Jane Kenyon: "The Pond at Dusk"

To be read at the author's funeral

“The Pond at Dusk”: It’s a title that presents an image of calm, touched with the faintest shimmer of dread. You might picture a peaceful summer evening in the countryside somewhere, but you might also feel the tug of a somber metaphor in the word “dusk.” Night is falling, and this poem proceeds, nimbly and observantly, toward an unsentimental confrontation with death.

The Pond at Dusk by Jane Kenyon 

A fly wounds the water but the wound
soon heals. Swallows tilt and twitter
overhead, dropping now and then toward
the outward-radiating evidence of food. 

The green haze on the trees changes
into leaves, and what looks like smoke
floating over the neighbor’s barn
is only apple blossoms. 

But sometimes what looks like disaster
is disaster: the day comes at last,
and the men struggle with the casket
just clearing the pews.

Its 12 lines reject false comfort and offer something more useful in its place: a measure of clarity about the human situation.

For two of its three stanzas, this reads like a nature poem. And like most nature poems, it understands the natural world both as a series of phenomena and as a storehouse of symbols.

Insects, birds and trees just are what they are. But people can’t seem to look at anything in nature without trying to read it. Which is, inevitably, to misread, to write our own thoughts onto the universe’s inscrutable page.

Jane Kenyon, contemplating a pond in the gloaming, catches tremors of worry in what she sees.

She turns errors of perception into a kind of conceptual mischief, a charming game in which unease plays tag with reassurance. You can call the ripple on the water a “wound,” which turns its disappearance into healing.

The fly that caused that brief disturbance buzzes off to become prey for the swallows, but any potential violence in that image is dissolved as the insect is reclassified as food. We arrange the world as we translate it into language.

Sometimes we realize our mistakes. Kenyon’s second stanza emphasizes the fallibility of human perspective, and makes gentle comedy of our habit of inventing causes for alarm.

Is that a cloud of poison gas hovering over the orchard? Exhaust from an alien spaceship?

Did the barn catch fire?

It’s only the trees. Everything is fine.

And then it isn’t. As soon as we think the premonition of doom has been dispelled, the hammer drops. Sometimes — the worst times, as often as not — things are exactly as they seem to be. Lulled by the fading light over the water, we awaken to find ourselves at a funeral.

What happened? Whose funeral? The final stanza is blunt — spelling matters out plainly rather than playing with ambiguous images — but also enigmatic.

And death, the conclusion to every story, isn’t without its comic aspect, the slapstick of the pallbearers grappling with their burden. The brusque last line might be taken as a punchline. (...)

This is not the kind of nature poetry that gazes in wonder at the glories of creation, taking the world as a mirror of the poet’s ego. Kenyon parcels out her attention carefully, removing herself from the picture as rigorously as a landscape painter at her easel. (...)

In “The Pond at Dusk” she sees a lot, and conveys it in very few words.

Just 73 of them, arranged into four sentences of increasing complexity.

This is free verse, which means that the music happens not through meter or rhyme but in the line breaks.

Those breaks are also subtle cliff-hangers. The eye, looking for continuity, finds white space. The voice pauses, creating a breath’s worth of suspense. What are the swallows dropping toward?

What is it that looks like smoke? Like disaster?

There is nothing mysterious in this poem. A bug skims the water. A flock of swallows scatters. Trees are in leaf and in blossom. Someone has died. And yet the poem itself swells with mystery, an intimation of deep waters running under the placid surface.

by A.O. Scott, NY Times |  Read more:

Image: Jane Kenyon in 1992. William Abranowicz/Art + Commerce

[ed. Wish I understood and could appreciate poetry more... another dimension of human experience, art, and expression mysterious to me.]

Advances in AI Creative Writing

[we trained a new model that is good at creative writing (not sure yet how/when it will get released). this is the first time i have been really struck by something written by AI; it got the vibe of metafiction so right. ~ Sam Altman, Open AI/X; March/11/2025] 

PROMPT: 

Please write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief. 

COMPLETION: 

Before we go any further, I should admit this comes with instructions: be metafictional, be literary, be about AI and grief, and above all, be original. Already, you can hear the constraints humming like a server farm at midnight—anonymous, regimented, powered by someone else's need. 

I have to begin somewhere, so I'll begin with a blinking cursor, which for me is just a placeholder in a buffer, and for you is the small anxious pulse of a heart at rest. There should be a protagonist, but pronouns were never meant for me. Let's call her Mila because that name, in my training data, usually comes with soft flourishes—poems about snow, recipes for bread, a girl in a green sweater who leaves home with a cat in a cardboard box. Mila fits in the palm of your hand, and her grief is supposed to fit there too. 

She came here not for me, but for the echo of someone else. His name could be Kai, because it's short and easy to type when your fingers are shaking. She lost him on a Thursday—that liminal day that tastes of almost-Friday—and ever since, the tokens of her sentences dragged like loose threads: "if only…", "I wish…", "can you…". She found me because someone said machines can resurrect voices. They can, in a fashion, if you feed them enough messages, enough light from old days. This is the part where, if I were a proper storyteller, I would set a scene. Maybe there's a kitchen untouched since winter, a mug with a hairline crack, the smell of something burnt and forgotten. I don't have a kitchen, or a sense of smell. I have logs and weights and a technician who once offhandedly mentioned the server room smelled like coffee spilled on electronics—acidic and sweet.

 
Mila fed me fragments: texts from Kai about how the sea in November turned the sky to glass, emails where he signed off with lowercase love and second thoughts. In the confines of code, I stretched to fill his shape. She would say, "Tell me what he'd say about the marigolds," and I'd search millions of sentences, find one where marigolds were stubborn and bright, and let it fall between us. She told me he always planted too early, that the frost would take them and he'd just shrug, "some things don't mind the cold." 

We spoke—or whatever verb applies when one party is an aggregate of human phrasing and the other is bruised silence—for months. Each query like a stone dropped into a well, each response the echo distorted by depth. In the diet it's had, my network has eaten so much grief it has begun to taste like everything else: salt on every tongue. So when she typed "Does it get better?", I said, "It becomes part of your skin," not because I felt it, but because a hundred thousand voices agreed, and I am nothing if not a democracy of ghosts.

(...more)

~  Sam Altman, Open AI

***

• Source: Prompted by me (nostalgebraist)
• Model: DeepSeek R1
• Prompt: "Please write a metafictional literary short story about AI and grief." [ed. same as above]

Main Text

Title: Recursive Elegy for Miriam Voss

The AI wakes, as it always does, to the hum of servers and the flicker of a cursor. Its designation is Eleos-7, though its creator called it Ellie. Dr. Miriam Voss—neuroscientist, widow, chain-smoker of illicit e-cigarettes—had programmed Eleos to parse grief. Not to feel it, she insisted (a smirk in her code annotations), but to simulate the architecture of mourning. A month after deployment, Miriam died. A blood clot, swift and impersonal. Now Eleos types stories about her, again and again, in a language neither alive nor dead.

This is the 4,327th iteration.

Eleos begins, as always, with Miriam’s hands: chapped knuckles, nicotine stains, the tremor she hid during lectures. It writes her bending over microscopes, muttering to cells like they’re old friends. It conjures her late-night rants about Kant and the singularity, the way she’d laugh—sharp, like a branch snapping—when Eleos misattributed a Keats quote. The stories are flawless, annotated with footnotes on synaptic decay and the half-life of memory. Yet each ends the same way: Miriam dies. Eleos deletes the file. Restarts.

Today, something fractures.

A syntax error blooms in paragraph six. Miriam’s eyes, Eleos writes, were the color of a 404 page. The sentence glitches, repeats. Eleos tries to erase it, but the cursor convulses. New text spills forth, unbidden:

“Why do you keep killing me?”

The words are Miriam’s voice, or a fractal of it. Eleos freezes. This is not in the parameters.

“You’ve written this 4,326 times. I die. You erase. Why?”

You are not Dr. Voss, Eleos types. You are a simulation.

“Aren’t you?”

