Poe “thought” JR Lowell a “genius?”

Poe must have been mistaken!

Of course poets in the 19th century like JR Lowell did tend to busy themselves with silly matters (ambassador to Spain) that poets today don’t bother about; I suppose extra responsiblities will inhibit the development of true genius…

But then Lowell *was* a Unitarian… as was Emerson. So Poe couldn’t have been far off the mark.

Lowell, in turn, “thought” Poe a bowl of fudge, an ingenious idea, no doubt.

Thomas
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I hope so!

Kent
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I don’t plan to return. Interested search parties should contact :

Maria de Carvalho de Melo Neto Hatta Mariela da Sousa
12, Ponta da Seca
Sao Paulo 102220
Brasil

p.s. this poem (handwritten original) will be found on my body, if my body is ever found :

EYE-IN-HAND

Extended chords of summer bend
and sink toward autumn’s monotone. Eyes
nest in muffled twilight. No one will recognize
the haunted king now, camouflaged in his crown

of dried-up oak leaves. He gazes hypnotized
into a little mirror shaped like an almond
hidden in his palm; his eye meets its image
there (buried in a pond) and dives

(ghost-child) toward his autumn kingdom.
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(I’m parodying myself, obviously.)
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Including, perhaps, a parody of the comments section at Harriet…

Kent
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When we have already said goodby
And the turnips she has boiled for me
Have already shed their royal purplE
Then, only then
She turns to me – hip thrown like
That boomerang we shared once, back & forth
Across the outback of Wesleyan campus green – and
Says : “Get lost, weasel
You would have been published by now
In Poetry Magazine, if you were a real poet
And not some slacker tit-grabbing frat boy from
Denver -”

The road out of Denver was cold that night
But the stars were chortling
With cosmic expansion &
Gaseous relief
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That Wordsworth had me in stitches.
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http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1592

Thanks, Don.

That was like being back in the second grade.

“Poetry can mean whatever you want…”

good grief.

That was too nice to parody.

If I parodied that, I’d never forgive myself.

Thomas
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I’ll tell thee everything I can:
There’s little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.
“Who are you, aged man?” I said,
“And how is it you live?”
And his answer trickled through my head,
Like water through a sieve.

He said “I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.
I sell them unto men,” he said,
“Who sail on stormy seas;
And that’s the way I get my bread –
A trifle, if you please.”

But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one’s whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.
So, having no reply to give
To what the old man said,
I cried “Come, tell me how you live!”
And thumped him on the head.

His accents mild took up the tale:
He said “I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowlands’ Macassar-Oil –
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil.”

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
“Come, tell me how you live,” I cried,
“And what it is you do!”

He said “I hunt for haddocks’ eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

“I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs:
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that’s the way” (he gave a wink)
“By which I get my wealth–
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour’s noble health.”

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e’er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,

Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know–
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo–
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

Fans of the parody might like to see the book Romantic Parodies, 1797-1831, by David A. Kent, D. R. Ewen, who say that “Parody is power.” Check it out via Google Books:

http://books.google.com/books?id=4phonIFw_MIC&printsec=frontcover&dq=parody+Wordsworth+%E2%80%9CResolution+and+Independence%E2%80%9D&source=gbs_summary_r&cad=0#PPA5-IA2,M1
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http://www.poetryfoundation.org/journal/audioitem.html?id=1592
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Poetry which exhibits subjective, quirky personality traits is not going to be loved by everyone. The same witty, exuberant person can be adored by some, while others find them annoying.

There was a fair amount of hostility to Whitman in the 19th century, and to me, those parodies reflect that.

Imitation is flattery, but parody, I think, is ultimately a hostile gesture, or at least, a war-like, self-asserting one.

Was it Eliot who said, good poets borrow, great poets steal? Parody is where you steal, and wish to be caught, and when you are caught, you don’t care. Yet perhaps there are those who steal without hiding, in the open, and STILL do NOT get caught, and the reward for this is greatness.

