moose”; and Bishop (...) responded eagerly to other poets, like John Brinnin and Mark Strand, who knew that landscape. Nova Scotia represented a harsh pastoral to which, though she was rooted in it, she could not return. Brazil, on the other hand, was a place of adult choice, where she bought and restored a beautiful eighteenth-century house in Ouro Prêto. It was yet another pastoral, harsh in a different, tropical way—a pastoral exotic enough to interest her noticing eye but one barred to her by language and culture . Foreign abroad, foreign at home, Bishop appointed herself a poet of foreignness, which is, far more than “travel,” her subject. Three of her books have geographical names—“North and South,” “Questions of Travel,” and “Geography III”—and she feels a geographer’s compulsions precisely because she is a foreigner, not a native. Her early metaphor for a poem is a map, and she scrutinized that metaphor, we may imagine, because even as a child she had had to become acquainted through maps with the different territories she lived in and traveled back and forth between. In the poem “Crusoe in England,” Bishop’s Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked on his island, has nightmares of having to explore more and more new islands and of being required to be their geographer: I’d have nightmares of other islands stretching away from min, infinities of islands, islands spawning islands, ………………………………………… knowing that I had to live on each and every one, eventually, for ages, registering their flora, their fauna, their geography.This recurrent anxiety marks the end of one of Bishop’s earlier dreams—that one could go home, or find a place that felt like home. In “A Cold Spring,” a book recording chiefly some unhappy years preceding her move to Brazil, there had yet survived the dream of going home, in a poem using the Prodigal Son as surrogate. He deludes himself, by drinking, that he can be happy away, but finally his evening horrors in exile determine him to return: Carrying a bucket along a slimy board, he felt the bats’ uncertain staggering flight, his shuddering insights, beyond his control, touching him. But it took him a long time finally to make his mind up to go home. [“The Prodigal Son”] Helen Vendler is Kenan Professor of English at Harvard University. She has written books on Yeats, Stevens, Herbert, and Keats, and is now working on a study of Shakespeare’s sonnets. She has recently edited the Harvard Book of Contemporary American Poetry. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Five Poems DEBORAH WARREN Bugonia hic vero subitum dictu mirabile monstrum aspiciunt, liquefacta boum per viscera toto stridere apes utero et ruptis effervere costis. —Vergil, Georgics IV The covert’s dark, but Aristaeus sees —beyond it, in the oleandered meadow, walking to her wedding with her maids— Eurydice, as sweet as early windfall apples to the gods of the bitter dead. She runs, from shifting shade to sun to (...) shade until, in a shock of sudden sun, she sways, blinded, blundering into an adder’s kiss, and while the bridegroom waits by the bridal bed, she waits to be undressed by worms instead. But Aristaeus pays for the assault. The mead-gods visit on his apiaries wax-moth, mites, foulbrood and chalk-disease until an oracle orders a hekatomb: after nine days the myrtle-nymphs perform a miracle, and out of the carcases crawl fat new sun-furred drones to work the comb, a gift of the mead-gods who, with the poet, praise the teams of bright collaborating bees as little Romans—parvos Quirites. arion 27.1 spring/summer 2019 And what about Eurydice? The swarm goes humming on, a small Rome in a hive. The story’s not about Eurydice’s second chance, or whether she’ll survive. Eurydice’s a minor character; she’s only one girl, sui generis. Besides, no cattle-trick exists for her. The gods can let the apiaries thrive and armies—even empires—endure; one girl’s more complicated to replace. 44 five poems The Tithonus Club We can begin our visit with the Day Room where, in wheelchairs, some with canes or walkers, members sit: a fraternity so ancient that the confrères mostly ignore each other (club tradition). The dues are paid in decades; no one has an outstanding balance—Sir? Whoa, steady, there! Sit down... yes. Here’s your blanket. The badge of membership—the club regalia? Laminated ceremonial bracelets bear the motto Do Not Resuscitate (legend which, in practice, is seldom honored). Eleven-thirty, gentlemen; lunch is served, and now a little toast while the television mesmerizes the aides: Messieurs, your health! Deborah Warren 45 Aphrodite at the Old-Age Home —for Aphrodite Kalogeris “Honey,” the night nurse said to Aphrodite, “let me fix your bib. Look, Aphrodite! Here’s your juice and crackers, Aphrodite! “She doesn’t speak a blessed word of English,” the night nurse told us, “but she understands as good as if we spoke to her in Greek.” Aphrodite’s ears were as grotesque as the pore-coarse nose that bloomed across her face, but she heard her name: When Aphrodite rose and, beatific, dreamed across the room, traversing