Thanks.

“He has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading his poetry I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.”

Is this a magical description of Coleridge, or a veiled insult?

Probably the latter. Some of the mystery of Poe is solved when we realize he was pro-U.S. at a time when Great Britain was not exactly a friend. Poe championed American Letters not with jingoism, (he may have been ‘a jingle man,’ but he was no jingo man) directly (by being a very good writer) and indirectly by teasing the Brits whenever he got a chance.

Thomas
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Being gay,
in America,
means
never having to say,
I do.

Acknoledgement: I’d like to thank Erich Segal
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“He has imprisoned his own conceptions by the barrier he has erected against those of others. It is lamentable to think that such a mind should be buried in metaphysics, and, like the Nyctanthes, waste its perfume upon the night alone. In reading his poetry I tremble like one who stands upon a volcano, conscious, from the very darkness bursting from the crater, of the fire and the light that are weltering below.”

For anyone interested, Poe’s “Letter to B-” can be found here: http://xroads.virginia.edu/~HYPER/POE/letter2b.html. It’s a fun read….
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I enjoyed your blog piece on Wordsworth’s ‘Lyrical Ballads’ and his next edition with preface.

Have you ever seen the following?

You might enjoy this:

As to Wordsworth, I have no faith in him. That he had, in youth, the feelings of a poet I believe — for there are glimpses of extreme delicacy in his writings — (and delicacy is the poet’s own kingdom — his El Dorado) — but they have the appearance of a better day recollected; and glimpses, at best, are little evidence of present poetic fire — we know that a few straggling flowers spring up daily in the crevices of the glacier.

He was to blame in wearing away his youth in contemplation with the end of poetizing in his manhood. With the increase of his judgment the light which should make it apparent has faded away. His judgment consequently is too correct. This may not be understood, — but the old Goths of Germany would have understood it, who used to debate matters of importance to their State twice, once when drunk, and once when sober — sober that they might not be deficient in formality — drunk lest they should be destitute of vigor.

The long wordy discussions by which he tries to reason us into admiration of his poetry, speak very little in his favor: they are full of such assertions as this — (I have opened one of his volumes at random) “Of genius the only proof is the act of doing well what is worthy to be done, and what was never done before” — indeed! then it follows that in doing what is unworthy to be done, or what has been done before, no genius can be evinced: yet the picking of pockets is an unworthy act, pockets have been picked time immemorial, and Barrington, the pick-pocket, in point of genius, would have thought hard of a comparison with William Wordsworth, the poet.

Again — in estimating the merit of certain poems, whether they be Ossian’s or M’Pherson’s, can surely be of little consequence, yet, in order to prove their worthlessness, Mr. W. has expended many pages in the controversy. Tantæne animis? Can great minds descend to such absurdity? But worse still: that he may bear down every argument in favor of these poems, he triumphantly drags forward a passage, in his abomination of which he expects the reader to sympathize. It is the beginning of the epic poem “Temora.” “The blue waves of Ullin roll in light; the green hills are covered with day; trees shake their dusky heads in the breeze.” And this — this gorgeous, yet simple imagery — where all is alive and panting with immortality — this — William Wordsworth, the author of Peter Bell, has selected for his contempt. We shall see what better he, in his own person, has to offer. Imprimis:

“And now she’s at the pony’s head,
And now she’s at the pony’s tail,
On that side now, and now on this,
And almost stifled her with bliss —
A few sad tears does Betty shed,
She pats the pony where or when
She knows not: happy Betty Foy!
O Johnny! never mind the Doctor!”

Secondly:

“The dew was falling fast, the — stars began to blink,
I heard a voice, it said —— drink, pretty creature, drink;
And looking o’er the hedge, be — fore me I espied
A snow-white mountain lamb with a — maiden at its side,
No other sheep were near, the lamb was all alone,
And by a slender cord was — tether ‘d to a stone.”

Now we have no doubt this is all true; we will believe it, indeed we will, Mr. W. Is it sympathy for the sheep you wish to excite? I love a sheep from the bottom of my heart.

But there are occasions when even Wordsworth is reasonable. Even Stamboul, it is said, shall have an end, and the most unlucky blunders must come to a conclusion. Here is an extract from his preface —

“Those who have been accustomed to the phraseology of modern writers, if they persist in reading this book to a conclusion (impossible!) will, no doubt, have to struggle with feelings of awkwardness; (ha! ha! ha!) they will look round for poetry (ha! ha! ha! ha!) and will be induced to inquire by what species of courtesy these attempts have been permitted to assume that title.” Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!

Yet let not Mr. W. despair; he has given immortality to a wagon, and the bee Sophocles has transmitted to eternity a sore toe, and dignified a tragedy with a chorus of turkeys.
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You are aware of the great barrier in the path of an American writer. He is read, if at all, in preference to the combined and established wit of the world. I say established; for it is with literature as with law or empire — an established name is an estate in tenure, or a throne in possession. Besides, one might suppose that books, like their authors, improve by travel — their having crossed the sea is, with us, so great a distinction. Our antiquaries abandon time for distance; our very fops glance from the binding to the bottom of the title-page, where the mystic characters which spell London, Paris, or Genoa, are precisely so many letters of recommendation.
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At long last, a kindred spirit. Ah, the seriousness of poetry. Thanks.
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Yes, it would be something to see, “soon to be a major motion picture,” on a book of poems. What a hoot! Very funny. As usual…
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Second.

Kent
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As someone who has never had to be burdened with such a hardship as a publication all of this matters very little to me. But this has been one of the most entertaining threads in a while. Though perhaps all those fancy rejection slips I tape on my wall are a form of acknowledgement, which I think has already been proposed in slightly different forms.
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I, too, remember the Body Bag & have often thought it had a salutary effect on would-be contributors. And it sure made you look forward to a new issue. EC thrives online these days, but I loved their beguiling old print format.

My own fave ack. is from, natch, Basil Bunting, ca. 1935:

“Acknowledgements.
are due to T. Lucretius Carus, Muhammad Shamsuddin Shirazi Hafiz, Maslhuddin Shirazi Sadi, Q. Horatius Flaccus, Charles Baudelaire, François Villon, Niccolo Machiavelli, Kamo-no-Chomei, Jenghis Khan, G. Valerius Catullus, Clement Marot, Jesus Christ, Dante Alighieri and anonymous peasants for loans;

as well as to Jonathan Swift, François de Malherbe, Ernest Fenellosa, Louis Zukofsky and Ezra Pound for advice and guidance;
besides all the poets who ever were before me, particularly those I have read:
but the editors who bought some of these poems at inadequate prices or printed others without paying anything I need not thank. On the contrary, they should thank me.”

& later:

“Many were first printed in Poetry, of Chicago, whose editors so many poets have had cause to thank.”
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Really, all of this over acknowledgements!?! Just goes to show, poets better serve the world/work when they limit their bloviations. Odd that what I’m sure Gurial intended as a diversion turned so serious. I blame unchecked pretention, myself.
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And what about blogs? Should poets cite their poems posted on blogs?

And what about poetry forums? Are they legitimate sources to acknowledge?

And what about if I start my own magazine and publish myself? Should I acknowledge that?
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http://www.wired.com/techbiz/people/magazine/17-04/st_thompson
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(please note, no dead white guys were harmed in the making of this post)
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