Yearly Archives: 2018

120 posts

Ghazals as Elegies: Ask Not for Whom the Word Tolls…

poetry poetry books

Summer solstice. Midsummer’s Night. A hard day’s night into the longest day of the year. Last day of school. First day of summer reading. All this, and still living on Mars with Tracy K. Smith.

Part Two of Smith’s Pulitzer poetry collection, Life on Mars, consists of elegies of various kinds in honor of her father. One of them is a ghazal, a poetic form pronounced the way you eat your food on Thanksgiving (“guzzle”) and not the way I’d like to say it (“ga-ZAL”).

As poetic forms go, a ghazal is fairly simple. Couplets, couplets, couplets, with the last word of the second lines all following the leaders ending the first couplet’s two lines. OK, if it’s so simple, why haven’t I written one? The reason is as simple as the form: I’m leery of the effect created by all that repetition. It’s one of those forms that looks easy but can look amateurish in the wrong hands. Kind of like prose writers who imitate Hemingway (God spare us all).

The poems in this part of the book, eight in number, are bookended by ones with titles. The other six lack one. It’s a conceit that doesn’t seem conceited. Writing about death lovingly will do that to a poem. Here is Smith’s title-less ghazal about her dad:

What does the storm set free? Spirits stripped of flesh on their slow walk.
The poor in cities learn: when there is no place to lie down, walk.

At night, the streets are minefields. Only sirens drown out the cries.
If you’re being followed, hang on to yourself and run — no — walk.

I wandered through evenings of lit windows, laughter inside walls.
The sole steps amid streetlamps, errant stars. Nothing else below walked.

When we believed in the underworld, we buried fortunes for our dead.
Low country of dogs and servants, where ghosts in gold-stitched robes walk.

Old loves turn up in dreams, still livid at every slight. Show them out.
This bed is full. Our limbs tangle in sleep, but our shadows walk.

Perhaps one day it will be enough to live a few seasons and return to ash.
No children to carry our names. No grief. Life will be a brief, hollow walk.

My father won’t lie still, though his legs are buried in trousers and socks.
But where does all he knew — and all he must now know — walk?

The word “minefield” appears in this poem, and it’s a great way of describing the obstacles of simplicity. Lines approximately the same length. End lines. And that word, like the gong of a clock, appearing predictably again and again, only becoming successful if, like a clock’s ticking, it is noticed but not.

I like how Smith sneaks in some sound devices, some rhymes, and most important of all, some memorable lines. I especially like “Life will be a brief, hollow walk.” Sounds like a cheerful epigram, but then you say, “Wait a minute….” For me, it also echoes Yeats’ lines in “Never Give All the Heart“: “For everything that’s lovely / is but a brief, dreamy, kind delight.”

A kind and dreamy delight, yes. Yet brief and hollow. That’s life. That’s the loss of a loved one. All in couplets guzzled down as if to slake a mysterious thirst.

Life on Mars — Given the News, Maybe Better Than Life on Earth

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While I wait for my summer reading books to coalesce from library orders and online book orders, I must first worry about the library books. Interlibrary loan, the 8th Wonder of the World, has its disadvantages like everything else. It all depends on the library. And the book.

As Exhibit A, I give you Tracy K. Smith’s Pulitzer Prize-winning collection, Life on Mars. Its loan period is only two weeks. Its allowable renewals is only once. This for a six-year-old book (that’s right, if the collection were a little girl, it would be in first grade by now).

That means this one must be read ipso fasto. Which means it’s “summer reading” but not really summer reading because I’m trying to summer read it before the first day of summer — all before I begin my summer-reading pile.

But me? Complain? Life is good. I know because I read it on a T-shirt yesterday. (We can learn so much from T-shirts. And bumper stickers. And our wives.) Wait a minute. Where was I? Ah. Life on Mars.

The book contains 35 poems. Number two, provided below, is entitled with a term science fiction readers don’t like. It’s not cool to says “sci-fi,” I guess. Just like “San Fran” for San Francisco. Tacky. Nerdy. Proves you’re not one of them, whoever they may be.