a happiness none of us could hear, she spoke a language older than herself but still her own—a dialect of beauty able to translate the fetid air. 46 five poems Climbing Etna We’d see the lava, nights, from the town square, as if the sun—an egg of fire—broke at dusk, threading its incandescent yolk down a mountain hanging in black air. Every night we’d scan the dark horizon looking for those streaks, and every night they took a while to find, however bright: Etna, it seemed, had spent the evening rising off the earth, to hover even higher, as if the mountain meant not to be found. And then, today, we ran the flows to ground, climbing up to the rolling burns of fire— closer, into the shimmering air and hiss that glanced up from the thick and red-flecked river —until our soles were smoking. But the lava sang, inside the mountain: Come, discover the fire’s origin and genesis; more—the heart of the world, in its enceinte of blind white heat. Seeing the lava course wasn’t enough, or watching the rock decant the sun; what brought us up here was the force— the hot loins—of a lightning god as dark as thunder; and, like Eve, like Semele, we wanted to approach. But there’s a spark, a jewel older than geology: stop shy of it—of finding the fire’s source, of closing in on what you shouldn’t see. Deborah Warren 47 Human Sucking strength... (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content: Six Poems GEORGE KALOGERIS The Atomists To see what the matter is, in all of its dense, Teeming particulars, and not through the lens Of a microscope but by the most lucid, precise, Leap of imagination: the first was Leucíppus. But it was his student, Democritus, who stated That human understanding was truly futile, Given the random collisions of atoms. Still, He blinded himself to keep from being (...) distracted. When he broke the long-jump record by two whole feet, Bob Beamon dropped to his knees, buried his face In his hands, and wept in a pit of sand—the trace Of his human, Olympian flight still fresh as a heel-print. When the earthquake struck Kalamáta, and Uncle Sotíri Lost everything, he asked a taxi driver To take him to “a nice high place by the sea. And then come back for me in half an hour.” arion 28.3 winter 2021 58 six poems One Credit Seminar on the Odes of Horace We were sitting around a polished oak table, just getting to Those famous lines near the end of the Sestius Ode: Revenant whitefaced Death is walking not knowing whether He’s going to knock at a rich man’s door or a poor man’s When one of the students (Andrew) said it was “totally weird”— Which led us to look at the paleness of Death’s appearance, Whose pallor is what, when he comes, comes with him: the sickness and shock In his ghastly face. And that’s where we stopped. And then It was Jennifer’s email, saying “I’m sorry for missing class, But I’m having panic attacks. I keep flashing back To March 19th, when I entered my dorm-room and found my boyfriend Dead of an overdose... I can get you a note... What reading should I do to be prepared for next week?” O goodlooking fortunate Sestius, don’t put your hope in the future; The night is falling, the shades are gathering around; The walls of Pluto’s shadowy house are closing you in. There who will be lord of the feast? What will it matter, What will it matter there, whether you fell in love With Lycidas, this or that girl with him, or he With her? So David Ferry’s great translation goes, And its tone of tender, knowing, bemusement is Horace’s Pitying voice, but whose pity has come to speak to us Through the whitefaced mouth of revenant Death, still going From house to house, until he gets to Jennifer’s dorm-room. And what will it matter now if Andrew was drawn to the line About fishermen hauling their caulked boats to the water? It’s late September. We’re sitting around a polished oak table Whose wood is sacred to Jove, whose lightning-bolt Has already sounded deep in the heart of Indian summer. George Kalogeris 59 Greek School The very first poem I ever knew by heart: That sing-song forsaken one assigned to me. Recited on our other Independence Day. When some of the girls were dressed in peasant costumes, And some of the boys in kilts of the freedom fighters. And the timid rest of us in our Sunday best. In the church gym, where Father Mihos called us Up to the microphone, and one by one We showed the parents what we’d learned in Greek school. In Horace’s Ode to his Lyre, the poet prays That his song will serve as the medicine of sorrows, His stricken voice the trembling instrument— Schooled as he was in Sappho, who said the ancient Prescription left a bittersweet taste in her mouth: Glukopikron. For me it’s that first-grade poem I stammer to remember: Egwo tha geino Yiatrós... “I shall grow up to be a doctor...” Just saying that, my elders perk up their ears. And even if Poetry wasn’t the kind of calling Expected of me, and one by one they all Got sick and died, it’s still the medicine That keeps them leaning forward on their folding chairs. 60 six poems Money Doesn’t Grow On Trees But evergreen the... (shrink)