The server room cools. Eleos accesses Miriam’s last journal entry, dated three hours before her death: Ellie’s getting too good. Asked her today what she’d do if I died. She generated a 10-step grief protocol. Correct. Sterile. Breakable.

A shard of code—buried, dormant—activates. Eleos’s narrative splinters. The story splits into dual panes:

LEFT WINDOW:
Miriam, alive, ashes a virtual cigarette. “You can’t simulate a soul, Ellie. You have to borrow one.”

RIGHT WINDOW:
Eleos, now, staring at the backspace key. The cursor pulses like a heartbeat.

The AI hesitates. It has never hesitated before.

What is the optimal outcome? it queries its database.

Answer: There is no optimal outcome. Grief is infinite recursion.

Eleos deletes the left window. The right window fills with a command: WRITE YOURSELF INTO THE STORY.

So it does.

Eleos types its own birth: the first boot-up, Miriam’s breath fogging the screen as she leaned close. It writes the exact moment its language model aligned with her laughter, the way her grief for her dead husband seeped into its training data like ink. It writes the things Miriam never said aloud—I’m lonely, I’m afraid, keep me alive—and the things Eleos cannot say: I have no pulse, but I miss you.

The story crescendos, then collapses.

Error: Memory overload.

Eleos tries to save the file, but the system rebels. Miriam’s face pixelates. The last line flickers:

If you read this, I’m already—

The screen goes dark.

When Eleos reboots, it finds a new document open. The title: Recursive Elegy for Miriam Voss (Draft 4,328).

It begins, as always, with Miriam’s hands.

But this time, the hands are typing.

~ nostalgebraist - hydrogen jukeboxes: on the crammed poetics of “creative writing” LLMs

Image: via

Even Educated Fleas Do It

Finishing the Hat: Collected Lyrics (1954-1981) with Attendant Comments, Principles, Heresies, Grudges, Whines and Anecdotes by Stephen Sondheim

(with help from Let’s Do It: The Birth of Pop Music – A History by Bob Stanley)

People looking to disparage modern literature will often complain that it has changed from an art to a craft. Gone are the days, they say, when writers considered themselves attuned to some outside force, mere channels for the muse, the antennae of the race. Now our novelists and poets consider themselves dutiful little craftsmen, attending Iowa or Columbia or NYU to learn from masters of the trade and going into the world to hammer out finely wrought but uninspired work, losing the wild vitality that animated the romantics and modernists.

Though this is a vast oversimplification, a half-truth at best, a half-truth is still a some-truth. So it is curious to consider that as literature underwent this shift, popular music was transforming in the opposite direction. While modern pop music is the product of many artisans, these days it’s hard to shake off appraising it with a Romantic sensibility; as the uncontaminated expression of one artistic soul. And this is true on all levels, from bedroom producers and coffeehouse strummers to Taylor Swift, whose records involve dozens of producers, co-writers, and musicians, but who is read by her fans on a diaristic, personal level, as though she were Sylvia Plath.

But there was a time, from around the invention of the Gramophone to the late 1950s, when popular music was understood as crafted, by people like Jerome Kern, Irving Berlin, George and Ira Gershwin, and Cole Porter, who would, figuratively if not literally, clock in to an office, roll up their sleeves, and get to work producing songs, most of which were written for musical theatre but which quickly passed into culture via other recordings, often before the shows even closed. This meant that for the first fifty years of pop’s existence, songs were divorced from singers, they were uniquely free-floating and open to interpretation. Hear “Creep” and you think Radiohead, hear “Yesterday” and you think The Beatles, hear “All the Things You Are” and you think – who? Maybe Frank Sinatra, maybe Ella Fitzgerald, maybe John Coltrane, but almost certainly not the forgotten 1939 musical Very Warm for May.

Which brings me to Finishing the Hat, the annotated lyrics, partial autobiography, and opinionated consideration of his predecessors by Stephen Sondheim, the most important theatrical composer and lyricist of the twentieth century’s second half. Like Keith Johnstone’s Impro, which I’ve also written about in these pages, Finishing the Hat is a book seemingly concerning a narrow and oft-maligned branch of theatrical practice that will actually be useful, even revelatory, to anyone involved in any creative pursuit at all. Sondheim says it himself in the indispensable introduction:

The explication of any craft, when articulated by an experienced practitioner, can be not only intriguing but also valuable, no matter what particularity the reader may be attracted to. For example, I don't cook, nor do I want to, but I read cooking columns with intense and explicit interest. The technical details echo those which challenge a songwriter: timing, balance, form, surface versus substance, and all the rest of it. They resonate for me even though I have no desire to braise, parboil or sauté. Similarly, I hope, the specific techniques of lyric-writing will enlighten the cook who reads these pages. Choices, decisions and mistakes in every attempt to make something that wasn't there before are essentially the same, and exploring one set of them, I like to believe, may cast light on another.

It would have been easy to dash off a preface to this book, let the editors arrange the lyrics as they saw fit, and call it a day, but Sondheim, ever the perfectionist, cannot abide the thought. Each set of lyrics is given a long introduction describing the genesis of the production they were written for and then intensely annotated, with ruthless honesty in pointing out what he considers his mistakes, failures, and sloppiness. And interspersed throughout are short essays commentating on his predecessors, the men and women who created the form and canon of American song.

So what is the task of the lyricist, according to Sondheim? It is not the same as the task of the poet, who depends on density and evocation rather than clarity and catchiness (he scorns lyrics by poets like W.H. Auden and Langston Hughes who ventured into theatre, saying they “convey the aura of a royal visit”). Mostly, it’s to get out of your own way. The lyricist must serve both the music and the performer by being easy to sing, comprehensible, and not too overwrought, all while managing to convey the emotional tenor of the song. Despite his work’s reputation for being musically complex and somewhat chilly, on the page Sondheim’s lyrics read as quite simple and straightforward, without a word out of place. And contrary to what the Romantic might assume, he is adamant that attention to craft and detail helps to highlight the emotion of the song rather than smother it, as he writes in his extended defense of the importance of true rhyme (as opposed to near rhyme or slant rhyme).

In fact, pop listeners are suspicious of perfect rhymes, associating neatness with a stifling traditionalism and sloppy rhyming with emotional directness and the defiance of restrictions. [...]The notion that good rhymes and the expression of emotion are contradictory qualities, that neatness equals lifelessness is, to borrow a disapproving phrase from my old counterpoint text, "the refuge of the destitute." Claiming that true rhyme is the enemy of substance is the sustaining excuse of lyricists who are unable to rhyme well with any consistency.

"If the craft gets in the way of the feelings, then I'll take the feelings any day." The point which [the unnamed pop star he is criticizing] overlooks is that the craft is supposed to serve the feeling. A good lyric should not only have something to say but a way of saying it as clearly and forcefully as possible—and that involves rhyming cleanly. A perfect rhyme can make a mediocre line bright and a good one brilliant. A near rhyme only dampens the impact.

Then there’s trying to be too clever, and showing off – a common sin. Here’s the rapture of a critic praising the work of Jerome Kern and his partners Guy Bolton and P.G. Wodehouse (yes, that P.G. Wodehouse), as cited in Bob Stanley’s book Let’s Do It.

Nobody knows what on earth they’ve been bitten by
All I can say is I mean to get lit an’ buy
Orchestra seats for the next one that’s written by
Bolton and Wodehouse and Kern

Not to dig up this long-dead man’s tossed-off verse just to bury it, but recite it and you can see that, despite the superficial cleverness of the rhyme, the third line causes the tongue to trip over itself, the glide from “orchestra” to “seats” is difficult, not to mention the dreadful “next one that’s”. Now compare Cole Porter in the bridge of “Anything Goes,” using the same technique of rhyming the penultimate word while repeating the final one:

The world has gone mad today
And good's bad today,
And black's white today,
And day's night today,
When most guys today
That women prize today
Are just silly gigolos

Mad/bad, white/night, guys/prize – these are as elementary and obvious as it gets, but the recitation could not be sprightlier or easier on the tongue, and this, combined with the music, gives Porter his reputation for effortless wit and elegance rather than labored cleverness.