Anyway, it’s a look at the future, where there are no incarceration centers where children are held as hostages (read: “bargaining chips”) while U.S. Presidents call it “the law” (translation: small fry for a big wall Mexico won’t pay for, and smart Americans won’t, either):

Sci-Fi

by Tracy K. Smith

There will be no edges, but curves.

Clean lines pointing only forward.

History, with its hard spine & dog-eared

Corners, will be replaced with nuance,

Just like the dinosaurs gave way

To mounds and mounds of ice.

Women will still be women, but

The distinction will be empty. Sex,

Having outlived every threat, will gratify

Only the mind, which is where it will exist.

For kicks, we’ll dance for ourselves

Before mirrors studded with golden bulbs.

The oldest among us will recognize that glow—

But the word sun will have been re-assigned

To the Standard Uranium-Neutralizing device

Found in households and nursing homes.

And yes, we’ll live to be much older, thanks

To popular consensus. Weightless, unhinged,

Eons from even our own moon, we’ll drift

In the haze of space, which will be, once

And for all, scrutable and safe.

The first noticeable thing about Smith’s poetry is her capitalization of lines. It’s old school, but it bothers a lot of people. I’m not one of them, but just so you know. You may some day share a poem and hear, “Is there a reason you capitalize every line like that?” to which I can only reply, “Is there a reason you wear your hair like that?” (Actually, I would never say such a thing, but you get the gist.)

To me, this is a list poem. “Long live the list poem!” A poet who lost his grocery list once said that. Or his “Honey do” list.

I like how history becomes concrete in the form of a book “with its hard spine & dog-eared / Corners.” (Oh, yes. Some people who read your poems will also ask, “Why do you use ampersands and not the word ‘and’?” Tracey K. Smith does NOT get asked this, however. I guess a Pulitzer is the equivalent of bulletproof vests & Kryptonite combined.)

I like, too, how we’ll “live to be much older, thanks / To popular consensus.” Not that’s a democracy.

Re: the one-line finish after a steady menu of couplets. Yep. You’ll be called on it (“you” not being Tracy K. Smith) if you try it and seek feedback. Such final lines can certainly be used as a method of emphasis in a poem, but the cynical sorts will label it “precious” and demand that you find the line a mate.

Everybody, double up. Couplets everywhere! You! Where do you think you’re going? (At this point, a very young — say, six-year-old — poetic license is apprehended and incarcerated. Someone shouts it’s the law. And that’s not “Sci-Fi,” people. It’s on the front page of your newspaper. In America. Home of the free and the motto, “Don’t Trump on Me!”)

Book Lists & Piles, Done With Style

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books

So you’ve got a book list. Congratulations and don’t we all. It’s like having an idea. Pretty cheap, as tricks go, but it’s all too abstract. What really counts is something entirely more concrete: a book pile. Now we’re talking. Now we’re cooking with gas. Now we’ve got something we can stack six ways to Sunday and push over five ways to Friday.

Goodreads has a “Want To Read” shelf its participants can use. It’s a rather useless tool when abused, and abused it is. Any book a reader finds in the least interesting gets clicked onto the dreaded “Want To Read” shelf until, soon enough, it numbers first in the hundreds and then in the thousands.

Abstract, I tell you. Nothingness. A joke no one’s laughing at. (And assuredly something authors like me put no capital in, as “Want To Read” is about as far from “Just Purchased on Amazon” as Poughkeepsie is from Kathmandu.)

But where were we? Ah, yes. Lists and piles. This is the time of year, my friends. The time of year when newspapers publish their lovely “Summer Reading Lists.” But really, who needs a newspaper for news like this? We’re all quite capable of making a can-do list of our own literary desires, thank you. What does some reporter know (other than where to buy a good sandwich down around the corner from the office)?

My summer reading list got a jump start yesterday by taking pile form. It’s a bit premature, yes. I still have five days of work to go, yes. But close enough. Like horse shoes and hand grenades.

Meaning? I now have nine books, which have made like Proteus and transformed from abstract list to concrete pile. I can look at them. I can touch them. I can knock them over without offending them. (Readers get such cheap jollies.)

