The background to the “Poem for an Empty Spot” is a creepy feeling that there is something questionable with the motive and deeper driving forces for the efforts to declare that mind is something else than it is. As a scientist using mathematics I have learned the importance to take deep feelings seriously, and not only trust on deduction and routine solutions. Our deep feelings serve as pathfinders, and as pre-paradigmatic signs they are important to notice.

Poetry is the most complex and intricate of human language used across all languages and cultures. Its relation to the worlds of human experience has perplexed writers and readers for centuries, as has the question of evaluation and judgment: what makes a poem "work" and endure. The Poem as Icon focuses on the art of poetry to explore its nature and function: not interpretation but experience; not what poetry means but what it does. Using both historic and contemporary approaches of (...) embodied cognition from various disciplines, Margaret Freeman argues that a poem's success lies in its ability to become an icon of the felt "being" of reality. Freeman explains how the features of semblance, metaphor, schema, and affect work to make a poem an icon, with detailed examples from various poets. By analyzing the ways poetry provides insights into the workings of human cognition, Freeman claims that taste, beauty, and pleasure in the arts are simply products of the aesthetic faculty, and not the aesthetic faculty itself. The aesthetic faculty, she argues, should be understood as the science of human perception, and therefore constitutive of the cognitive processes of attention, imagination, memory, discrimination, expertise, and judgment. (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)

Miscellaneous Sarah Adams, Think, FirstView Article.

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)

Abstract“Poems That Kill” examines the connection between poetry and revolution in Amiri Baraka’s “Black Art” (1965) and in general. The article tracks how Baraka uses poetry to start or advance a revolution in his own life, in the lives of his contemporaries, in poetry, in our present moment, and in the future. The article also discusses poetic address (how poems address readers), sincerity, ambiguity, and hate speech.

continent. 2.2 (2012): 148–151 When things get complex, as they may indeed be getting, the distinction between tools and the things that can be made with them begins to dissolve. The medium is not only also a message, it is an essential counter-valence to our own impulses towards the creation of meaning, beauty and knowledge. The tools we think we are using also use us: They push us around, make us think new things, do new things, even be new things. (...) Language is no different, of course, although in its supremacy and ubiquity, it is even more elusive, difficult to perceive. The very words you are looking at right now are like compact little cryptograms—a written convention, talking back at you in codes. Poetry is language speaking for itself. It is, at its best, where what is being told is coincident with the telling. The words written, or uttered, pop out at us, while in the same moment, constellations of meaning emerge; the components and its composition resonate, vacillate, on the page and in the air. Many of the constraints and styles of poetry we know have developed in order to allow words to express themselves, or show themselves as the mediation of a mental image. Programming languages for computer hardware, no matter how “high level” or abstract they are, are by necessity far less elaborate than traditional forms of writing and speech. But the structure and function of these new languages give them special advantage in clarity: These languages (syntax, sequence) and the results they produce (ideas, ‘executables’) are absolutely inseparable. By design, computing languages are created in order to express specific ideas, creating certain kinds of action or manipulation of other codes (data). In this sense perhaps, software is always, and already, poetic. It is precise description, and pure syntax—the signifier and signified—clearly coincident in the machine. Ishac Bertran ’s code {poems} is an edited book project that exposes the materiality of computer programming languages. Here are presented a small sampling from a compiled book of poetry written by software engineers, artists and other code writers, “exploring the potential of code to communicate at the level of poetry.” ( code-poems.com ) The project solicited for online, public submissions from code-writers in response to the notion of a poem, written in a software language which is semantically valid (i.e.: it compiles ). This solicitation winds up revealing the inner workings, constitutive elements, and styles of both a particular software and its authors. From a large number of submissions, a selection of poems will be printed as a bound volume in the Autumn of 2012. - Jamie Allen __________________________________________________ DAILYGRIND import java.util.Date; public class DailyGrind { public static final void main(String[] args) { boolean its_time_to_go_home = false; boolean away_the_hours = true; while (away_the_hours) { boolean away_the_hours = true; Date now = new Date(); its_time_to_go_home = now.getHours() > 17 && now.getMinutes() > 30; if (its_time_to_go_home) { break; } try { Thread.sleep(60000); } catch (InterruptedException e) { // ignore } } } } Paul Illingworth // Java __________________________________________________ UNHANDLED LOVE class love {}; void main() { throw love(); } Daniel Bezerra // C++ __________________________________________________ TWOFACED public class TwoFaced { public String greet() { return "Hi! So great to see you!"; } private String think() { return "Fucking bitch."; } } Jason Kopylec // Java __________________________________________________ DANCING WITHIN using System; public class PoemCode { private bool dancing_within() { Boolean me = true; while (dancing_within()) { var iables_of_light = ""; try { int elligently_to; object ify_the_world_apart; } catch (Exception s) { int o_the_broken_parts; throw; int o_the_seed_of_life; } Random ashes_of = new Random(); float ing_devices; short age_of; char acter_will_never_let_you = 'b'; } return me; } } Álvaro Matías Wong Díaz // C#  . (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)