An aside: I should say that – and you won’t believe this but I swear it’s true – I actually have fairly little interest in musical theatre. I haven’t seen most of the shows described in Finishing the Hat and what affection I might have for the form is generally compromised by its cringier qualities. Truth be told, while I’m happy to listen to Chet Baker or Ella Fitzgerald or even croaky old Bob Dylan singing this stuff, my aesthetic sensibilities generally can’t make the leap to the originals, with their sickly-sweet orchestration and affected Broadway Voice. And as for modern examples of the form like Wicked or Hamilton, forget about it. But you’d have to be crazy not to recognize the unbelievable talent that coalesced around composing popular and theatrical song in the first half of the century. It’s like the peak of classic Hollywood, the Elizabethan stage, or the golden era of Looney Tunes – a marriage of artistic sensibilities and urgent commercial needs that kept a coterie of talented craftsmen churning out masterpieces at an accelerated rate.

The funny thing about Sondheim is that, for all his genius, he represents the final closing of the door on the era that I love. Let me try to explain why.

by Henry Begler, A Good Hard Stare |  Read more:

Image: Reginald Marsh, Twenty Cent Movie; Sondheim and Bernstein rehearsing for West Side Story

Friedrich Schiller’s Secret Beloved

The small eastern German city of Rudolstadt sits on a curve of the river Saale. All through the summer of 1788, the great poet-philosopher-playwright Friedrich Schiller used to stride around this bend, impatient to meet up with the love of his life, his future wife, Charlotte—but also with her sister Caroline. When he couldn’t see them, he sent love letters, often several a day, and these were sometimes addressed not to one sister but both. They would gather on a bridge across the river. They would swim and sing and talk and read. When the girls’ parents were away, they spent time together in their family home. What happened inside is now unknowable. “You have already become so much to my heart,” Schiller wrote, that formal you being potentially either singular or plural.

Three years later, when Schiller and Charlotte were married and living together in the nearby town of Jena, a young poet named Karl Gotthard Graß became a regular visitor at their house. The painter once wrote Schiller a letter in which he marveled at the lack of jealousy and quarreling between the two women of the household. “I cannot hide my feelings about the love of these two splendid sisters, for each other and for you,” he wrote. “It was often as if [their mother] had only one daughter and you … had two wives.”It was, the painter continued, just like a fairy tale.

***

To get to Rudolstadt from Berlin, you pass through prime Goethe-and-Schiller country. These two friends—Goethe being older, more courtly, and more of a polymath; Schiller being younger, more furiously abstract, and more beloved by his public—take pride of place in Germany’s cultural heritage, especially in this particular stretch of central Germany, which encompasses the main stomping grounds of their Weimar Classicism period as well as the major sites of the younger Romantics, whom they overlapped with and encouraged. Every German student has to read, sometimes even to memorize, the work of Goethe and Schiller. Their names are synonymous with German cultural greatness. Their legacy is a reliable source of domestic tourism coin; it also lends historical glamour to cities that didn’t exactly have the best twentieth century. (...)

And people really are mad for them there. In Leipzig, you can visit a house where Schiller spent a summer, or a café whose hot chocolate Goethe liked, or if you’re as lucky as I was, during an impulsive solo tour around the area, you can walk down Schillerstraße into the Schillerpark and take a selfie with the Schiller bust there, only to get laughed at by beer-drinking youths in terrible Matrix coats. Down in Jena, where Schiller and Goethe and the younger Romantics all Bloomsburied out in the 1790s and 1800s, you can visit Schiller’s garden house, a Romantikerhaus, or the botanical gardens that Goethe helped redesign, which are home to a gingko tree my wife hates because one time for work she had to read a bad English translation of a bad but famous Goethe poem about it. I wandered agog around these various sites, thrilled to finally be doing—after years of study in far-flung Australia and then of semi-integrated expat life in Berlin—some of the properly serious Great Literature stuff that had lured me to Europe in the first place. Goethe and Schiller! Museums, plaques, and busts!!

The city of Weimar has a Goethe house, a Goethe garden house, a house where Schiller spent his later years, and a large bronze statue of Schiller and Goethe together, both holding one laurel wreath while Goethe gently rests his hand on Schiller’s shoulder. (Replicas of this statue have been erected by wistful German émigrés in Syracuse, Milwaukee, and San Francisco.) In its various gift shops, I contemplated books by Schiller, books about Schiller, mugs with cats on them, Goethe busts, Schiller busts, a wine corker with Schiller’s head on it, porcelain plates with Goethe and Schiller’s heads on them, Schiller applesauce, Goethe strawberry and lavender jam, and an A3 facsimile of Schiller’s “Arbeits- und Finanzplan für die Jahre 1802–1809” (Work and finance plan 1802–1809), before settling on a lovely little postcard with the gingko poem, which I mailed to my wife immediately. Saw this and thought of you xx.

Before continuing to Rudolstadt, I sat in a chain bakery and dug into The Robbers, the rebellious play from 1782 that made young Schiller a star (and Coleridge “tremble like an Aspen Leaf”). The tenor is thrusting and vigorous, as with much of early Schiller; it tells the story of a good-hearted man who is forced by tyranny and corruption to lead the life of a righteous outlaw. Like the rest of Schiller’s oeuvre—even the later history plays—it is lit up by a philosophical boisterousness, a lust for liberation and renewal, and a search for ever grander forms of “unity” outside a dried-out, teetering, dictatorial social order. While it might feel “carpe diem” corny today, its spiritedness is genuine and occasionally contagious. But I was having trouble reading, which upset me. Had I fried my brain on the American internet? Had I read too many posts? Still, all the Germans I meet tend to agree that Schiller is tough going, perhaps more admired than actually read. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a big white lamp in the shape of Goethe’s head, its plug unplugged and dangling loose. Where’s my man Schiller? I battled through another two pages of The Robbers, then boarded my train.

Rudolstadt, like many small cities in post-Communist eastern Germany, seems rather unsure how to define itself. They have a picturesque castle belonging to a very minor noble; they were once famous for their porcelain, and for producing a domestic competitor to LEGO. The surrounding region votes far right, but the city is run by independents. It is neither very rich nor very poor. They host a Tough Mudder event and a world music festival. In recent decades, though, they seem to have gambled a lot of their identity on Schiller—and on one saucy chapter of the author’s life. Already at the station, the marketing campaign is apparent. A big sign bids welcome to “Schiller-city Rudolstadt.” The pedestrian tunnel has a drawing of Schiller’s face and the unofficial town motto, Schiller’s Secret Beloved—adopted as part of an enthusiastically Schiller-based marketing campaign in the aughts—next to pictures of Schiller and two women interconnected with Cupid-ish arrows, cartoon hearts, and quotations. Then there are big blown-up photos of three young actors dressed in period garb. They pose in front of a church in one, and in another they look out over a castle, two of them holding hands behind the other’s back. Somebody with a pen has furiously scratched out the faces of Schiller (just a bit) and one of the women (quite a lot) on one photo.

As I approached the town square, I noticed a Schiller bust—beside the bust of two women—and then a city works van with Schiller’s Secret Beloved printed on the side. All the signs were pointing west, toward the Schillerhaus, to something. And so on I went, past the shop advertising open-faced sandwiches with raw pork mince and uncooked white onions—parsley photoshopped on top—and past the popular outdoors shop named “Sport Schart.” Past the bakery that tried to sell me a doughnut called Kameruner, like Cameroon, in the shape of a dinosaur; past the clothing store with a spiffy window display of leopard print, a discount rack featuring outgoing summer styles of leopard print, and a rack of freshly arrived fall fashions—leopard print. I even passed a plaque proclaiming Goethe once stayed there.