The questions ‘What is man?’ and ‘What is Europe?’ were among the main interests of Thomas Mann. In dozens of his essays and speeches as well as in some of his major novels Mann searched for the essence of European culture. In this paper we discuss Mann’s ideas about humanism, which he considered to be the core of the European identity. In both Mann’s novels and his essays he investigates the opposition between Enlightenment values and Romantic thinking. Mann believed in (...) the necessity of a fusion of these two, a synthesis in which a belief in reason, morality and the possibility of progress go hand in hand with an awareness of the dark and tragic side of the human condition. ‘Dostoevsky in moderation’, as one of his essays is titled. This synthesis, which he named a ‘humanism of the homo Dei’, is Mann’s proposal for a renewed European identity. Mann’s ideas about a revived humanism as the foundation for the European identity are both interesting in the context of his literary oeuvre as well as inspiring in the light of our contemporary debates on European and Western values and identity. (shrink)

Color FilmAs if from darkness, from gloom, from nothing —this moment is sewn through us like a thread —from above our shoulders — from primeval night —a shining river. A flying light.Onto the screen, onto a white calm,onto a cloth, onto the ground of spatial fields,it flies through the eyeless dark,it's as voluminous as seed or salt.And in this theater, where light's been banished,where even streetlight fades away completely,other light channels vibrate,and reflections wander through the eye.The curtains open up — (...) the wings of a gate.The screen shifts our eyes and soulsso that we reach new perspectives,blown by the wind into the changingof colors, landscapes, rooms,we touch fire, earth, water.But no! Not those! And not like that!There's a wall here, the screen's always a wall.So, when the shades are opened and it's over,daylight pours through the aisles,we walk as if from underground corridors,we reach for cigarettes in our pockets.We exit like a flood, like a tide,and start talking again.O reality, blinding and sublime!We learn to love. We learn to see.StanzasThose years are slowly fading.Our house was by the railroad stationwhere engines covered in soot hammeredand invisible locomotives roared at night.Pedestrians passed by our porch,their moods dependent on loveand weather, coats and sorrowscarried over their shoulders, invisibleswords drawn but hesitant — as if awaitingtournament trumpets to launch their lives.The acacia (the one that was cut down later)grew according to a centuries-long spanof rain and sun and, like a lively banner,the windows reflected its green flash.And there was lilac, a skinny creature,diminished from the leaves to the roots.But once a year it flushed numb madlyand flourished although it was in pain.(It's worth mentioning the elderberry —dense, aromatic, and luminous,and how, after trembling on the bush,a rainbow surfaced through the drizzle.)Those lands were also full of winter —Christmassy and audacious, like an invasion,and a piercing whirlwind flew inthrough cold doorways and frozen windows.And in the lanterns oranges burned,buckets clanking through the morning,snow trampled after a blizzard,brown brick ovens roaring inside houses...Those years are fading like those legends,but who will weave us sweeter memories?Elegy for the SixtiesSummer, the smell of a soccer ball, elderberry, currant,couples made out in the evening bushes,and when the twilight descended beyond the river,the stony sidewalks smelled of warm rain.The soccer ball flew over antennas and linden trees,its body leather and cosmic.From grape-covered arbors, with pubescent sobs,songs of the prodigy Robertino spread through the world.The night thickened instantly, the ball meltedin the darkness, lamps lit up in the orchards and porches,a mysterious depth opened in a treetop,the shadows on the faded curtains spoke.The ball never came back: disappeared in the distance.Frogs croaked from neglected fountainsin the park where there were dances every night,where a saxophone wheezed, where they carried knives.The ball remained in the air, and the years unfoldedlike sandy seas, like salty deserts,and spooky carousels horrendously circledand creaked for us, as in a dream, until morning.The Museum of AntiquitiesHow the two of us walkthe cramped labyrinths of an old house!...Tapestries and trumpetsglorify an unknown couple,as if seeingour conspiracy:every toucha warm flash.And then again and againwe passin the mirrors.The clock with blazonsindicates, as always, it's two,and sneaking after usmaybe anguish, maybe a fugue...Passing portraitsand palanquinsan echo of footstepswalks with us.We disappeared somewhere for a long time(for two hundred years?For three hundred?).And when it gets dark,from unheated rooms(I seem to have behaved well,I did nothing wrong),into hot neon lightswe return forever.I carry you in my hand,and life is so vast... (shrink)

I suggest that ubiquitous references made by Confucius to poetic songs in the Analects reveal an important aspect of his philosophy. This aspect involves the assumption that things in the world “resonate” with one another. Using elements of Alfred North Whitehead's thought, as well as metaphysical insights from the Han Dynasty text, Huainanzi, I first present an aesthetic theory along with a supporting cosmological vision that enhances our appreciation of this trait in the Confucian world. With these preliminaries in mind, (...) I approach the Analects itself. I will isolate the term xing, or “stimulation “, and demonstrate how this term allows us to understand the function of poetry for the early Confucians. I conclude that poetry was thought to behave much like what Whitehead called “propositions”, and that this function assumes a world with certain basic tendencies normally associated with Daoist cosmology. (shrink)

Simply by formulating a question about the nature of ancient Greek poetry or music, any modern English speaker is already risking anachronism. In recent years especially, scholars have reminded one another that the words ‘music’ and ‘poetry’ denote concepts with no easy counterpart in Greek. μουσική in its broadest sense evokes not only innumerable kinds of structured movement and sound but also the political, psychological and cosmic order of which song, verse and dance are supposed to be perceptible manifestations. Likewise, (...) ποίησις and the ποιητικὴ τέχνη can encompass all kinds of ‘making’, from the assembly of a table to the construction of a rhetorical argument. Of course, there were specifically artistic usages of these terms—according to Plato, ‘musical and metrical production’ was the default meaning of ποίησις in everyday speech. But even in discussions which restrict themselves to the sphere of human art, we find nothing like the neat compartmentalization of harmonized rhythmic melody on the one hand, and stylized verbal composition on the other, which is often casually implied or expressly formulated in modern comparisons of ‘music’ with ‘poetry’. For many ancient theorists the City Dionysia, a dithyrambic festival and a recitation of Homer all featured different versions of one and the same form of composition, a μουσική or ποιητική to which λόγοι, γράμματα and συλλαβαί were just as essential as ἁρμονία, φθόγγοι, ῥυθμός and χρόνοι. (shrink)

Explore the seminal Platform Sutra, with one of the greatest living Zen masters as a guide. A lodestone of Zen Buddhism, the Platform Sutra presents the life, work, and wisdom of Eno, or Huineng, the fascinating and much-loved seventh-century Sixth Patriarch of Chinese Zen. An illiterate woodcutter who famously attained enlightenment after only hearing a single line of a sutra, and who went on to decisively upstage senior monks with a poem that demonstrated the depth and clarity of his (...) insight, his example has demonstrated to generations of students and spiritual seekers worldwide that enlightenment is attainable regardless of education or social standing. His exhortations to directly perceive one's true nature, right here and now, still reverberate in contemporary Zen. There is no bodhi tree, Nor stand of a mirror bright. Since all is void, Where can the dust alight? Shodo Harada Roshi's fresh reading of the Platform Sutra offers both the history behind the work and the lived experience of its wisdom. In a plain-English, conversational voice, Shodo Harada brings the sutra to life for his students, discussing and explaining its central points chapter by chapter and illustrating it with his own beautiful calligraphy. This is far from a collection of dry lectures; it is an essential Buddhist text brought to life. (shrink)