Better still, I can determine which to read first and arrange them in TBR (To Be Read) order. I can pile them horizontally or stand them on their feet on a shelf (straighten that spine, young book!). I can read first pages of all nine as if each is coming before a king to make its lovely plea and state its wily case.

And best of all? I can plot what books to ADD in the next five days. Are nine books enough, after all, to last all of July and August? It is to laugh. And a rhetorical question in the best way.

Next post: What books are IN my TBR pile, plus how they’re getting along in such close quarters. Hint: Seven of them are poetry books. Can you tell what one of my summer resolutions is?

Random Thoughts, June Edition

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As we approach the first day of summer, a.k.a. Midsummer’s Night, a.k.a. the summer solstice, a.k.a. the last day of school for certain poet/teachers, I can’t help but think how weird it is for early bird types like me who retire before 9. As you might imagine, going to bed is tougher when light is still framing the window blinds.
Speaking of early and birds, the most annoying ornithological sound to hear through your open window at 4:37 a.m. is the cheap-sounding cheep of the English sparrow, a non-native bird brought to our country by some British chap with revenge on his mind (Washington, Boston Tea Parties, and all that revolting stuff).
I’d like to meet and talk to Canadian poet Anne Carson. Do you think that can be arranged after Herr Trump pissed off our formerly friendly neighbors to the north?
(And dear Canada: It’s not us, honest. It’s him. It. Whatever history will wind up calling this man-child in the never-promised land.)
Anyway, back to Carson: Meeting and talking with “famous” people garners no guarantees. I once chatted with a famous book editor from a major U.S. newspaper for an hour. Everything seemed great until I tried to friend him on both Goodreads (where he said yes) and Twitter (where he ignored) afterwards. That’s when I learned about Twitter’s “friends vs. followers” logarithms. If you’re famous, you want it grossly lopsided: few friends, billions of followers. It proves how important you are. It also proves that you need proof about how important you are. Which proves, like so much else in life, that “vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” (Thank you, King James.)
I am no longer on Twitter, it goes without saying, because I didn’t major in logarithms.
Or Facebook, if you’re taking notes (and Facebook sure is).
But I’m still on good ol’ Goodreads, despite a few policies there which drive me crazy and make me consider giving it the Twitter slash Facebook treatment, sooner rather than later
I’ve been thinking a lot about Bobby Kennedy no thanks to the 50th anniversary of his assassination, and watched the hour-long documentary, A Ripple of Hope, about his speech in Indianapolis on the night of Martin Luther King’s murder.
In that speech, Kennedy quoted Aeschylus, of all people, to the restive crowd. Specifically these words from Agamemnon:

Drop, drop—in our sleep, upon the heart
sorrow falls, memory’s pain,
and to us, though against our very will,
even in our own despite,
comes wisdom
by the awful grace of God.

Bobby knew that you can always trust in the intelligence of the people. Many pols today think you can always play on the ignorance and superstitions of the people. These would be the paltry pols who put party first, country second.
“My kingdom for a statesman!” Shakespeare, I think.
Death is a thing of late. I’m reading The Ghost Writer. And why? Only because Philip Roth just died and death generates sales. Talk about a bummer for authors!
Then came the suicides of Kate Spade (I didn’t know the name) and Anthony Bourdain (I did know it), giving me the itch to read Kitchen Confidential and watch some television show I’d never heard of called Parts Unknown.
I’m working on my summer reading list and am wondering about poets I should be reading. It’s a fun kind of wonder. A slow cooker kind of wonder.
Short Poem of the Day from William Carlos Williams, something called “Silence”:

Under a low sky —
this quiet morning
of red and
yellow leaves —

a bird disturbs
no more than one twig
of the green leaved
peach tree

Old WCW loved his colors, no? Here we get three in eight short lines, plus a couple of dashes purchased at Emily Dickinson’s General Store, plus a little sound device with that “bird disturbs” stuff (must be an English sparrow).
All while running around making house calls as a doctor, yet!
Williams the doctor and Stevens the insurance executive. There go all of our excuses, I guess.
Call me foolhardy, but my next house will not include a microwave oven.
Or a lawn with that suburban scourge, grass.
It will have bookshelves, though. For storage, clean sight lines, and not being able to let go….