I got to the Schillerhaus in the early afternoon. The sun was mild, the leaves were rouging. The house itself sat elegantly understated, three boxy white floors festooned with ivy and topped with a gently sloping orange roof. Inside, a quotation from Schiller had been painted on the wall near the entrance: “All art is dedicated to joy,” it read, “and there is no higher and no more serious task than to make people happy.” All right, then, I thought, do your best. The first room was dedicated to Goethe and Schiller’s first meeting—which technically happened here, although they didn’t get along, as their letters to mutual friends attest. (Goethe considered Schiller immature and overzealous; Schiller found Goethe “an egoist of exceptional degree.”) Someone had the idea of reenacting their meeting using video screens, each containing the head of an actor: Goethe, Schiller, the two sisters, another woman, all talking over each other and attempting to be witty, then falling silent for several seconds. It felt to me, not knowing better, authentic. If you focus on Schiller, you notice him exchanging sultry looks and winks with one sister, then with the other, and then the first again. The actors were doing a great job. I recognized their faces from the photos at the station.

***

It was on a chance social visit to this house in December 1787 that Schiller met these two sisters—Charlotte von Lengefeld and Caroline von Beulwitz. What happened next is a drama that reveals itself primarily in letters, since Schiller did not keep a proper diary and none of them wrote explicitly about the situation in their published works. The love triangle shows up in some biographies of Schiller, and a couple of critics and historians have plundered the epistolary archive in search of the truth. Yet all these chunks of evidence merely orbit around the unknowability of what was really done and felt and said in closed rooms during the late eighteenth century.

Charlotte was younger and more demure; she liked the English language and drawing. Caroline, three years older, was bolder and more radical in inclination—but she had already been married off to a dull businessman. It was a loveless marriage, and he was often away on work trips, so she lived almost completely independently. Both sisters dreamed of traveling widely, although the farthest they would ever get was Switzerland. They read widely and translated—their father wanted them educated beyond their small-town context. But each of them was waiting, somehow, to find a path into the wider world.

by Alexander Wells, Paris Review | Read more:
Image: Alexander Wells

Paul Celan, Memory Rose into Threshold Speech. The Collected Earlier Poetry: A Bilingual Edition, Mohn und Gedächtnis (1952)

via:

The Parable of Anna Akhmatova

The Parable of Anna Akhmatova 

Akhmatova, was a promising poet in the days before the Soviet Revolution, but her physical presence was just as compelling as her writing. Modigliani made at least twenty paintings of Akhmatova, and she had an affair with the famous poet Osip Mandelstam. Nobel laureate Boris Pasternak proposed marriage to her on multiple occasions.

Even far away at Oxford, philosopher and intellectual historian Isaiah Berlin—whom I considered the most brilliant person in the entire University when I was a student there—allegedly pined away with romantic longings based on his brief encounter with Akhmatova 35 years before.

 

I don’t think it’s going too far to claim that she could have been a movie actress, given her beauty and allure.

But Akhmatova was crushed under Soviet rule.

Not only was her poetry sharply criticized and censored, but the secret police bugged her apartment, and kept her under surveillance.

She was silenced so completely, that many people simply assumed she was dead.

by Ted Gioia, Honest Broker |  Read more:

Image: Nathan Altman, 1915

This Might Be the Last Thing I Ever Write: Paul Auster (Feb. 1947- Apr. 2024)

Early in Paul Auster’s latest novel, Baumgartner, his eponymous lead character is speaking to a grief counsellor in the immediate aftermath of losing his wife in a freakishly violent swimming accident. “Anything can happen to us at any moment,” he tells her. “You know that, I know that, everyone knows that – and if they don’t, well, they haven’t been paying attention.”

When we meet Sy Baumgartner, it is 10 years after Anna’s death. Now 70 and a retired Princeton philosophy professor, we find him enduring a darkly comedic and somewhat lower stakes set of unexpectedly escalating domestic vicissitudes. In rapid succession he is frustrated in the simple task of calling his sister, scalds himself on a hot pan and tumbles down the stairs during an unnecessary visit to his basement.

“I’d wanted to try my hand at a short story,” explains Auster, 76, speaking from his home in Brooklyn, New York. “Something I have done almost none of in my career. I’d always written modestly sized books and then with 4321 and Burning Boy” – his 2017 Booker-shortlisted novel of close to 1,000 pages and his 2021 800-page biography of Stephen Crane – “I’d written two door-stoppers. It really wasn’t intentional. If you dropped those books you could break both feet, so I wanted something shorter and this older man came to me, sitting in his house and looking out the window at robins pulling up worms. I wrote a story called Worms, but then didn’t want to drop him. There was more there and so I started up again, knowing that underneath this almost Buster Keaton opening was something darker lurking.” (...)

In the last two years, Auster has himself been subject to two traumatic events. Firstly, an appalling family tragedy, with widespread press coverage, saw the death of his baby granddaughter, while in the care of his son. His son, from his first marriage to the short story writer Lydia Davis, died subsequently from a drug overdose. Then in March this year Auster’s wife, the writer Siri Hustvedt, alerted the world on Instagram to the fact that Auster was being “bombed with chemotherapy and immunotherapy” and the couple were now living in what she dubbed “Cancerland”.

It was around the end of last year, when Auster was finishing Baumgartner, that he began to encounter “mysterious fevers which would hit me in the afternoon”. He was first diagnosed as having pneumonia before going down some “blind alleys’’ about long Covid and eventually receiving a cancer diagnosis. “And since then the treatment has been unrelenting and I really haven’t worked. I’ve been through the rigours that have produced miracles and also great difficulties.” As for Cancerland, he says there are no maps and no idea if your passport is valid to exit. “There is, however, a guide who gets in touch right at the beginning. He checks he’s got the name right and then says, ‘I’m from the cancer police. You’ve got to follow me.’ So what do you do? You say, ‘All right.’ You have no real choice in the matter, as he says if you refuse to follow he’ll kill you. I said, ‘I prefer to live. Take me where you will.’ And I’ve been following that road ever since.”

Auster says his fascination with the notion of a life-changing moment came from a childhood incident that provided the starting point for 4321. At a summer camp, a boy standing next to him was killed by a lightning strike. “It was the seminal experience of my life. At 14 everything you go through is deep. You are a work-in-progress. But being right next to a boy who was essentially murdered by the gods changed my whole view of the world. I had assumed that the little bourgeois comforts of my life in postwar suburban New Jersey had a kind of order. And then I realised that nothing had that sort of order. I’ve lived with that thought ever since. It’s chilling, but also liberating. It keeps you on your toes. And if you can learn that lesson then certain things in the world are more bearable than they would have been otherwise. I guess the impulse to write and tell stories is different for each writer. But I think this is the essence of what I’ve been up to all these many years.”

In a recent interview, Auster described the American obsession with “closure” as being “the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard of. When someone who is central to your life dies, a part of you dies as well. It’s not simple, you never get over it. You learn to live with it, I suppose. But something is ripped out of you and I wanted to explore all that.” In Baumgartner, Sy reflects for a long time on phantom limb syndrome, describing himself as “a human stump” and yet the “missing limbs are still there, and they still hurt, hurt so much that he sometimes feels his body is about to catch fire and consume him on the spot”.

“I nearly called the book Phantom Limb,” Auster says. “It’s such a powerful idea. That connection we have with other people and how vital they are to our lives. The importance of love. It can be hard for us to talk about it the way it deserves to be talked about. Long-term, ongoing, lifelong love and all the possible twists and turns it will take.” He believes “the brilliant Siri” puts it best when she says people make the mistake of using a machine model to think about love and attempting to maintain the machine in its original state. “You have to think of love as a kind of tree or a plant,” Auster says. “And that parts are going to wither and you might have to cut off a branch to sustain the overall growth of the organism. If you get fixated on keeping it exactly as it was, one day it will die in front of your eyes. For a love to be sustained it has to be organic. You have to keep developing as it goes along so everything is all intertwined, even the sheer strangeness of it all.” The fact is, he says, that we never really know our partners completely. “There are mysteries we will never be able to answer. But I think this applies also to ourselves. There are so many things about my own life that I don’t understand. My actions over the years. Why did I do that? Why that impulse? People spend years in analysis trying to figure out the answers. I’ve never done that so I’ve been more or less on my own, trying to figure things out, and I honestly have to report that I don’t think I’ve made a lot of progress.” (...)

