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*Jordan Davis. Million Poems Journal. 2003. 92 pp.

This is a deceptive book in some way, read straight through. You think it's going to be one thing, and then it shifts into something else, and then again. There aren't roman-numeraled sections to organize the material for you--which is probably better. Note, grammatically, that it's not "million-poem journal" but "million poems / journal."



I like, among other poems, the poem, "Nationalism," which begins like this:

"The German part of me drinks beer
And stares into the sun
The Welsh, Scots, Irish parts of me
Take whiskey "from the gun"
The English prefers caffeine
But also treasures rum
But give wine to the French of me
And then your night's begun--"


I always wanted to write a poem like this:

The Spaniard in me is an Englishman in love with Spain
The Englishman in me is a sunburnt tourist, agape in Florence
The Italian in me is better dressed than I, living in Lisbon
As the Portuguese in me, a dull functionary drunk on
The Scots-Irish Whisky in me...

(7)

Penelope Fitzgerald. The Book Shop. 1978. 123 pp.

This was a delightfully droll book about a a woman opening and then being forced to close a book store in a water-logged Suffolk town in 1959. Another novel, Lolita, is almost a character in the book.

By coincidence this book, like The Sea, The Sea is also from 1978, written by an Englishwoman, and takes place in an old, damp British house on the seacoast.

The recommendation comes by way of Jordan.

It takes Ron about 4,000 words to twist around what should have been a positive--The Hat is a good magazine, good poems and poets, clearly defined editorial agenda--into a negative. With some misdirection about fonts (what's a "san seraph" by the way? I've never heard of that category of fonts! something to do with a lack of angels?), the lack of contributor notes, alphabetial order, etc.., a little slight of hand, he ends up with the conclusion that the strength of the magazine is really a weakness. Ok... if you so say so.

I'm totally biased, of course, since I am a Hat contributor. I think it's pound-for-pound about the best publication that's out there. That's the only criterion that matters. The more you overthink it, the less clear you will be on that.

I got The Hat #7 today in the mail. I'm looking forward to reading it cover to cover, especially the poems by those I have not heard of before, those whose names are totally unfamiliar, which make up about 2/3rds of the total.

Even if I don't like a particular poem as much as the one on the next page, I never have the feeling of "why did they choose that.

My dream: I had posted a note here about reading a book by Herman Hesse. However, the book in question was really by Umberto Eco. Before I had a chance to correct the error, Jordan Davis had left a comment here expressing his deep dislike of Hesse, as had a second person whose identity was not clear from the dream. I was embarrased that someone had thought I liked Herman Hesse.

From Jordan, an uncharacterstically enraged post. I'm glad I'm not the only one taken to fits of pique: I am grasping to think of a more horrifying document of poetic arrogance than Christian Wiman's editorial in the March issue of Poetry. Michael Dumanis's sniveling journal for the magazine's website in which he refers with amazement that a student of his, not one of the better ones, actually had an insight -- less hateful than this.

Here's a choice bit from Wiman's foul pen:

"Not that we say any of this in our responses to the last group, of course. No, that would be presumptuous; we fall back on the generic language of rejection. "We have been very glad to read these poems," we say, by which we mean that it is a good thing for survivors to send such work along to editors, because who knows what might happen, and it is a good thing for us to have our hopes awoken, our complacencies tested. "These poems have moved us," we say, meaning the blunt fact of them, the failure of them [emphasis Jordan Davis], the reminder they give of how much human endeavor, in human terms, comes to nought. "But we're not going to be able to use the poems at this time," we conclude, and mean exactly that, for who knows, perhaps one of these manuscripts will not be burned or buried but instead preserved, passed along to the poet's children, then to his children's children. Perhaps one of these very bundles will make its way into our offices again in a hundred years, when we shall all be changed."

I like how in certain books of Spanish poetry the titles go after the poems, in parentheses. You read the poem first; then, if you want, glance down at the title, which serves more as a caption than as a (coercive) set of instructions preceding the text. A poem doesn't have to have a title either. Only if the poet feels the need to add a little something "outside" the boundaries of the text proper, some brief parenthetical explanation. It's like reading the poem first and then saying, "a good title for this poem might be...." rather than reading the title and saying "you are about to read a poem entitled ..."

Of course, if you have a really great title, this method would not work. You need to put the title in the prominent position it deserves: "No possum, No Sop, No Taters" or "That Time of Year When Butter Tastes Like Cold Water". If the title is merely perfunctory, serving to identify the poem, why do you even need it?

Was that post on What's for Dinner? confusing enough? I was having an argument with myself about the book and hadn't resolved the problem before I wrote about it. Alfred and G. is better. Now I have to find a copy of A Nest of Ninnies.

***

I have never heard of any of the Book Critics Award nominees in poetry, except for Snyder and Rich. I just cannot keep up with everything being published, nor do I have any desire to. I'm sure I'm missing good books. I'm also sure I'm avoiding many books that would depress and overwhelm me in their sheer quantity. Surely these writers, (aside from Rich and Snyder) are "mid-list." I looked up a few on the web, and wasn't impressed. The National Book Awards had a more impressive list of nominees.

I found it odd that Jordan had not heard of the existence of the book by the two famous poets, while at the same time he knew more about the poets I had never heard of .

***

I used to get depressed reading the APR, because it seemed to set itself up as a major journal, but to have no criterion of value other than fame and photogeniality.

Jordan found a letter I had written to Kenneth Koch in 1983, while going through some papers in order to edit the Director's Cut DVD of The Pleasures of Peace (I made that last part up.) I had forgotten completely about the fact that I had written him a letter. I'm surprised he kept it. My wife reminded me that I had sent him a poem based on Some South American Poets. I had absolutely no recollection of this, although a line Jordan quoted me from my letter rang a bell, as something I would have said.

One of those perfect used bookstore moments: Jordan and I went to the Dusty Bookshelf in Lawrence on Monday morning. I found two copies of Kawabata's "Palm-of-the-Hand Stories" for $4 each. (North Point Press). We each bought one: Jordan needed it for his talk and I wanted one also. I also bought a book by Joe D'Amato.

A year ago today I wrote:

Thursday, December 19, 2002
 
Good and bad poetry. There is so much resistance to thinking along those lines! There is no fixed criterion of excellence, we are told. We shouldn’t call bad poetry bad; it might serve some other valuable function, etc... Yet I feel no hesitation about being the scourge of bad poetry. It seems almost an ethical duty. Why can’t I just leave it alone? Why does it make me suffer so? If I knew that I would understand myself much better than I do. In part it is the feeling that appreciation of dreck comes at the cost of appreciation of what I most value. I see this sentiment in Sorrentino’s masterful attack on John Gardner, so I guess I am in good company. I did learn in the New York Times last Sunday, however, that the unexamined life is worth living after all. Tell it to Dick Detective.

Jordan Davis the other day cited my infamous poem on the “Permission Granters,” a category of poets who inspire me precisely because they are not intimidating “great” poets, the type who make you want to give it all up. I had Ron Padgett in mind. I feel, in my heart, that I am roughly as talented as Ron Padgett. That is not an insult to Ron, whose work I hold in the greatest esteem. I just don’t feel intimidated by him. His work gives me permission (persimmon?) to be a poet. That is, in fact, its specific genius. Can anyone be a poet then? Well, that’s the other side of the good/bad argument. “Permission granted, but not to do anything you want,” as John Cage put it. It’s not a license to promote bad poetry. Think of the poem "Poetic License." "This license certifies / that Ron Padgett may tell whatever lies / His heart desires / Until it expires."