In Plain Sight: A Review of Plainwater by Anne Carson

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When you enjoy a new-to-you author this much, you just hope you haven’t made the mistake of choosing her best book to read first. And though Plainwater is a flavorful mix of essays and poetry, it really amounts to poetry, whether in traditional lines and stanzas or hidden in paragraph form. The lady has a word with ways, as they say.

The book opens modestly enough with “Mimnermos: The Brainsex Paintings,” which is an interview between the author and a 7th-century B.C. poet (but of course!). The moral of the story? If you like an ancient poet, make like a ventriloquist and give him a new voice.

After this comes “Short Talks,” the perfect thing for these short-attention-span times. Most of these entries are a mere paragraph long, with titles like “On Trout,” “On Disappointments in Music,” “On Ovid,” “On Parmenides,” “On Waterproofing,” “On the Mona Lisa,” “On Sylvia Plath,” and “On Reading.” Sweet and short, the shortest of the lot is “On Gertrude Stein About 9:30,” which goes like so: “How curious. I had no idea! Today has ended.”

Section 3, “Canicula di Anna,” is full-fledged poetry–44 pages of a phenomenology conference in Perugia, Italy. If you have no idea what phenomenology is and how on earth (much less Italy) it would merit a conference, know that it is, according to both Merriam and Webster, “the study of the development of human consciousness and self-awareness as a preface to or a part of philosophy.”

As they say in Canada: “Oh.”

“The Life of Towns,” Part 4, is similar to “Short Talks” except it is written as short poems. The beyond-curious thing about these guys is that every line in every poem starts with a capital letter and ends with a period–even when it’s not a sentence. Exhibit B (“A” being busy):

“Luck Town” by Anne Carson

Digging a hole.
To bury his child alive.
So that he could buy food for his aged mother.
One day.
A man struck gold.

Once you get used to the quirky periods (that must be ignored) and to the fact that Carson has forced you to slow down and read her poems slowly, you’re safe at the plate.

Finally, the book wraps up with a travelogue of sorts called “The Anthropology of Water.” It’s about Anne and a boyfriend doing the Simon & Garfunkel thing (“Yes, we’ve all gone to look for America…”). It’s like snooping in a poet’s diary, this section, and you not only get an idea about camping (of all things), but learn about the psychology of man and woman in close quarters (pup tents, sleeping bags, cars, etc.) and the communion one feels with nature, even under times of stress.

My favorite line in this section, running away (like the dish and spoon)? Easy. It’s two lines under the heading Friday 4:00 a.m. Not swimming.: “Staring. The lake lies like a silver tongue in a black mouth.”

Let me stare at that line again. If it’s 4 a.m. as I do so, even better. And if I’m in a cabin right on a lake, better still. Deep inhale. Slow exhale.

Throughout all of these sections, Carson explores her fraught relationship with her father. Yep. He’s another one of those strict, man-of-few-words types who bears a daughter-of-many-words and has trouble showing his love.

What is it with men who have trouble showing their love? In its way, the theme of this lovely book.

Plainwater Anne Carson

Making a Carmel Point

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Back in the day, before wildfires and mudslides, people went to California to “find themselves.” If you’re feeling lost or want to turn a new page, you can always turn to Robinson Jeffers’ poetry, much of which finds itself in California.

For example, here’s a quick trip to Carmel Point for you:

Carmel Point
by Robinson Jeffers

The extraordinary patience of things!
This beautiful place defaced with a crop of suburban houses—
How beautiful when we first beheld it,
Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs;
No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing,
Or a few milch cows rubbing their flanks on the outcrop rockheads—
Now the spoiler has come: does it care?
Not faintly. It has all time. It knows the people are a tide
That swells and in time will ebb, and all
Their works dissolve. Meanwhile the image of the pristine beauty
Lives in the very grain of the granite,
Safe as the endless ocean that climbs our cliff.—As for us:
We must uncenter our minds from ourselves;
We must unhumanize our views a little, and become confident
As the rock and ocean that we were made from.

And so we move to the left coast with a bit of imagery: “Unbroken field of poppy and lupin walled with clean cliffs; / No intrusion but two or three horses pasturing, / Or a few milch cows rubbing they flanks on the outcrop rockheads.”

