Robert Peake

The March/April issue of North American Review arrived yesterday, bearing one of my poems. Yes, you read that right—the March/April issue arrived yesterday, at the end of November. Our nation’s oldest literary magazine is also currently one of its tardiest. As a subscriber (and now contributor), I wrote to them in June (when the December issue arrived, bearing an editor’s note extolling Winter reading) and suggested that they might want to say something—online or in print—about the circumstances surrounding the magazine’s delays. The production assistant said she would pass the suggestion along. None the less, the current issue arrived bearing an editor’s note about the “droughte of March” and April’s cruelty—just in time for Christmas! Still, it contains many poems I only wish I had written myself, including and especially the first place winner’s poem. In fact, it is precisely because I respect North American Review that I am so mystified—not only by the delays, but by the silence.

Contrast these ironic editor’s notes with Ploughshares, which runs a blog to engage with topics in contemporary letters as they happen, or Zyzzyva, which also runs a blog to give a peek inside the independent periodical’s “struggle day by day.” I hesitate to characterize this as simply an old-media-versus-new-media divide. But actively engaging in dialog with the literary community through blog entries and comments puts a voice (or voices) to the publication that makes me feel more loyal, and somehow connected, to their project. I am not suggesting that the North American Review start a blog. The magazine was, in fact, worth the wait. And as I said in my note to the magazine staff, I wish them all the best in their efforts to catch up. But the literary conversation seems to be happening at a faster pace nowadays, and periodicals are being published for more than just libraries. I wonder if even reputable magazines can long afford to keep their workings largely offline and opaque.

I am heading into the third semester at Pacific, where in lieu of ongoing commentaries on individual works, I will be writing a longer critical essay. At this point, I am thinking about writing about Seamus Heaney, and in particular how he successfully navigates numerous dialectic elements in contemporary poetry, such as:

Narration	Lyricism
Free verse	Meter & rhyme
Meaning	”Precious Nonsense”
Stichic	Stanzaic
Plain Speech	Elevated diction

In addition, I will continue to read widely from a variety of sources. Here is what I am thinking about adding to my reading list:

On Poetry

• Fredrick Smock, Poetry And Compassion (thank you, Mr. Carter)
• Dorianne Laux and Kim Adonizzo, The Poet’s Companion: A Guide to the Pleasures of Writing Poetry
• Stephen Berg (ed.), Singular Voices: American Poetry Today

Poetry

• Umberto Saba, Songbook: Selected Poems from the Canzoniere of Umberto Saba (trans. Stephen Sartarelli)
• Marvin Bell, The Book Of The Dead Man and Mars Being Red
• Paul Muldoon, Horse Latitudes
• Jane Mead, The Lord and the General Din of the World
• Ron Silliman (ed.), In The American Tree
• Patrick Kavanagh, Collected Poems
• Eavan Boland, Selected Poems
• Seamus Heaney, Opened Ground: Poems 1966-1996
• Seamus Heaney, District and Circle
• Medbh McGuckian, Selected Poems: 1978-1994
• David St. John, Study for the World’s Body: New and Selected Poems
• Tony Curtis (ed.), The Art of Seamus Heaney
• Paul Celan, Poems of Paul Celan: A Bilingual German/English Edition

Ideas For Poetry Book Structure

• Issa, The Year Of My Life (trans. Nobuyuki Yuasa)
• Basho, Back Roads To Far Towns (trans. Kamaike Susumu and Cid Corman)
• Robert Lowell, Life Studies
• Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments (trans. Richard Howard)

This is only a cursory sketch for now. Any suggestions?

The aims of the stichic and lyric forms are not mutually exclusive. But when the successful elements of the stichic—such as a sense of plain speech, teleological design, and a surprising or revelatory conclusion—can be reconciled with the successful elements of lyric—such as the dense aural pleasures of rhythm and rhyme, and the compounded significance of the broken line—a rare kind of fusion takes place. Consider Seamus Heaney’s poem, “Mint:”

It looked like a clump of small dusty nettles
Growing wild at the gable of the house
Beyond where we dumped our refuse and old bottles:
Unverdant ever, almost beneath notice.

But, to be fair, it also spelled promise
And newness in the back yard of our life
As if something callow yet tenacious
Sauntered in green alleys and grew rife.

The snip of scissor blades, the light of Sunday
Mornings when the mint was cut and loved:
My last things will be first things slipping from me.
Yet let all things go free that have survived.

Let the smells of mint go heady and defenceless
Like inmates liberated in that yard.
Like the disregarded ones we turned against
Because we’d failed them by our disregard.

I turned back to Heaney, like an old trusted friend, to see what I could learn about lyric poetry, and found this excerpt compelling:

… there is another kind of adequacy which is specific to lyric poetry. This has to do with the ‘temple inside our hearing’ which the passage of the poem calls into being. It is an adequacy deriving from what Mandelstam called ‘the steadfastness of speech articulation’, from the resolution and independence which the entirely realized poem sponsors. It has as much to do with the energy released by linguistic fission and fusion, with the buoyancy generated by cadence and tone and rhyme and stanza, as it has to do with the poem’s concerns or the poet’s truthfulness. In fact, in lyric poetry, truthfulness becomes recognizable as a ring of truth within the medium itself. And it is the unappeasable pursuit of this note, a note tuned to its most extreme in Emily Dickinson and Paul Celan and orchestrated to its most opulent in John Keats, it is this which keeps the poet’s ear straining to hear the totally persuasive voice behind all the other informing voices.

It would seem Heaney is advocating, to alter Dickinson’s famous quote, that poets can only “tell all the truth by telling it slant.” Or, as Ella Fitzgerald has been wailing at me through speakers of the coffee shop in which I find myself typing this now, “It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing.”

One of the most important elements of the stichic (i.e. single-stanza, free-verse) poem is development. One of the most important elements of personal narrative is the ability to touch upon the universal. Stanley Kunitz is an expert at delivering the kind of compact, essential revelations and strong finish to make the experience of reading his stichic poems memorable. He also chooses powerful allegories that make his personal narratives transcendent. Consider “The Portrait”:

My mother never forgave my father
for killing himself,
especially at such an awkward time
and in a public park,
that spring
when I was waiting to be born.
She locked his name
in her deepest cabinet
and would not let him out,
though I could hear him thumping.
When I came down from the attic
with the pastel portrait in my hand
of a long-lipped stranger
with a brave moustache
and deep brown level eyes,
she ripped it into shreds
without a single word
and slapped me hard.
In my sixty-fourth year
I can feel my cheek
still burning.

So much of contemporary poetry seems to be a reaction against sentimentality and self-aggrandizement. To this end, many poets seem to be attempting to remove themselves as a direct presence in their poems. Persona poetry is one device by which an interplay of consciousness can exist without the complications of the troublesome “I.” Yet without the poet in the poem, so many poems of consummate craft fall short of the ultimate aim—to touch on the human condition in a way that transcends intellectual tinkering.

Even as Adrienne Rich speaks of “a permeable membrane between art and society,” so, too, does a permeable membrane exist between the inner and outer realities of the poet. Expressing this interplay effectively requires not only skill and sensitivity, but self-awareness.

Consider the following translation (mine) of Umberto Saba’s “The Goat”:

I was speaking to a goat.
She was alone in the field, tied up.
Sated with grass, wet
with rain, she was bleating.

That selfsame bleat was brother
to my own pain. And I replied, at first
in jest, then because pain is eternal,
a constant voice.
This voice sounded
in the groan of a lonely goat.

In a goat with a Semitic face,
a sound to represent all other woes,
all other life.