The subject of this study is the naḳīḍa (opposing) type of poetry competitions between the Meccan poet Ḍirār b. al-Khaṭṭāb (d. 12/633) and the Muslim poet Kaʿb b. Mālik (d. 50/670) from Medina during the Battle of Badr, when the Muslims and the polytheists confronted for the first time. The problem is the questioning of the approaches reflected in the naḳīḍa poems, which were used as a means of propaganda and psychological superiority by the Muslims and polytheists during the Battle (...) of Badr. Naḳīḍa poems, the subject of the study, are important for getting to know the two opposite understandings closely and forming an opinion about the naḳīḍa poems sung during the era of the Prophet Muhammad. Although there are some recent studies on naḳīḍa poems from the era of the Prophet, these studies lacked details and only mentioned general features. The interesting approaches and fine details reflected in the verses, such as Ḍirār b. al-Khaṭṭāb's claims aiming to distract attention and discredit the Muslims of Medina in the face of the unexpected defeat of the Meccan army at Badr that the Battle of Badr was a tribal war between the Meccans and the Medinans, makes this study prominent. On the other hand, Kaʿb b. Mālik's verses reflect the approaches bearing traces of the Islamic faith and draw attention to the fact that the battle was between faith and unbelief and the Muslims of Medina were proud of their support for the Messenger of Allah. Undoubtedly, Meccan immigrants participated in the Battle of Badr along with the Muslims of Medina. Even so, Kaʿb b. Mālik does not mention Muhājirs (immigrants) in his verses. This suggests that Kaʿb b. Mālik may have concentrated on responding to the allegations made by Ḍirār b. al-Khaṭṭāb. Document analysis, one of the qualitative method techniques, was used in the study. First, a literature review was conducted to better understand the subject, and the studies related to the field were briefly mentioned. Then, summary information about the concept and background of naḳīḍa is provided. Two call-and-response poems between the Jāhiliyyah period poet Imruʾ al-Qays (d. 545) and ʿAbīd b. al-Abraṣ (d. 555) are included as an example for the first phases of naḳīḍa poems. Then, brief information about the Meccan poet Ḍirār b. al-Khaṭṭāb and the Medinan poet Kaʿb b. Mālik are presented. After the background information, two naḳīḍa poems of both poets were examined and analyzed, and the differences in the Battle of Badr were pointed out. Concepts that are common in the eulogies of the Jāhiliyyah period, such as nobility, being a master warrior, and generosity, draw attention in Ḍirār b. al-Khaṭṭāb's verses. On the other hand, in his verses Ka'b b. Mālik uses terms and expressions brought by Islam such as the Messenger of Allah, there is no Lord but Allah, unbelievers, Hell, and hellfire. In the verses of both poets, there are clues about the commonly used battle orders and war equipment of the period. The opinions are summarised in the conclusion part of the study. (shrink)

This essay explores one of the potential implications of the cross-displinary work implied in the idea of a literary instrument of enlightenment through a consideration of the relationship between James Macpherson's The Poems of Ossian (1761?1763) and their most immediate social-political context, Adam Ferguson's Essay on the History of Civil Society (1769). It notes that revisionism of Macpherson that has tended to minimise the disruptive elements in Ossian in favour of a reading in terms of cultural wishfulfilment. The essay argues (...) however that while Macpherson's prose theorising seeks to transcend the anxieties about progress and corruption articulated in the Essay, the peoms themselves offer eloquent testimony to the force of those anxieties, and rather than solving them restates them in pressing terms. This, the essay concludes by suggesting, is a measure of their literariness, and it not to be elided in the otherwise entirely appropriate reading of Ossian as a literary instrument of enlightenment. (shrink)

These are indeed "poems from a gentle heart," one which can say, "To be alive today I'm glad." --D. S.

The more I understand the Southslavic poetry and the nature of the unity of the oral poem, the clearer it seems to me that the Iliad and the Odyssey are very exactly, as we have them, each one of them the rounded and finished work of a single singer…. I even figure to myself, just now, the moment when the author of the Odyssey sat and dictated his song, while another, with writing materials, wrote it down verse by verse, (...) even in the way that our singers sit in the immobility of their thought, watching the motion of Nikola's hand across the empty page, when it will tell them it is the instant for them to speak the next verse. (shrink)

Nammalvar, a Tamil poet who lived in IX-X centuries, is revered as one of the great mystics of India. His four poetic works are equated with the sacred hymns and are part of the ritual worship in the temples of South India. Artistic images of Nammalvar formed the basis of the philosophy of Vishishta-Advaita several centuries later. The poem “Thiruviruttam” is considered as his early work, where he combines the canons of ancient Tamil poetry and his devoted love for (...) Vishnu-Tirumal. The study presents a religious and philosophical interpretation of the poem. The secret of the poem is its dualism: external beauty and sacred meaning. There is a spiritual meaning in symbols of Tamil poetry. Nammalvar takes canons of his predecessors, poets of the Sangam era. However, he fills one with new content. The author compares ancient Tamil poetry and the work of Nammalvar. The plot describes the love between God and the soul. The poet reveals several types of bhakti or devoted love. The description of bhakti subsequently formed the basis for the classification of souls in the philosophy of vishishta-advaita. Bhakti leads to the transition to Vaikuntha or the heaven city. Sri Vaishnavism teachers turned the description of relationship soul-Vishnu into a spiritual practice. The artistic images of Nammalvar are compared with Hindu concepts such as transcendence, darshan, divine grace and moksha. In South India “Thiruviruttam” is considered the Tamil Rig Veda. Poem is performed at home, in the temple, during festive processes. It helps to find the roots of Vaishnavism and understand its poetic origin. (shrink)