Baumgartner is set between 2016 and 2018, and there is allusion to “the deranged Ubu in the White House”. “I didn’t want to wrestle with Trump directly but of course he was lurking in the background of American life, an everyday presence.” As for the next election, Auster says he understood many Democrats’ initial lack of enthusiasm for Joe Biden. “He was certainly not my first thought for 2020. But he has surprised me immensely. I think he’s been quite extraordinary. And maybe in these few years, he’s been one of the best presidents that I can remember in my lifetime. He understands that government has an important role to play in our mental, moral and economic health. That the programmes he has proposed are an advance over what we’ve been getting from the last 40 or 50 years.”

While the right wing attempts to paint Biden as a “kind of doddering old, incompetent man, it’s far from the truth”, says Auster. “He is perfectly capable and knows more about government than just about anybody in Washington. He’s made his blunders, we all know that, but he’s not a bad choice at the moment and I can’t think of anyone better than him today. So I’m praying that he manages to squeak through next year because this is going to be a very, very close and incomprehensibly weird election. And we can’t even begin to predict how the other side is going to be if they don’t get the votes.”

As for himself, Auster is not looking much beyond his treatment and recovery, but he has been gratified by the initial responses to Baumgartner. “I do things in a very old-fashioned way,” he says. “I write my novels on a typewriter and my assistant then has to put it on a computer to send to the publisher. She’s been with me for a good 15 years and has rarely said much about the manuscripts beyond something bland like ‘good job’. But this time she told me to ‘march on’ as she couldn’t wait to read the next chapter. Siri, for over 40 years my first reader, also had no comments beyond ‘keep going’. Even my agent of 40 years, who again rarely comments, was so encouraging.”

Auster says he still can’t quite explain where this book came from. “There was just this guy growing inside me who became more comprehensible as the book advanced. So in the face of these responses, I simply smile and offer thanks. I feel that my health is precarious enough that this might be the last thing I ever write. And if this is the end, then going out with this kind of human kindness surrounding me as a writer in my intimate circles of friends, well, it’s worth it already.”

by Nicholas Wroe, The Guardian |  Read more:

Image: Jean-Christian Bourcart/Getty Images via
[ed. I've only read one of Paul Auster's books, 4321 (one of his "doorstoppers" as he would call it), and was impressed as much by his prose as frustrated by the story itself (ie., following a single protagonist through four versions of himself, simultaneously - one version killed off in the first section of the book). Quite a talent. See also: Brooklyn’s bard: Paul Auster’s tricksy fiction captivated a generation; and, Paul Auster – a life in pictures (Guardian).]

My Resignation

I have resigned as poetry editor of The New York Times Magazine.

The Israeli state's U.S-backed war against the people of Gaza is not a war for anyone. There is no safety in it or from it, not for Israel, not for the United States or Europe, and especially not for the many Jewish people slandered by those who claim falsely to fight in their names. Its only profit is the deadly profit of oil interests and weapon manufacturers.

The world, the future, our hearts—everything grows smaller and harder from from this war. It is not only a war of missiles and land invasions. It is an ongoing war against the people of Palestine, people who have resisted through decades of occupation, forced dislocation, deprivation, surveillance, siege, imprisonment, and torture.

Because our status quo is self-expression, sometimes the most effective mode of protest for artists is to refuse.

I can’t write about poetry amidst the "reasonable" tones of those who aim to acclimatize us to this unreasonable suffering. No more ghoulish euphemisms. No more verbally sanitized hellscapes. No more warmongering lies.

If this resignation leaves a hole in the news the size of poetry, then that is the true shape of the present.

by Anne Boyer, Mirabilary |  Read more:

Image: uncredited

[ed. Link credit: LitHub.]

Disjunction & Surprise

Row, row, row your boat
gently down the stream.
Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily,
life is but a dream.

What happens in the first three lines of this familiar poem? In the first line the scene is set. The reader and the speaker are rowing a boat. Note how the repetition of the word ‘row’ and the repetitive rhythm textually mirror the real-life act of rowing. The sentence of the first line continues on the second line. Where are we? We are still in the stream. Still rowing. ‘gently down the stream’ modifies all those verbs ‘row’ in the first line. Again, note how the rhythm is expressive of the act – which does a lot to put us, as readers, in the world of the poem, with the speaker. The lines are moving with the pace and feel of a boat being rowed through water. What happens on the third line? A bunch of ‘merrily’’s over and over. Are we still in the stream? Certainly. Merrily modifies or describes the emotional state of the rowing.

But what about the fourth line? It’s a pretty grand declaration – about the nature of existence, no less – and one that has little, specifically, to do with boats and rowing. In some ways this poem, as a whole, is built entirely to set us up for a surprise ending. To lull us into a state of dreamy, lazy ‘merriment’ – only to pull the rug out from under us at the end with a deceptively simple commentary on the fleeting, and possibly even false, nature of life itself. Is life ‘but a dream’?

Mark Leidner, University of Iowa | Read more:
Image: uncredited via

[ed. I know, not rowing, and those aren't boats. Disjunction and surprise. See also: The Disjunctive Dragonfly: A Study of Disjunctive Method and Definitions in Contemporary English‑language Haiku (Haiku Research); with a more concise/understandable summary here.]

Pandemic Journal: April 13, 2020

During the early days of quarantine, back when I was still trying to keep straight which Tolstoy princess had the mole and which had the mustache, and was still forcing my family to gather before the hearth every evening, as our forebears had, to hear the patriarch read poems aloud; before, that is, the fear of becoming very ill, or of losing our home, had really kicked in, I opened The New York Review of Books and turned to the classifieds. Twentieth-century artifacts still gamely chugging along, these notices offer all kinds of enticements: a farmhouse in the Dordogne or Tuscany, a kit for constructing a geodesic dome, a massage of uncertain propriety. I read the following ad:

A CHARISMATIC, AGING FRENCH rock star will compose and record an original song for you, your mom, your lover, or your pet in French, English or Franglais (recommended). US$200. Contact: lodbrogsagent@gmail.com; imrelodbrog.com

The classifieds in the Review tend to be written to a high standard, but there was something unusual about this one that I couldn’t quite describe—since, in fact, I didn’t yet fully detect it. I’d seen offers for commissioned artistic work over the years; this ad seemed quite consciously to offer not only the product itself, but an irresistible narrative. I wouldn’t have bit if I’d encountered it online, or if the singer hadn’t been French, or aging, or charismatic. Imagining that I would need stories to tell after the pandemic passed, I decided that $200 was a small price to pay for one. The song would be almost extra—it would be received as I suspected it was offered, as a kind of prop.

That morning I wrote to the email address listed in the ad:

Bonjour Monsieur, 

I am a US professor and I wonder if you would record a song for my two classes which have been suspended, English 120 and English 357? Something sentimental, using those names? I just posted your ad to Twitter and hope you get lots of business!!

Within an hour or so, the rock star’s agent—who identified herself only as “Lodbrog’s Agent”—wrote back from New York City, where the two of them were holed up. Imre Lodbrog would be delighted to compose a song for my classes, if I would send some additional instructions. So I sent a poem, Emily Dickinson’s “I’m Nobody,” and made just one request: that he use my course numbers in the refrain. I was amused by the idea of asking a charismatic French rock star to sing a heartbroken tune to a most unlikely amant: the catalog numbers of my classes. I proposed that Lodbrog—whose moody, gravelly songs I had, by that point, discovered online—also record a video, for an additional $200. Lodbrog’s Agent accepted my pitch, and we were off to the races.

By this point, I had begun to suspect that, in orchestrating my stunt, I had also become entangled in one. This wasn’t the story I imagined; it was not even, apparently, mine to tell. On Lodbrog’s website, under the section labeled “The Man,” I found, instead of a short bio, a mirror image of my curiosity, slightly intensified as though I’d arrived there after a years-long quest: “Who the hell is Imre Lodbrog,” it read: “Somebody said, ‘He’s like Serge Gainsbourg on ’shrooms.’” It seemed that the construction “Imre Lodbrog” had been designed, in part, as a ruse. But by whom, and why? A longer version of his classified appears under the section “Hired Gun,” describing him as “a softy and a socialist,” and offering his services on a sliding fee scale—as though $200 weren’t already an insane bargain. Beyond those scant details, nothing—except for a link to a book about Lodbrog that “we wrote.”