Hanshan, which means Cold Mountain, was the pseudonym adopted by an unknown poet who lived in China as a hermit twelve hundred years ago. The poems collected under his name have had an immense impact worldwide, especially among Zen Buddhists, and have been translated into many languages. Peter Hobson's translation of more than a hundred of the poems, almost all of which are published for the first time in this volume, brings those qualities of timelessness, poetic diction and (...) engaging rhythm that do justice to the concepts and language of the original. This edition includes not only a clear and succinct introduction for the general reader but also highly informative sections on Hanshan's place in history and on issues involved in translating Hanshan. (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)

In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:Three Poems on MemoryAlessio ZanelliMICROCHIMERISMI feel them,the way I feel the stardust seeping through my skin.I feel them in the light and in the dark,in absolute silence and in deafening noise,in peaceful days and in gloomy days,while awake and while asleep.They whisper to me who I am,where I came from and where I'm headed.They uphold mewhen my body falters or my mind breaks down.I feel them loud and (...) cleareven though turmoil surrounds me,and I wonder whether she can feel them in turn,wherever she is now.And if our swapped cells don't do the job,I'm sure we'll join anewas waves afloat in spacetime,liminal ripples invisibly entwinedthat eternally propagate within the whole,within the cosmic womb astir with zillions more. [End Page 465]TIMEHanging on in quiet desperation—Roger Waters1They were right. We would get to know the hoax.They had ridden the carousel before.The swallows have always been returning,only fewer with every passing year,though they have never really gone away.Now they speak to me in dreams, one by one.The time has come. To regret time. And all.We are drops off the stalactites of time,settling the concretions of memory.And the sun burns on. Up and down around. [End Page 466]WHIFFSLight has no edge, darkness has no center, both have shape.They visit with me briefly, quick life whiffs,between a misty trip into nowhere and the next.They speak a few words, terse phrases,neat like scratches of diamond over limestone,in a forgotten lively voice,from a time long before they left.I gather nothing, mostly, no real sense.I retrieve a very distant memory, every so often,as if arising from yesterday.They hardly show themselves while speaking,and when they do I can but have a fleeting glance.Their face shines upon an invisible body,illuminates the whole ambience,belongs in an older past,not the last I have known with them.It is a face from youth,one I am allowed to recall only when they appear.Why do they come if they cannot stay?How is it they take the long way around?What do they mean?Maybe youth is the message.Maybe they just want me to thinkI have been young, we all have, together.There could be more I miss, I must still realize.I may do one day, or never, but it is already enough.A few words and a face.A darting glow.Whiffs.Edge has light, center has darkness, both have no shape.Cremona, ItalyAlessio ZanelliCremona, ItalyFootnotes1. Pink Floyd, "Time," by Roger Waters, on The Dark Side of the Moon, Abbey Road Studios, originally released 1973.Copyright © 2023 Johns Hopkins University Press... (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)

Thought Poems offers a translation of GA81 of Heidegger’s collected works, with the German alongside the English. Musical, allusive, engaged deeply with humanity’s primordial relationships, the Gedachtes or thought poems show Heidegger’s language at its most beautiful, and open new ways to conceive of the relationship between language and being.