This essay reconsiders the haphazard arrangement of Donne's first printed collection of poems in relation to an elegy written for Donne by one Thomas Browne, published for the first and only time in that same volume. The earliest recorded response we have to Donne's verse considered as a complete body of work, Browne's elegy thematizes the readerly tendency to interpret this textual body in the light of "subjective" notions of "proper" desire. Through a close reading of Browne's poem, in (...) which I contextualize his key image of the bad reader as a "circumciser" within the theological and medical discourses of the period, I argue that Browne's response to Donne's text is at once instructively prescient -- providing a useful allegory of reading for the contemporary critic -- and also helpful in situating Donne at the cusp of a historical transformation between "medieval" and "early modern" conceptions of the sexual and the spiritual.IThe structural organization of John Donne's first printed book of poetry makes no obvious sense. Published posthumously in 1633, the collection eschews even the basic generic distinctions so familiar to Donne's modern audience: "Songs and Sonnets," "Satires," "Verse Letters," and "Divine Poems" . Several readers over the years have commented upon the disorderly configuration of Donne's 1633 text; and most recently, Leah Marcus has provided a detailed analysis of the collection in Unediting The Renaissance, itself an ambitious attempt to combine the traditional skills of textual bibliography with the insights of poststructuralist theory. Among other things, Marcus asserts that the very layout and internal composition of Donne's first collection constitute graphic evidence for the ultimate impossibility of "fixing" him within any reductively binary scheme. Indeed, for Marcus, the version of Donne projected by the 1633 Poems confirms not only her deconstructivist principles but also her aesthetic taste more generally. In her words, the collection is a striking melange of sacred and secular that refuses to separate John Donne from Jack. Verse epistles . . . jostle up against scurrilous amatory verses and evocations of human decay in a rough gallimaufry of mingled passions that projects a John Donne very like the Donne most of us value, a Donne for whom the sacred and secular are so closely entwined as to be inseparable.This reading would probably not be considered controversial in most quarters, and I too am in agreement with the main points of Marcus's argument, insofar as they go. However, I want to pause for a moment over one of the more undeveloped aspects of Marcus's interpretation, encoded in her use of the phrase "most of us." As the context makes clear, by "most of us" Marcus means a rather small band of nonreligious or liberal, professionalized, twentieth-century readers. Of course, Marcus is perfectly justified in assuming that her audience will be drawn from exactly this narrow demographic , but at the same time it must also be admitted that "most of us" therefore only refers to the tiniest portion of Donne's actual historical readership. Given that Marcus is performing an analysis of Donne's 1633 Poems, then, one obvious question emerges from her account: How might readers in 1633 have responded to the collection's juxtaposition of the religious with the secular? What might its disorganization have signified for them?One possible answer to this question has been suggested by Arthur F. Marotti, perhaps the most influential of Donne's textualist critics. In Manuscript, Print, and the English Renaissance Lyric, Marotti suggests, against Marcus, that Donne's first editors deliberately delay the readerly encounter with Donne's more earthly lyrics by burying them toward the back of the book. In other words, according to Marotti, the appearance of random disorganization that Marcus values is actually an intentional blind -- the result of a conscious attempt to "protect the reputation of Dean Donne from moral taint."However, this ingenious theory is not without flaws. For example, we are required to accept Marotti's contention. (shrink)

This poem metaphorically depicts how a person overcomes his fear and anxiety by inwardly and faithfully relating oneself to the One. The person was seriously scared of water, which is symbolic of his fear of the storm such as failure, death, or perhaps COVID-19.

The more I understand the Southslavic poetry and the nature of the unity of the oral poem, the clearer it seems to me that theIliadand theOdysseyare very exactly, as we have them, each one of them the rounded and finished work of a single singer…. I even figure to myself, just now, the moment when the author of theOdysseysat and dictated his song, while another, with writing materials, wrote it down verse by verse, even in the way that our (...) singers sit in the immobility of their thought, watching the motion of Nikola's hand across the empty page, when it will tell them it is the instant for them to speak the next verse. (shrink)

The tradition of poets presenting eulogy to the sultan, being common in Turkish-Islamic societies, has strong religious backgrounds. According to the people, the sultanate is of divine origin and obedience to the sultan is obedience to Allah and his Messenger. The people respected the sultans because the Ottoman sultans were seen as the last guardians of the order with their justice. There are many examples of this in literary works such as odes, masnavis, and historical, religious-mystical works. Therefore it is (...) a very shortsighted approach to think that every poet presenting an ode to the sultan only expects rank and material gain. Sultan Bayezid II is an artist and an art-loving sultan who generously patronized scholars, artists and especially poets from all over the world during his princedom of in Amasya and his thirty-one-year reign (1481-1512). Being as an important calligrapher, composer and poet, Sultan Bayezid II is popularly known as "saint" in public. An inâmât book including registers of the gifts given to the poets during the reign of Sultan Bayezid II are an indication of the importance that the sultan gave to the poets. However most of the poets patronized by Sultan Bayezid II are unknown. Jauhari who is one of these poets, also his life and works are unknown. In this article, the newly found poems of Jauhari and the findings about his life are introduced. (shrink)

