Monthly Archives: August 2007

Monday’s Verse 8-27-07

Readers,

obviously at this point, I’ll just be trying to live up to the new
standards of intelligence, humanity, and wit that Ms. Cohan set during
my absence. Many thanks.

Gol dang I loves me some Gerald Stern. And not only because his name
is an anagram for “Dr. Ten Lagers.” No, it’s more because he can seem
like the combined second comings of Walt Whitman, William Carlos
Williams
, and Wallace Stevens. So I was delighted to see him in a
recent New Yorker. He’s always a lesson in poetry, because rarely, if
ever, does one get a sense of what the man MEANS. That is OK. He’s
known for surreal connections between image and thought, which work
because his writing itself is usually so fluid. In other words, his
poems make sense in an OTHER way. This one is I think no
exception–seems more of an exercise in rhythm than anything else.
Enjoy the waning weeks of summer,

-ed.

LOVE BOX

Because of the Paganini I lifted the lid
the minute I got back from Prague and kissed
the two ridiculous inlaid hearts that were
located so carefully and lacquered so well
they could have been painted on, and I would have said
one was me and one was you and you were
standing beside a column that propped the roof up
and you said, “Don’t forget, I saved your life once,”
and I said, “I’ll never forget,” and there were walls
plated in bronze and dogs of gold and silver,
except the machine broke down, or what it did,
the music just ended, or just when you thought it did
there was another PING; and I got up
to put my white shirt on I wear to buy
my carrots in and I rewound the box
though it was June and there was blood on my fingers
from strawberries and I examined the tiny
pins reaching up from the comb and the block of wood
to see where music comes from and to learn
once and for all how feeling is converted,
though we were in a boat in Naples harbor–
I like that better–and we were floating and there was
more than an inch of water and the inlaid
hearts were shaking and the pins were going wild.

MB 8/13/07, guest ed

Dear All,

It is mid-August and the heat index has soared past 110 this weekend
in my part of the woods. It is hot and humid and I am grumpy. Why does
weather effective us some much? Wouldn’t it be great to know what the
temperature was when a poem was written?

I wonder if it was a humid New York day in August when Dorothy Parker
wrote “Symptom Recital?”

Parker put it out there with verse that was often terse and quick. A
thought was conveyed and then she moved on to something else–possibly
a drink at the Algonquin? Let’s all make a toast to the end of
summer…and good drinks consumed at round tables!

-Sara

Symptom Recital

I do not like my state of mind;
I’m bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn’s recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I’d be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I’m due to fall in love again.