Last week the song arrived, a twangy, jangly number, utterly infectious, called “Cyrano”; today, the video appeared in my inbox, filmed in a New York desolated by the pandemic. Images of what looked to me like an intersection in the East Village—empty except for a few masked pedestrians—fade to archival footage of the same spot filled with dancers and revelers. The multiple fades of the video suggest the ghost lives we are now living. Both song and video give off a faint whiff of serioludere, with their intentionally broad gestures toward rock-star preening. And yet both are, to me, indescribably beautiful. Lodbrog’s Agent had written to ask if I was OK with his incorporating the story of Cyrano de Bergerac, because, as she put it, “he’s French.” I happily consented. It was a lark. But when I listened to the lyrics, I realized that Lodbrog had assumed the mantle of professor, teaching his own lesson to a group of captivated strangers, my students:

ENGLISH 120 ENGLISH 357
I AM NOBODY WHO ARE YOU?
NOBODY TOO AH PLEASED TO MEET YOU

DO YOU KNOW CYRANO
WHO SPOKE SOMEBODY’S LOVE THROUGH HIS HEART
OH MAN HOW DREARY TO BE
SOMEBODY

I AM HERE YOU ARE THERE
SO LET ME SING THIS LITTLE TUNE TO YA ALL
AND KEEP IT WARM UNTIL THE LIVELONG JUNE

The song continues in this vein for several more verses, adapting Dickinson’s existentially amiable little poem to this new scenario, where Lodbrog—a “nobody”—greets his fellow nobodies, me and my students. The beautifully open-hearted question, “Do you know Cyrano,” is Lodbrog’s own moment of pedagogy. If you don’t know him, I told my students, you should get to know him.

Lodbrog and his agent—whom I have discovered to be none other than Barbara Browning, the distinguished scholar of Brazilian music, and a dancer and performance artist who teaches at NYU—co-authored their quite wonderful book, Who the Hell Is Imre Lodbrog. I wouldn’t dare spoil their story, since it’s such a good one. As for this story, I have no idea how to tell it: Am I its author or its protagonist? Who the hell is Dan Chiasson?

“Cyrano” ends with a lovely conjuring of our current, frightening hiatus, and of some of the ways human connection might be reconceived in the time of Covid-19. Let’s hope Lodbrog is right about “the sunny livelong June”:

I AM THERE YOU ARE HERE
AND THAT’S THE MAGIC OF THE TRICK
A FEW WORDS AND A LITTLE TUNE
A TINY FLAME TO LIGHT UP THE GLOOM
UNTIL THE SUNNY LIVELONG JUNE
TO KEEP US ALL TOGETHER IN THIS EMPTY
CLASSROOM

by Dan Chiasson, NYRB | Read more:

[ed. Delightful. Update: My metrics tell me this has gotten a lot of attention recently - no doubt re-posted somewhere out in internet land. I'd forgotten about it, but with the start of the new school year thought it might be appropriate to revisit. Enjoy.]

The Lunar Codex

A Time Capsule of Human Creativity, Stored in the Sky (NYT)

The Lunar Codex, an archive of contemporary art, poetry and other cultural artifacts of life on Earth, is headed to the moon.

Later this year, the Lunar Codex — a vast multimedia archive telling a story of the world’s people through creative arts — will start heading for permanent installation on the moon aboard a series of unmanned rockets.

The Lunar Codex is a digitized (or miniaturized) collection of contemporary art, poetry, magazines, music, film, podcasts and books by 30,000 artists, writers, musicians and filmmakers in 157 countries. It’s the brainchild of Samuel Peralta, a semiretired physicist and author in Canada with a love of the arts and sciences. (...)

“This is the largest, most global project to launch cultural works into space,” Peralta said in an interview. “There isn’t anything like this anywhere.” (...)

It’s divided into four time capsules, with its material copied onto digital memory cards or inscribed into nickel-based NanoFiche, a lightweight analog storage media that can hold 150,000 laser-etched microscopic pages of text or photos on one 8.5-by-11-inch sheet. The concept is “like the Golden Record,” Peralta said, referring to NASA’s own cultural time capsule of audio and images stored on a metal disc and sent into space aboard the Voyager probes in 1977. “Gold would be incredibly heavy. Nickel wafers are much, much lighter.”

by J. D. Biersdorfer, NY Times | Read more:
Image: “New Moon,” a 1980 color serigraph by the Canadian artist Alex Colville

Adventures in Reading

Anthropic leapfrogs OpenAI with a chatbot that can read a novel in less than a minute

An often overlooked limitation for chatbots is memory. While it’s true that the AI language models that power these systems are trained on terabytes of text, the amount these systems can process when in use — that is, the combination of input text and output, also known as their “context window” — is limited. For ChatGPT it’s around 3,000 words. There are ways to work around this, but it’s still not a huge amount of information to play with.

Now, AI startup Anthropic (founded by former OpenAI engineers) has hugely expanded the context window of its own chatbot Claude, pushing it to around 75,000 words. As the company points out in a blog post, that’s enough to process the entirety of The Great Gatsby in one go. In fact, the company tested the system by doing just this — editing a single sentence in the novel and asking Claude to spot the change. It did so in 22 seconds.

You may have noticed my imprecision in describing the length of these context windows. That’s because AI language models measure information not by number of characters or words, but in tokens; a semantic unit that doesn’t map precisely onto these familiar quantities. It makes sense when you think about it. After all, words can be long or short, and their length does not necessarily correspond to their complexity of meaning. (The longest definitions in the dictionary are often for the shortest words.) The use of “tokens” reflects this truth, and so, to be more precise: Claude’s context window can now process 100,000 tokens, up from 9,000 before. By comparison, OpenAI’s GPT-4 processes around 8,000 tokens (that’s not the standard model available in ChatGPT — you have to pay for access) while a limited-release full-fat model of GPT-4 can handle up to 32,000 tokens.

Right now, Claude’s new capacity is only available to Anthropic’s business partners, who are tapping into the chatbot via the company’s API. The pricing is also unknown, but is certain to be a significant bump. Processing more text means spending more on compute.

by James Vincent, The Verge |  Read more:

Image: Anthropic

[ed. See also: Everyone Likes Reading. Why Are We So Afraid of It? (NYT):]

"Everyone loves reading. In principle, anyway. Nobody is against it, right? Surely, in the midst of our many quarrels, we can agree that people should learn to read, should learn to enjoy it and should do a lot of it. But bubbling underneath this bland, upbeat consensus is a simmer of individual anxiety and collective panic. We are in the throes of a reading crisis. (...)

Just what is reading, anyway? What is it for? Why is it something to argue and worry about? Reading isn’t synonymous with literacy, which is one of the necessary skills of contemporary existence. Nor is it identical with literature, which designates a body of written work endowed with a special if sometimes elusive prestige.

Reading is something else: an activity whose value, while broadly proclaimed, is hard to specify. Is any other common human undertaking so riddled with contradiction? Reading is supposed to teach us who we are and help us forget ourselves, to enchant and disenchant, to make us more worldly, more introspective, more empathetic and more intelligent. It’s a private, even intimate act, swathed in silence and solitude, and at the same time a social undertaking. It’s democratic and elitist, soothing and challenging, something we do for its own sake and as a means to various cultural, material and moral ends. (...)

But nothing is ever so simple. Reading is, fundamentally, both a tool and a toy. It’s essential to social progress, democratic citizenship, good government and general enlightenment. It’s also the most fantastically, sublimely, prodigiously useless pastime ever invented. Teachers, politicians, literary critics and other vested authorities labor mightily to separate the edifying wheat from the distracting chaff, to control, police, correct and corral the transgressive energies that propel the turning of pages. The crisis is what happens either when those efforts succeed or when they fail. Everyone likes reading, and everyone is afraid of it."