Very nice, even if you do have to look up what a “milch cow” is (it’s a cow kept for milking).

“Now the spoiler has come: does it care?” We’d better go shopping at Antecedents R Us! For the “spoiler” in Jefferson’s line, let’s nominate mankind, and for “it,” we’ll take Carmel Point itself, with its clean cliffs and such.

To Jeffers’ great comfort, nature couldn’t care less about the invasion of man. “It has all time. It knows the people are a tide / That swells and in time will ebb, and all / Their works dissolve.”

Geez, I’m feeling salty already. And I’d like to be there to see it, actually. But I think I’ve already missed the “California, Heaven on Earth” party. It’s too bad, too. The way we were sounds pretty cool.

Random Thoughts: Memorial Day Weekend Edition

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Memorial Day Weekend. It gets quiet around here. People leave for the Cape. First, for the stop-and-go traffic heading to the Cape. Eventually for the stop-and-go traffic returning from the Cape. All this for sand in your bathing suit and a sunburn.
Nota bene: You can get sunburned on your back patio. No gas, no traffic, no sand reading True Grit in your bathing suit. Free, free, free!
In the past year, Poetry magazine has had issues featuring poets from Australia, Canada, New Zealand, and more, greatly increasing a poet from those countries’ chances of publication (from 1 in 1,000,000,000 to 1 in 1,000) in a particular issue. I’m waiting for Poetry to dedicate an issue to Irish-Polish-Scottish-English poets. As Robert Frost once said, “Advantages make good neighbors.”
Speaking of Poetry, I seem to read the covers more than the insides of the covers lately, and I’m a big fan of their recent trend of designing every cover around variations of design and color for letters in the word POETRY. When I’m tired (read: frequently), I look at it and get mixed results: Edgar Allan POE, pot, try, port, opt, rope, toe, top. What I don’t see but should: STOP!
Statistical quirk #1: Maybe The Evil Empire (read: Google) has made my post called “W.S. Merwin’s ‘Remembering Summer'” one of its top links for searchers on their search engine. Hits on this blog have been mounting like stop-and-go traffic for the Cape lately because of it. (Could this mean Darth Vader is my father?)
Statistical quirk #2: According to The Almost-As-Evil Empire (read: Amazon) stats under Books>Literature & Fiction>Poetry>Regional & Cultural>United States, sales for Lost Sherpa of Happiness have jumped from 176,098 to 15,754 in recent weeks. Maybe my poems have finally arrived, finally been discovered by some for-hire sherpa. Or maybe I need to be pinched: I woke up as W.S. Merwin. In a Google Search algorithm. With a hot new book of poetry.
Sad how death can push book sales. I’m thinking of Philip Roth, who died last week. Incredibly, I’ve only read one of this books (Goodbye, Columbus), and that some 30 years ago. After reading many articles of praise after his death, I have vowed to read the first Zuckerman book, The Ghost Writer.
Speaking of reading, after years and years of doing so, I no longer read one book at a time. My new modus operandi is to have one prose book and one poetry book going at all times. Poets read poetry. Every day. They write them, too. Bad or good. Every day.
We are less than a month away from the summer solstice on June 21st. Here’s what’s weird about that day: It’s the longest day of the year, BUT it’s also called “Midsummer Night” by the dreamers (and bards) of the world as if it’s the height and not the start of summer.
Irony: Most school kids are just getting out of school for a summer vacation where the days are already beginning to get shorter, giving validity to my mother-in-law’s famous line, “It’s all downhill after the Fourth of July.” She was a teacher. She knew of what she spoke.
I met a friend last week who told me his strategy when reading the news these days. He skips any article with the word “Trump” in the headline. “I haven’t missed anything,” he said. “Really! It’s all smoke and mirrors on that front.” (Editor’s Note: And a few other things.)
As a reader and a poet, don’t you always keep thinking there are writers of prose and verse you have yet to discover, ones who will really resonate with you, ones whose words will become your soul brothers (and sisters), ones who will become your favorites forever and ever? This is a necessary hope in every reader’s life.
While reading Karl Ove Knausgaard’s Spring a few weeks back, I noticed his recommendation of Italo Calvino’s The Baron in the Trees and picked a copy up. I love it when favorite writers recommend favorite books, don’t you?
Because it is the last standing brick and mortar bookstore for millions of people living far away from the independent Mom & Pop bookstores of the cities, Barnes & Noble needs your support (read: orders) every once in a while. Where would you be without their bookstores to walk in and browse in every once in a while? (Rhetorical question)
Because it’s Memorial Day weekend, a time to remember fallen soldiers who fought and died for their country, we should reflect on George McGovern’s quote about unjust wars (and boy, do they exist, then and now): “I’m fed up to the ears with old men dreaming up wars for young men to die in.”
For those of you wondering (all one of you), I am 33 poems into Manuscript #3 (a.k.a. Work in Progress).
I’ve noticed that my taste for reading poems that fit on one page is reflected in my habit of writing poems that fit on one page. When I see an 8-page poem in a book, I tend to say, “Hoo-boy!” then take a deep breath before diving in, hoping to come up for breath at the other end of the Olympic-sized swimming pool.
Sometimes I come up halfway across.
So there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!