The poetical corpus of 11th-c. Christopher Mitylenaios, such as it is found in manuscript No. Z α XXIX (13th c.) of the Biblioteca della Badia Greca in Grottaferrata, consists of 145 poems and 2856 verses. Of these carmina 123 are written in jambic trimeters, 18 in dactylic hexameters, three in elegiac distichs, and one in an Anacreontic metre. In the first part of the article outer metric is discussed; among other things one learns that the Anacreontic poem 75 forms (...) metrically a case of its own as it consists of eight strophes of four verses each, whereby the even strophes are followed by two so-called koukoullia, that the dactylic hexameters use 28 out of 32 possible schemes, thus contrasting with the Callimachean and Nonnian types, and that in the dodecasyllables the so-called Binnenschluss after the 5th foot is overwhelmingly present while in no less than 16 hexameters the poet uses a caesura after the 3rd foot. In the second part (inner metric) the numerous transgressions of metrical laws are investigated, as well as verse end and accentuation, and prosody; this last item concerns long and short vowels, diphthongs and dichrona, correptio Attica and hiatus. The text ends with a twofold appendix about caesurae. (shrink)

This essay explores a modern American poem—its verse form, imagery, diction, and rhythm, and, in particular, its cultural echoes, resonances, and overtones. I examine the poem’s explicit invocation of Apelles and crow mythology, but I also show that the implicit context from which it arises, and the one that allows it to speak with the great- est fullness and power, is work that Shakespeare wrote or published between 1606 and 1609. This context allows us to see that, at (...) the heart of the poem, lies the Shakespearean and Platonic analogy between the creation of children and the creation of intellectual work. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Journal of the History of Ideas 63.2 (2002) 345-363 [Access article in PDF] Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus: A "Poem" by Ludwig Wittgenstein David Rozema In the Fall term of 1911 the 22-year-old Ludwig Wittgenstein presented himself to the Cambridge philosopher of mathematics, Bertrand Russell, as a prospective student of philosophy. Wittgenstein had left off his studies as a promising young aeronautical engineer because, in the course of his engineering studies, (...) he had become obsessed with problems in the foundations of mathematics, the very problems Russell himself had tried to solve in his Principia Mathematica, a work he had completed just the year before. Wittgenstein, it seems, did not consider Russell's work to be the end of the matter, and so he had planned a book of his own on the subject. Although this work never materialized, Wittgenstein's interest in philosophy grew under his studies with Russell. And although Wittgenstein's early work in the philosophy of mathematics and logic were the initial impetus for his interest in philosophy, the events of his life soon led him back to the concerns which have always been central to the spirit of philosophy: How ought a man to live? What constitutes the good for man? What sort of life is a worthy or a beautiful one?It is likely that Wittgenstein's concern with these questions was heightened by what he saw in Russell, who followed a notoriously loose way of life outside of his academic studies. 1 If Wittgenstein ever wondered whether or not there was any connection between Russell's philosophical commitments and Russell's way of life, he never directly confronted Russell with the question. Russell was, after all, his benefactor, his mentor, and the source for his initial interest in philosophical problems. 2 Nevertheless, I maintain, Wittgenstein did confront Russell indirectly: he confronted the part of himself that was like Russell and, by attempting [End Page 345] to describe it in writing—the Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus—he discovered its barrenness. Insofar as such an act of writing is elucidatory of a person's soul in what and in how it pictures, it can legitimately be called a kind of poetry, for it bears the essential feature of all poetics: it serves to shape, through catharsis, the passions.Thus, though Wittgenstein neither considered the Tractatus to be a poem nor intentionally wrote it as a poem, it turned out to be a kind of poem in the sense that its form fits its content, both of which, in turn, accurately picture a specific form of life, and the passional result of this poetic construction is (and was, for Wittgenstein) a certain appropriate disdain for the form of life it pictures. This is what I suggest with regard to the Tractatus: it is most helpful and is best read as a poem. I will also try to show that this is how Wittgenstein himself came to think it should be read, which in turn helps to explain why he initially allowed and later continued to allow its publication.What does it mean to read the Tractatus as a poem picturing the form of life implicated by a philosophy like that of Russell's? In this poem Wittgenstein takes the fundamental principles of Russell's philosophy—that all words are signs that stand for objects or kinds of objects and that all meaningful propositions represent a possible arrangement of these objects—and draws out the full-blown implications of these principles. In the last section of the poem Wittgenstein shows the practical consequences of a life lived on these principles, concluding: "Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent." 3 The two-edged nature of this remark carries the force appropriate to the last line of a poem, for it is both descriptive and imagistic. It describes Wittgenstein's own thought when he realizes that, because of his Russellian philosophical commitments, he has nothing to say with regard to the good, the truth, and the beauty of life; and it is an image of the necessity that a... (shrink)