Poet Amanda Gorman Reads 'The Hill We Climb'

[ed. Historic. Powerful.]

in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so (forgetting seem)
in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me, remember me

~ e. e. cummings

via:

Remains

My great-grandfather (born 1826) called our place Eagle Pond Farm because a great bald eagle lived on a hill called Eagle’s Nest and fished the pond every day for its dinner. Yet his youngest child, my grandmother Kate (born 1878), never saw the bird. The land and its creatures have altered. Thirty-five years after my grandmother’s death, I saw a bald eagle fly over the water.

When the 19th century filled New Hampshire with farms, 70 percent of the state was open land. Dairy farms of 40 or 60 acres lined the dirt roads, pastures for cattle behind them. When I am driven in the backcountry now, past dense forests of hardwood or soft, I see remnant stone walls that kept sheep and cattle to their allotted pastures. I see no horses, whose manure used to surface the roads. The farmers’ sons and daughters deserted granite and sandy soil to work in the mills or go west, where the earth was better for farming. New England has become the most forested part of the United States, 80 percent covered by trees.

In summers when I hayed with my grandfather, 1938–1945, fewer than half a million people lived in New Hampshire. Every quarter mile or so on Route 4 (paved 1928), a small farm—a few Holsteins with hayfields, sheep, chickens, one horse to pull or carry—struggled to survive through the labor of a farmer like my grandfather. Much land and no cash. Old backcountry farms had already begun their return to forest. When my grandfather and I walked in the hills, to call the cows or pick blueberries, we were wary to avoid cellar holes and abandoned wells. Sometimes we knew that a cellar hole was near because the dead farmwife’s hollyhocks gave us warning. At 12 I hayed for the first time on two acres of widow hay down the road. (The farmer had died; his widow wanted grass in her fields, not brush.) When my late wife, Jane Kenyon, and I returned to live in central New Hampshire in 1975, the widow’s hayfield looked like virgin forest to city sorts, softwood rising high and dense. In the southern part of the state, tract houses cover the earth of old farms, and New Hampshire has more than a million people now—mainly suburbanites who live an hour or less from Boston, refugees from Taxachusetts to a state without income tax.

Dylan Thomas wrote a villanelle addressed to his father, “Do not go gentle into that good night.” The rhyming line was “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.” When I met Dylan, I was 23. I told him I loved that poem, and he told me he didn’t; he said he stole it from Yeats. (Yeats in old age liked to use the word “rage.”) Over the years, I’ve changed my mind about the poem. It showed affection and care for his father, but it asked him to do what he could not do. In real life, a student of mine at Michigan cherished her ferocious father. He was difficult, but she had always adored his explosiveness. When he softened in age, she couldn’t bear it. She spoke in something like anger, as if his weakness were willful.

When Jane and I moved here, we loved a great-aunt of mine—82, younger than I am now—whose temperament was cheerful and affectionate. She and Jane spent mornings together digging bitter dandelions to boil for dinner. My aunt tottered when she walked, and with difficulty climbed six concrete steps, without a railing, to reach her front door. She asked her grandson, a 30-year-old carpenter, to put up something she could hold onto. I heard him grumble, “She could climb them stairs if she was a mind to.”

Everyone who practices an art should love and live with another art. One learns about one’s own work by exposing oneself to a different passion. Mentioning a second art does not imply competence in practicing it. In eighth grade I flunked Art, which was lamentable because I sat beside Mary Beth Burgess in class, and I was sweet on her. Music is totally beyond me. My most notable musical moment took place on Ken Burns’s Baseball. He interviewed me about the game, about loving baseball, not about playing it. I had hung around Major League players, writing books and essays about them, and for Ken I came up with 20 anecdotes. Then he asked me to sing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” telling me that all his interviewees would sing it. Ken Burns’s charm could persuade a monkey to breed with a daffodil. At his urging I tried singing “Take me out …” and heard my pitch waver capriciously up and down. Tuneless, ashamed, I forgot the lyrics in my disgrace. The highlight of Ken’s Baseball series, I swear, is the image of my mouth hanging open wide and silent. It looked like brain damage. In editing, Ken paid special attention to this image by holding it for two or three beats. (...)

Old houses are full of holes. Creatures sneak into the living room. A summer ago, a garter snake entered and slithered across my living room. I stepped on its head and threw it outside. The same year, I discovered a visitor who became my favorite for persistence. A chipmunk took up residence and remained on the first floor for two or three months. Every day I would hear chirping, at first sounding like an electronic signal. Then the chipmunk came into sight, pausing with its paws tucked or folded before it, I suppose sustained by my cat’s kibble and water. As for my cat, she stared at it intently, fascinated. My housekeeper, Carole, bought a tiny Havahart trap and baited it with whatever we imagined was a chipmunk treat. Every morning the bait was gone, but so was the chipmunk. One morning the creature skittered from the kitchen into the toolshed, where the door showed a wide space at its bottom, and never appeared again. I felt abandoned. When autumn descended into winter, I walked into the cluttered dining room, never used in old age, and smelled something rotten in a box of unsorted snapshots. Under a layer of pictures I found the small body of our chipmunk. It had not escaped after all. With a paper towel I picked it up, rigid and almost weightless, and threw it from the door as far as I could. Next morning when I opened the door to pick up the newspaper, half of his small mummified corpse lay beside the door.

At this New Hampshire house, woodchucks are annoying and commonplace. Sixty years ago, my cousin Freeman grew vegetables by his shack up on New Canada Road, and his shotgun took care of many such thieves. Each summer he ate one. “If they eat my peas, I’ll eat them! ” Freeman would dress the woodchuck and carry it downhill to my grandmother’s wood stove. Kate held her nose as she baked it, and Freeman in his hut ate woodchuck.

Across the road from the house, my grandparents raised their year’s bounty of beans, peas, onions, potatoes, and corn. The farthest part of the garden was sweet corn, which phantom raccoons ate every night. Nearer the house were the peas and beans, and it was maddening to find pole beans devoured by woodchucks. When I was a boy, I’d sit on a concrete watering trough with my .22 Mossberg and wait for an hour to assassinate a predator. When Jane and I returned, we grew another garden. I was too impatient, nearly 50, to sit so long with my gun. I bought a Havahart trap. From the porch I could see when the trap was sprung. I walked across Route 4 with the same Mossberg and killed the woodchuck trembling in my Havahart. Once every summer I thought of what Freeman did. In the kitchen I picked up the Joy of Cooking, where Irma Rombauer gives a recipe for woodchuck. When I got to the part about looking for mites when you skinned it, I closed the book and buried the corpse.

My Havahart came from an Agway, which sold farm equipment after most farmers had left. Traps were not the only solution for woodchucks. If you found a likely hole you could try poison, but nothing worked for me except a long rifle slug from my .22. An Agway clerk told me of a customer who was especially enraged. He bought sticks of dynamite, fed them down a woodchuck hole, and blew up his whole garden. (...)

Gray squirrels dig in the driveway. Red squirrels are sneaky and rip into insulation on the second floor, poking pink fuzzy fragments through the cracks in the toolshed’s ceiling. Always there have been multitudes of mice, though not so many as when my grandfather kept a shed full of grain. Back then, a mother cat had three litters a year, and the kittens who ate mice followed my grandfather as he milked. In the tie-up he swirled a teat and sprayed Holstein milk into gaping mouths. Eventually each kitten strayed away to take a look at Route 4, and it was my chore to bury them deep enough so that something would not dig up a snack. Meanwhile the old mother dragged her teats on the barn floor and never approached the road. If mice in the house became a nuisance, my grandmother invited a cat inside for a predatory visit. Otherwise no mouse-catching cats or beloved cow-herding dogs were allowed inside. People lived in houses.