W.S. Merwin Remembering Summer

Ah, the Writer’s Life!

poetry writing

largesse

Reading Denis Johnson’s farewell story collection, Largesse of the Sea Maiden, last night, I came across this paragraph — in the short story “Triumph Over the Grave” (editor’s note: If only!) — about the writer’s life. Well, a fictional writer’s life, but you see what matches and what doesn’t:

“Writing. It’s easy work. The equipment isn’t expensive, and you can pursue this occupation anywhere. You make your own hours, mess around the house in your pajamas, listening to jazz recordings and sipping coffee while another day makes its escape. You don’t have to be high-functioning or even, for the most part, functioning at all. If I could drink liquor without being drunk all the time, I’d certainly drink enough to be drunk half the time, and production wouldn’t suffer. Bouts of poverty come along, anxiety, shocking debt, but nothing lasts forever. I’ve gone from rags to riches and back again, and more than once. Whatever happens to you, you put it on a page, work it into a shape, cast it in a light. It’s not much different, really, from filming a parade of clouds across the sky and calling it a movie — although it has to be admitted that the clouds can descend, take you up, carry you to all kinds of places, some of them terrible, and you don’t get back where you came from for years and years.”

KEY:

“Writing. It’s easy work.” (See “Irony” in your handbooks.)

Equipment inexpensive, pursue occupation anywhere. (See “True comma that.”)

“You… mess around the house in your pajamas.” (See “If you’re still 12, maybe.”)

“…listening to jazz recordings” (See “Jukebox selections may vary and DO….”)

“…and sipping coffee” (See “Amen!” and “Awomen!” to that!)

“If you could drink liquor without being drunk…” (See “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” in the Judy Garland Wing)

“…nothing lasts forever” (See the Buddha nodding sagely — the only way he can.)

“Whatever happens to you, you put it on a page…” (Or squire, or knight… no, just kidding. This is another way of saying “Write what you know,” but you can write what you don’t know just as easily.)

“…clouds can descend, take you up…” (See “Ali comma Baba” in carpeting on the mezzanine.)

I don’t know about you, but I like reading about reading, and I like reading about writing, so a final tip of the hat to Denis. Thanks for the memories, kid. You knew your way around a sentence. A paragraph, too. What more could a writer — or reader — ask for?

I’m Somebody. Who Are You?

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Go ahead. Name Emily Dickinson’s most famous poem. Chances are 10 in 10 that you will choose “I’m Nobody,” a.k.a. “260” in the canon.

Go ahead again. Name Emily Dickinson’s best poem. Chances are 10 in 10 again that you will choose anything but “I’m Nobody” (unless you’re still in your teen years, in which case, I can sympathize, trust me).

What is it about this poem that scratches people’s itch? First, let’s take a look at one of the versions. Word for word, some versions diverge, but capitals for capitals, commas for commas, and especially dashes for dashes? Almost all do. It’s the Dickinson way.