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)

Ludwig Traube has remarked that ‘ Einer der sonderbarsten Abschnitte in der von Emil Baehrens rekonstruierten Anthologia latina ist der, welcher die Gedichte Römischer Kaiser zusammenfasst, carmen 122–127 .” Of these six poems he points out that Nos. 125 and 126 are early mediaeval epitaphs, No. 127, Hermaphroditus, is later mediaeval, and that Nos. 123 and 124, which were favourites in the Middle Ages, are improperly ascribed to the Emperor Hadrian. Of the remaining poem, No 122, he says nothing. (...) It was first printed by Hermann Hagen in the Rheinisches Museum, xxxv, pp. 569 sqq. , from the Berne MS. No. 109, a tenth century MS. of French origin, partly written in Tironian notes. Hagen gives a facsimile of the entry in the MS. which bears the title Octa. aug. This is the authority for attributing the poem to Augustus. (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)

No return to sweetness. The philosophical poem book Heavy Poems is drawn from splatter films and catalogs of violence and sex, but the language of poetry is the poet’s own. -/- The world of these poems is authentic, true, and sincere. Life and death measure each other. How is human value calculated? Which of us is valuable and who is worthless?

In Morals and Medicine a leading Protestant theologian comes to grips with the problems of conscience raised by new advances in medical science and technology. They arise as issues at the start or making of a life, in preserving its health, and in facing its death. They are the problems of Everyman: some are new problems of conscience, such as artificial insemination; some are old problems in new dimensions, such as euthanasia. Modern medicine provides such a high degree of control (...) over health and vital processes that men must inevitably shoulder the burden of intelligent decision, and shoulder it as rationally as possible. Thus far, only Roman Catholic moralists have worked out a coherent ethics of medical care. Morals and Medicine is a new and independent analysis of the morals of life and death, striking out along the line of the values of personality rather than of mere physiological life itself. It offers a modern and at the same time Christian concept of right and wrong for all who are involved: the patient, the doctor and nurse, the pastor, and the family and friends. Originally published in 1954. The Princeton Legacy Library uses the latest print-on-demand technology to again make available previously out-of-print books from the distinguished backlist of Princeton University Press. These editions preserve the original texts of these important books while presenting them in durable paperback and hardcover editions. The goal of the Princeton Legacy Library is to vastly increase access to the rich scholarly heritage found in the thousands of books published by Princeton University Press since its founding in 1905. (shrink)

Babylonian Poems of Righteous Sufferers: Ludlul Bël Nëmeqi and the Babylonian Theodicy. By Takayoshi Oshima. Orientalische Religionen in der Antike, vol. 14. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2014. Pp. xx + 572, 65 plts. €139.

Christopher Norris is Emeritus Professor of Philosophy at Cardiff University. He worked on literary criticism, on the question of realism and antirealism in philosophy, on Derrida and deconstructionism and on the philosophy of science. In the past few years he has also authored several philosophical poems. In this issue we present two poems he wrote that are dedicated to color.

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)

The Sumerian Poem Enmerkar and En-suḫkeš-ana: Epic, Play, Or? Stage Craft at the Turn from the Third to the Second Millennium B.C. By Claus Wilcke. American Oriental Series, Essay 12. New Haven: American Oriental Society, 2012. Pp. ix + 117. $58.

This essay focuses on the attention paid to Prometheus by Goethe and Schlegel. Prometheus serves as an archetypal figure for Goethe, in particular, and as such the Titan can be viewed as a figure whose various appearances represent genuine metamorphoses or transformations of the archetype in much the same manner that Goethe takes the archetypes of leaf or vertebrae to function in the plant and animal kingdoms. Schlegel’s treatment of Prometheus takes the organic analogy even further. In his fragmentary work (...) Lucinde Schlegel exploits the metaphorical possibilities provided by plant life when thinking about not only the sessile structure of the text as a whole but indeed the internal literary devices capable of simulating the environmental impacts required for the flowering of the plot. The fact that Goethe and Schlegel deliberately leave their discussions in a fragmentary form is discussed in the final section of the essay in a manner that ties the open-ended quality of such productions to Gadamer’s discussion of the Vollzug or performative character of poetry and other works of art. (shrink)