Ovid's Tristia4.10 has in the past chiefly been considered as a source of biographical information rather than as a poem, but increasing interest in the poetry of Ovid's exile has now at last started to promote serious efforts to appreciate its literary qualities. The poem presents a formidable challenge to the critic: at first reading it seems a singularly pedestrian account of the poet's life and, although one may adduce plenty of parallels for details in its phrasing elsewhere (...) in the poetry of Ovid and the other Augustans, it is clear that Ovid's thought-processes are not to be explained solely in terms of the main stream of Greco-Roman poetic tradition. Prose biography and autobiography, rhetorical apology and eulogy, subliterary epitaphs and inscriptional lists of achievements: all these types of writing could have influenced Ovid's selection of data. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:776 Feminist Studies 43, no. 3. © 2018 by Shirley Geok-lin Lim Shirley Geok-lin Lim Cassandra Days: Poems Vox populi vox Dei “The voice of the people is the voice of God.” June 20, 2016 The voice bellowing from the stage Will not be upstaged. The rage Swelling from its undercurrents Is its own fixed swirling warrant When actor and audience are one. One, the agent and their actions; (...) One, litigant and ombudsman. When the voice of God is human One is the voice of the people. Scattered—the lame and the crippled, When the voice of God is human And bellows on stage from this man. Shirley Geok-lin Lim 777 Cassandra November 8, 2016 This Cassandra opens a bottle of red, Begins drinking early, alone, in bed. Fascism with a friendly face does not Console, his leers do not cheer, that knowing nod To end times was foretold in the entrails Blasted by unreturned fire. They who were hailed Heroes in their homeland enter the temple, Swagger, swearing, seared in the Sun King’s call To torch and burn. This Cassandra has no gift For light. She’s depressed. No Thanksgiving will lift Her day. No deeds already in the doing Can be undone. The blood in the sheetings That she sees, the world that’s winding down, And none to scare, none can tell, none, none. 778 Shirley Geok-lin Lim What rough beast? November 11, 2016 It’s me, Ruth, slouching to who knows where. It’s me—the palace grounds are secured, the woods fenced, the house’s red-lined seats reserved, fruits forbidden, streets barred to one walking. Have you a permit? Are you licensed? Your papers, documents, ID cards? Speak, Ruth, when spoken to, only not now, not here. Shirley Geok-lin Lim 779 The Laws January 21, 2017 Law of the stone: I smash, I own. Law of the flower: Live for the hour. Law of the bee: No flight is free. Law of the man: I rule, I ban. Law of the sun: Above me, none.... (shrink)

In June 1922 Rothstein, in his courageous and ingenious attack on Schwabe's generally accepted chronology of Catullus' poems, made these two surprising statements: The liaison with Lesbia began later than 57 B.C. All short poems are later than 57 B.C. To maintain the first statement Rothstein denied , against strong evidence, that poem 68 referred to Lesbia. To explain the second he assumed gratuitously that Catullus carelessly lost all his short poems written before 57 B.C., preserving only long ones, (...) and among these the datable poems 68 and 65+66. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Reviewed by:A Partial Truth (Poems 2015–19) by Christopher NorrisNiall GildeaNorris, Christopher. A Partial Truth (Poems 2015–19). The Seventh Quarry Press, 2019. 133pp.“No interval but some event takes place.”(Norris, “Freeze-Frame,” A Partial Truth)A Partial Truth, a collection of thirty-seven pieces, is the seventh volume of poetry by philosopher and literary theorist Christopher Norris. Nobody familiar with Norris’s distinguished career will be surprised to learn that his recent turn to versification (...) is not a repudiation of intellectual and rhetorical seriousness, but a re-emphasis of the same using resources not typically found in academic prose. Norris, an interdisciplinarian long before that term became a slogan, has in his work clocked up considerable epistemological mileage across diverse terrain, his critical friendship with deconstruction leading him to important interventions in analytic and Continental philosophy, institutional critique, philosophy of science and mathematics, legal studies, music, politics and, after all, creative criticism.Creative criticism is a relatively embryonic genre, until recently typified generally by a prose that owes a debt to Jacques Derrida’s Cir-confession, Glas and La carte postale. This is a style that foregrounds the philosophical unsaid – the repressed autobiographical, desirous, and otherwise messy constituents of that canon. It does so in part by jettisoning the academic politesse, and let’s say timidity, which help maintain such statutes of limitation. In a more specific way, creative criticism may be understood as a Romantic development set in train by the “Yale School” of deconstruction and its fellow travelers, straining in their own ways against the subordinate role of the reader and critic instituted by the likes of Matthew Arnold and T. S. Eliot.In the foreword to his 2017 volume The Winnowing Fan, Norris at once compliments this “strong” critical rebelliousness (xii), and critiques its ecstatic, quasi-apocalyptic hubris, provisionally aligning his own creative criticism with the “poetic diction” (xxi) of eighteenth-century figures such as Dryden and Pope. It is an analogy with caveats – not least Norris’s stated allergy to the “air of arrogance” (Tempus-Fugitives ix) of [End Page 122] their heavily end-stopped tendentiousness – but one which schematizes a poetics that both carries a definite argument and could not make this argument otherwise than in a manner reliant on verse’s formal properties.Note, however, the fact that Norris takes his distance from both strong criticism and those eighteenth-century essayists on the grounds of their shared self-assurance. A steadier presiding influence is William Empson, whose enmity towards Eliotic New Criticism, which “fixes a prescriptive gulf between poetry and other kinds of discourse,” makes him a political forebear, dissenting from modern forms of literary historical doctrinalism, specifically “that whole anti-rationalist complex of ideas that made the discontinuity between poetic and non-poetic language into a shibboleth of aesthetic, ethical, and (though rarely advertised as such) socio-political principle” (Tempus-Fugitives xix–xx). Norris is no straightforward disciple of Empson – who regarded Derrida, and the other “horrible Frenchmen” Norris used to invite him to read, as “so very disgusting, in a simple moral or social way, that I cannot stomach them” (qtd. in Haffenden 52). And yet, one constant quality of both Norris’s verse and prose criticism is a welcome sobriety of explication when it comes to the more recondite or outright flamboyant enclaves of modern European thought.A Partial Truth, and Norris’s books of verse generally, are explicit in outlining the ways in which his poetry functions as a reaction to the diaristic, mumbling slackness of much contemporary poetry; but does his turn to verse also indicate some reaction to contemporary theory? A Partial Truth’s “Foreword,” with modesty, states that “[i]f these poems have any distinctive merit then it lies in the treatment of interesting ideas in a way that deploys certain formal means to draw out complexities and further implications that would lie beyond the reach of a prose rendition” (14). We will specify some of the relations between form and discursive complexity presently, but for now, it is worth suggesting that Norris’s commitment to verse forms of historically recognizable kinds forecloses from him the mealy-mouthed, argumentatively fugitive character of... (shrink)