I’m Nobody
by Somebody named Emily Dickinson

I’m nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there’s a pair of us — don’t tell!
They’d banish us — you know!

How dreary to be somebody!
How public like a frog
To tell one’s name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

First of all, the “you” in the first stanza, though read as a singular “you,” is in truth a plural “you.” And the quip “Then there’s a pair of us”? A lie of the first order. There are a gazillion of us!

Here Emily has tapped into humankind’s natural tendency for solipsism. Secretly or not (especially if you are an “adult”), the world revolves around us. We all pity ourselves. After all, we’ve been practicing the craft since we were children at our mother’s indifferent knee. Poor, poor us! Us nobodies, that is.

And stanza two? It is the “Who Are We Kidding?” stanza. “How dreary to be somebody,” as in famous, as in rich, and in — better yet — both. The reason we find it dreary is because we haven’t experienced it and resent those who have. Naturally, then, the psychology of humans is to lean scornful (and pay no attention to that green-eyed monster behind the curtain!).

That’s right, many of the “nobodies” who read this poem and cheer it all the way to the “man, that was quick!” finish line wish they were frogs shopping the latest bogs (or, at the very least, renovating them on HGTV).

So, if you want to write a viral poem, one that will grab the world by the lapels, play dumb and pretend to ignore what you truly want. Knock it before you try it, in other words. In stanzas. End rhymes optional.

Signed, Yet Another Somebody-in-Waiting (translation in Amherst-ese: “Nobody”)

***

Summer Reading for Nobody in Particular

Blurb Me This (A Modest Proposal)

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As a kid, I can remember reading the backs and sides of cereal boxes as I chomped down unhealthy bowls of sugar-laced cereal (thank you, Kellogg’s and Post!). Nowadays, I do the same for books that are lying around—even after I’ve finished reading them.

You know what THAT means. It means I read the equivalent of sugar-laced ingredients on the backs of poetry books: blurbs. Only if you dig a little do you often learn that blurbs are written by a poet’s teachers or fellow university workers or fellow alums.

But what else is new? You scratch my back, I scratch yours, and why not? What really gets you is the similarity of so many blurbs, the way they are obviously a pain in the neck to the person who was asked to WRITE them.

This can be discovered by the simple formula known as A=#Ls (Aggravation = the Number of “Luminous’s”). If your blurbs are so luminous they glow gaudily like Christmas lights on a July night, your book is as sweet a Tony Tiger’s Sugar-Frosted Flakes.

Nowhere is this worse than in a poetry book that actually uses the word “luminous” in its title. I give you Czeslaw Milosz’s A Book of Luminous Things. As you might expect, the blurb from The Houston Chronicle on the back reads, “A luminous anthology about luminous thoughts and things.”

Hoo, boy. Houston, we have a problem.

Other words we need to watch out for: “stunning,” “rare,” “unforgettable,” “breathtaking,” “fierce,” “remarkable,” “memorable,” “profound,” “arresting,” “evocative,” and, of course, “beauty” and “achievement.” For example:

“Jane Hirshfield is one of our finest, most memorable contemporary poets.” — David Baker

“Scrupulously attentive, rigorously self-questioning, What the Living Do is an achievement of remarkable power.” — Mark Doty

“The landscape of Tranströmer’s poetry… is mirrored by his direct, plain-speaking style and arresting, unforgettable images.” — Robin Robertson

“Tomasz Rozycki’s Colonies is one of the most remarkable sonnet sequences of our time…” — Susan Stewart

“Another breathtaking collection…” — Booklist

“I’m stunned by the power of these poems…” — Marie Howe

Pity the blurb writer, asked by a friend or colleague to compose a blurb using a Blurb Dictionary of Words that is only three pages long. Talk about a challenge!

Why not dispense with blurbs entirely, then? Why not let the reader (or shopper in a bookstore) consider each work a tabula rasa? As a teacher, I prefer not hearing the previous grade’s teachers’ thoughts on any given student. I prefer to arrive at my own conclusions. See me for a blurb in October, in other words–one written by me.

Wouldn’t this be a luminous way of doing things? Stunningly fierce and fair? A memorably profound shift in how things are done in the publishing world?

Be remarkable. Say yes.