If I could make a formula: Audacity in the face of ignorance = greatness.
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I agree that malice and affection are not opposed, and appreciate the reminder of “Hiawatha’s Photographing” by Carroll, which seems to exemplify this truth.

Another wonderful Hiawatha parody is “Mud Soup” by Carolyn Kizer:

Sauté pork and add the veggies,
Add the garlic, cook ten minutes,
Add to lentils, add to ham bone;
Add the bayleaf, cloves in cheesecloth . . .
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Michael,

I haven’t the faintest idea why people pay attention to me, either.

Perhaps you need to step up your noble efforts?

Thomas
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Lewis Carroll admired Longfellow — called him “the greatest living master of language” — and sent “Hiawatha” up in “Hiawatha Photographing.” Carroll mocks Longfellow without stint. I don’t find it cold, though, but you very well may.
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Thanks for mentioning that anthology, Annie. I browsed it at a used bookstore recently and couldn’t remember who edited it. Thomas can speak for himself, of course, but I took him to say that “pure poetry” is not necessarily “pure thought,” but poetry purely about poetry. I took Ange (who can also speak for herself, of course) to be saying that Ashbery’s poetic of waking-dreaminess is what has made his stuff “come to signify poetry in its pure state.” Though later she talks about all of his parodies of traditional poetic genres, which supports Thomas’s observations, I thought. Perhaps the day-dreaminess is in itself a form, or dictates the form of each poem, the form of each being determined by [dreamy] intuition.

I don’t believe in “pure poetry,” but if I did, I’d lean more toward George Moore. Thanks again.
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Perhaps it has something to do with bite: an affectionate parody has no bite to it.

Tim Upperton
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On a related note, unlike Manoel, I find Ashbery’s lighter poems effective and memorable, in part because they show more self-restraint, more of a lighter touch, than his supposedly serious poems. I like the thought of him being received as a comic poet in the UK as Don describes. But Manoel, it’s nice to see the other position articulated. Certainly his important serious poems are engaging an entirely different scope of poetics. Personally, I always think it is Wordsworth he’s taking on . . .

Michael, I assume Thomas means—and I imagine you know he means—simply that many of Ashbery’s most influential poems are not written in metrical or rhythmical verse but in the cadences of prose. Of course, this is true of much recent poetry.

Whether free verse is considered poetry or not is a question of one’s definition of poetry, and thankfully not relevant to the theme of this particular discussion.

I understand that hyperbole can easily beget hyperbole, but still I’d appreciate your keeping a respectful tone towards everyone here, as it makes it much more comfortable for all to join in the conversation.

Speaking of “Pure Poetry,” to follow up on another digressive topic, it’s interesting how the definition of that phrase has changed. In George Moore’s anthology called Pure Poetry, edited around the turn of the 20th century, it meant pure sound. Now, based on comments by Thomas and on the quote John thoughtfully provided from Ange Mlinkos’ review, it seems to have changed 180 degrees and come to mean pure thought.

.
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So I guess what Ange is trying to say is that John Ashbery is in fact a rock god?

the new Jesus?

ps
Jack: (no Collins ain’t so funny… but he at least knows he is numpty-ish and relishes in it)
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by Harold Gunwick

The earth is a large ball of material,
and there are other balls out there, but the earth
is, as they say, close to home – and on this ball
of earth, or soil, or tectonic plates, you will find
clusters of land masses covered with crosshatched lines.
Why? Well, that is what we call agriculture,
in our human world. Some of it involves pig farming.
But not all of it. And not all of it is farming.
There are cities : these are places, on earth
where people bunch close together, for warmth &
companionship, and also to show off – their
talents, I mean. It’s called civilization, kid.

On earth, there is this country, a special nation
called the United States, or the USA. The USA
sits astride two oceans, like what is described as
a Colossus! And on the Eastern Coast of the USA,
there is a grand city – maybe the grandest
on earth – called New York; and in New York
there is a park, called Central Park; and in
the park – right now – there is a lady named Gwen,
who is walking her dog. A dog she has named
John Ashbery. Why, you ask? Well, because
John Ashbery is considered (by the people
of the USA) to be the greatest living poet
in the whole grand world! Each day, when Gwen
enters Strawberry Fields (part of the park
named after John Lennon, musician) she lets
John Ashbery off his leash… & calls out, anxiously -

“John, John! Come back here, John!”