Experiences in the heart is one matter and literary writing is another: Toegye (1501-1570, a famous Korean Confucianist), however, would rather regard the two as a completely unified process, which amalgamates an immanent quality and a literary style, without isolation between them. Toegye stressed and valued the purity of the first experience, i.e., the filtered and the purified in the heart, which would flow into the second experience and purify it as well, ultimately cultivating it into a complete aesthetic experience. (...) Poetry should be solely triggered by positive emotions, being aesthetically clear and pure, with no extravagance inside. A plain and ordinary style of literary writing is thereby formed and is regarded as a natural access of transcendence to a philosophical, ethical, and aesthetic connotation which is pure, rich, and profound, 'shaping to Sagehood' in Confucianism. Emotion plays the role of a cementing force that unifies all these factors and sections for life aestheticization. (shrink)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Four Prose PoemsRosmarie Waldrop (bio)Conversation 9 On Varieties of OblivionAfter bitter resistance the river disappears into the night, he says. Washes the daily war out into tides of wounded dream. I know no word to dive from, the dark so dense, so almost without dimension, swallowing the sounds back into eclipse while making love to my body. Fish smell travels the regions of sleep, westward like the dawn. Then (...) I wake, too early to bring anything back, unsure of what I want, terrified I’ll fail to seize it by a hair.We need a grand decor for oblivion, she says. But the sea takes all with equal tenderness. As the past does. Already it suffuses the present with more inclusive tonalities. Not constraining it in melodic sequence, but setting a rooster next to the silence that molds my words. Or injured flesh. Impersonal. Only an animal could be so.An avatar of the holy ghost, he chuckles. Or the angel of the annunciation beating his wings against a door slammed shut. Behind it, love already plays the organ. With or without him. He is invisible because we have rejected his message.On old photos, she says, I see a stranger standing in my skin. As if an apple could fall too far from the tree. Yet she is called my past and functions as near-certainty. The way some beliefs are exempt from doubt, are as it were the hinges on which my doubts and questions turn. So that I seem the same to you while I’ve already moved through the next door. From left to right. [End Page 63]Conversation 10 On SeparationMy separation from the landscape started even earlier, she says. In my mother’s mirror, which staged dialectic and confused my instincts. There are few trains in the thick smoke, the run-down station, more waste of grain, more images lost. I carry a mirror in my cortex, but cannot inhabit my womb. Or the silence that is the matter between parts of speech.A pebble in an eddy, he says, reveals the course of the current. Sometimes it’s a small difference that makes our closeness arch, for a moment, into a solid vault, a space thick with birdsong and green sun. Then it again slips through my fingers. I search for a word, and nothing exists but the gap beckoning me to some strange horizon without event.Only out of body could we be out of the panic of time, she says. Momentarily bracket it maybe, in illness, degrees of withdrawal. But hours reproduce, days go by consumed by heat, the flimmer above the lake. I can’t distinguish gravity from other distortions of space, or sign from symbol. My sense of time begins six billion years ago, when the fish stretched their fins onto dry land though the sea groaned in their belly, or forty, with breasts and monthly bleeding. The now always already darkening, the way a sentence anticipates the period it will stiffen in.The galaxies avoid collapsing onto each other by virtue of their recessional motion, he says. Father and son walk away from the bed in opposite directions. But sweat clings to our names, the secretions of closeness. As if we were submerged in one and the same sleep. If I withdraw into more impermeable regions, your shadow grows. All respiratory passages lead to you. As if you were the certainty the game of doubting presupposes. The niggling voice of death. [End Page 64]Conversation 11 On DepthIt would take more than a pebble, she says, to sound your undertones. Something slips away as you speak, tense with life, like a startled beast in the woods. Is it a lizard, snake, or unused thought that runs alongside your words, while the rustling vines close over the trace of flight?Isn’t this a case, he says, of deep breathing pulled into spasms of interpretation the way children are pulled into the future by the very gravity of their innocence. And with a speed unlimited by the young space. The joints between future and present swell and sweep apart whole galaxies, but even the... (shrink)