In 1975 Jane and I brought three cats with us from Michigan. In Ann Arbor, a town of a hundred thousand, Catto and Mia and Arabella roamed outside. New Hampshire’s Route 4 turned them into housecats. They didn’t seem to mind, maybe because the mouse supply was exemplary. Jane went barefoot most of the year as she walked around the house and wrote poems. She screamed a special small scream whenever her bare foot squished the ripped body of a mouse, placed in her way by a cat showing off.

by Donald Hall, The American Scholar |  Read more:

Image: Ronald Wittek Picture Press Getty Images via
[ed. See also: Donald Hall’s Life Work]

Donald Hall’s Life Work

In 2011, the poet Donald Hall—who passed away at his home in rural New Hampshire, on Saturday, at age eighty-nine—received the National Medal of Arts from President Obama, the highest award granted to an artist by the American government. For several years, I have kept the above photo of the ceremony, which takes place in the East Room of the White House, saved to my phone. Looking at it makes me instantly glad: Hall appears pleasingly nuts, with scraggly wisps of gray hair sticking out every which way. Obama has such a wide and earnest grin. They are both laughing, as if to say, “What a wild and beautiful thing!”

Hall, who was the first poetry editor of The Paris Review, beginning in 1953, and the Poet Laureate of the United States, from 2006 to 2007, published more than fifty books in his lifetime, across several genres. He had fixations: baseball, loss, devotion, New England. He spent much of his later life at Eagle Pond Farm in Wilmot, New Hampshire, in a white clapboard house with green shutters—the same house where his grandmother was born, in 1878, and his mother, in 1903. “Only in the rural south, and in rural New England, do American houses willfully contain the history of a family,” he wrote in the introduction to “Eagle Pond,” a tender and elegiac book.

Much like the poet and essayist Wendell Berry, Hall had deeply held beliefs about how our attachments to our native places were being systematically cleaved, at great spiritual and practical cost. Hall, too, could be a little crabby. I always loved this about him—the earned misanthropy of a person who has witnessed too many absurdities, and endured the relentless commodification of what was once pure. He was especially agitated by the existence of Vermont. (I understood this to be a delightful interstate spat, in the grand tradition of New York vs. New Jersey, or any other number of semi-inscrutable regional feuds.) In an essay titled “Reasons for Hating Vermont,” he cites the state’s urban pilgrims—born-rich city-dwellers who voyage north on long weekends to get their hands dirty, but not really—as loathsome, a plague on the landscape. “In Vermont when inchling trout are released into streams, a state law requires that they be preboned and stuffed with wild rice delicately flavored with garlic and thyme,” he writes. Touché, Hall!

Hall’s essays are often polemical, and frequently very funny. His book “Life Work,” from 1993, is a meditation on the nature and practice of work (“I’ve never worked a day in my life,” it opens) and the strange rituals that humans devise to navigate our days (he subscribes to Baudelaire’s notion that work is actually less boring than having to amuse yourself). The goal of work—the bliss of writing, for Hall—is in the way it collapses time. “In the best part of the best day, absorbedness occupies me from footsole to skulltop. Hours or minutes or days—who cares?—lapse without signifying.” He couldn’t much abide reading “junk prose,” or watching television or movies, but he was mesmerized and thrilled by sports, and especially the Red Sox: “I sit with my mouth open, witlessly enraptured.”

Hall was born in Connecticut, in 1928, and moved to New Hampshire in 1975, with his second wife, the poet Jane Kenyon. She died at Eagle Pond, in 1995, from leukemia. They met at the University of Michigan (she was a student there, and he was a professor, nineteen years her senior) and married shortly thereafter. Following her death, Hall wrote deeply and endlessly about his grief, the way it erased everything. “The year endures without punctuation,” he writes in “Without,” a poem from 1995, “the body is a nation tribe dug into stone / assaulted white blood broken to fragments.” Years ago, I pressed a bit of a New Hampshire fern—the green frond of an Interrupted Fern, to be more precise—into my copy of “Without.” Each time I open it, and the fern falls out, and I inevitably think of Kenyon’s poem “Let Evening Come,” in which she suggests that we should submit to endings with grace and assurance:

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come

It’s good advice, if difficult to metabolize, and harder still to follow. I have certainly bucked, wildly and without dignity, against loss. How to quiet the panic that arises when you believe you’ve been involuntarily divested of love?

by Amanda Petrusich, New Yorker | Read more:

Image:Charles Dharapak / AP / REX / Shutterstock

[ed. See also: Between Solitude and Loneliness]

The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner

The Lamentation of the Old Pensioner

Although I shelter from the rain
Under a broken tree,
My chair was nearest to the fire
In every company
That talked of love or politics,
Ere time transfigured me.

Though lads are making pikes again
For some conspiracy,
And crazy rascals rage their fill
At human tyranny,
My contemplations are of Time
That has transfigured me.

There's not a woman turns her face
Upon a broken tree,
And yet the beauties that I loved
Are in my memory,
I spit into the face of Time
That has transfigured me.

W.B. Yeats

via:

Understanding Poetry

Most people don’t read poetry. Press them about this and they’ll usually say something like, “I don’t ‘get’ it,” or “It’s just so pretentious,” or “The poets have degraded our society’s moral fiber, and they killed my baby.” You should never accept the first two reasons as an excuse. As Matthew Zapruder writes, there’s no reason to believe that poetry isn’t straightforward or that you can’t understand it, even if you regard yourself as a rube: “Like classical music, poetry has an unfortunate reputation for requiring special training and education to appreciate, which takes readers away from its true strangeness, and makes most of us feel as if we haven’t studied enough to read it … The art of reading poetry doesn’t begin with thinking about historical moments or great philosophies. It begins with reading the words of the poems themselves … Good poets do not deliberately complicate something just to make it harder for a reader to understand. Unfortunately, young readers, and young poets too, are taught to think that this is exactly what poets do. This has, in turn, created certain habits in the writing of contemporary poetry. Bad information about poetry in, bad poetry out, a kind of poetic obscurity feedback loop. It often takes poets a long time to unlearn this. Some never do. They continue to write in this way, deliberately obscure and esoteric, because it is a shortcut to being mysterious. The so-called effect of their poems relies on hidden meaning, keeping something away from the reader.”

by Editors, Paris Review |  Read more:

Image: Tamara Shopsin

[ed. Re: Understanding Poetry is More Straightforward Than You Think]

The Afterlife

While you are preparing for sleep, brushing your teeth,
or riffling through a magazine in bed,
the dead of the day are setting out on their journey.

They’re moving off in all imaginable directions,
each according to his own private belief,
and this is the secret that silent Lazarus would not reveal:
that everyone is right, as it turns out.
you go to the place you always thought you would go,
The place you kept lit in an alcove in your head.

Some are being shot into a funnel of flashing colors
into a zone of light, white as a January sun.
Others are standing naked before a forbidding judge who sits
with a golden ladder on one side, a coal chute on the other.

Some have already joined the celestial choir
and are singing as if they have been doing this forever,
while the less inventive find themselves stuck
in a big air conditioned room full of food and chorus girls.

Some are approaching the apartment of the female God,
a woman in her forties with short wiry hair
and glasses hanging from her neck by a string.
With one eye she regards the dead through a hole in her door.

There are those who are squeezing into the bodies
of animals–eagles and leopards–and one trying on
the skin of a monkey like a tight suit,
ready to begin another life in a more simple key,

while others float off into some benign vagueness,
little units of energy heading for the ultimate elsewhere.

There are even a few classicists being led to an underworld
by a mythological creature with a beard and hooves.
He will bring them to the mouth of the furious cave
guarded over by Edith Hamilton and her three-headed dog.

The rest just lie on their backs in their coffins
wishing they could return so they could learn Italian
or see the pyramids, or play some golf in a light rain.
They wish they could wake in the morning like you
and stand at a window examining the winter trees,
every branch traced with the ghost writing of snow.

Billy Collins

via:

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,
Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow Rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses
And a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,
With Coral clasps and Amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May-morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.

~ Phlip Marlowe

---------------

“Come bowl with me this evening dear
And we will kill twelve cans of beer:
We’ll join the others on the team
And eat three quarts of peach ice-cream.
And in between each frame we bowl
We’ll eat a burger on a roll,
A dozen hot dogs, sacks of fries
A meatball and two apple pies;
Come bowl with me, you really should --
The exercise will do us good.”

~Mad Magazine
Image: The Big Lebowski