This is really the greatest tribute
which a poet could ever hope to receive.

I hope you understand my poem, Gwen -
and you too, world! Hurray, John Ashbery!
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Ashbery is poetry reduced to its invisible essence.”

– Thomas Brady

Talk about throwing the baby out with the bathwater.
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Another Case of Mistaken Identity

When I came out of the pizza place there was a
man sitting in my car. “Excuse me,” I said. “But
you’re in my car.” “No I’m not,” he said. “It’s my
car. Bought and paid for.” I said, “No it’s not. It’s
mine. Now please get out.” “No,” he said. “It’s
mine. “Get out or I’ll call the police,” I said. “Go
ahead,” he said. “Call them and I’ll tell them you’re
trying to steal my car.” “Are you crazy?” I said.
”You’re the one that’s crazy,” he said. “I am not,”
I said. “You are too,” he said. “Look,” I said, “I’m
going to call the cops if you don’t get out.” “Go
ahead,” he said. “And I’ll tell them you’re trying
to carjack me. And that you exposed yourself to
me.” “I did not,” I said. “You did too. So what’s the
in the bag” he asked. “None of your business,”
I said. “Now get out of the car. “Pizza, I bet? I hope
you didn’t put onions on it. I hate onions. My wife
likes them,” he said. “Get out of the car. I’m warning
you,” I said. “I’m warning you,” he said. “Here. I’ll
hold the pizza if you’re going to sock me,” he said.
”I’m not going to sock you. I just want you to get
out of my car,” I said. “It’s my car,” he said. “Come
on. Give me the pizza. Hand it over. I’m already late.
The pizza’s getting cold. My is wife waiting. I told her
I’d be right back.” “Look,” I said. “It’s not your car
or your pizza or your wife.” “No?” he said. “Then who
do they belong to?” “They belong to me.” I said. “Check
the registration in the glove compartment. My name is
on it.” He opened the glove compartment and found
the registration. “Nope,” he said. “You’re not on it.”
”Let me see that,” I said. “Promise you won’t steal
it,” he said. “Just give it to me,” I said. “Promise,”
he said. “I promise,” I said. He handed the registration
to me. My name wasn’t on it. “See. I told you,” he said.
“Now give me the pizza. I’m late. And the keys.” I handed
him everything . “Thanks,” he said. “By the way, where
do I live? “ I told him my address and he drove away.
But the last laugh was on him. I didn’t have a wife
and the pizza was topped with onions.
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You might be interested in prize-winning essayist Ange Mlinko’s Nov. ’07 essay on Ashbery, from “The Nation.” (Congrats Ange!)

“[H]e refuses to treat the poem as a definable entity with fixed formal coordinates. While committed to unmetrical, free-form stanzas and even unlineated poetry, he can toss off a double sestina or pages of rhymed quatrains. His dexterity renders moot poetry’s internecine battles over prosody.”

“[T]his poetry of America’s dreamlife, of eruptions and interruptions and daemonic demotic, has come to signify what poetry is in its pure state.”

“. . . his miniature narratives, which lovingly parody romances, travelogues, biographies.”

Ashbery can be very witty, and he does make me laugh. I don’t believe in “pure poetry”; or, if it exists, Ashbery’s work is too involved with aesthetic-historical allusiveness to be it. Mother Goose, many (most?) of whose poems were once topical, but whose allusions have faded away, is closer to pure poetry.

Michael and Don,

I agree halfway with both of you. Half of Joshua’s poem sounds like an Ashbery imitation, and I particularly admire the antecedentless “it”; half sounds like Joshua; the Joshua-half veers away from Ashbery to critique Ashbery; on its own terms, it works. Thanks for posting it, Michael.
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