what poetry are you reading

Marvell. I don't know why

I recently finished Anne Carson's latest book, Red Doc>, her oblique successor to Autobiography of Red, and while I enjoyed it I found it frustratingly diffuse in comparison to the earlier book or Nox. The strongest passages in the book, which focus on the death of G/Geryon's mother, follow from the Celan-pastiche lyrics on mourning in Decreation but seem a little too loosely connected to Red Doc>'s earlier wisps of narrative. I'll probably find more in it on a second reading, though.

To be clear, I don't generally read Carson for the sake of narrative.

i think the exact change edition of nerval had the poems translated by robert duncan from memory and they used the earlier wagner translations for the stories. and yeah, the chimera poems are pretty dense with classical/esoteric allusions (haven't read the wagner edition i have of his work yet, but it has a lot more editorial matter than the exact change). aurelia is a trip, and if you ever see a copy of his journey to the orient it's a+ 19th century orientalism

i read maldoror in snatches over lunch breaks while studying and loved it, so maybe it's best to approach it in pieces? (also have his complete works sitting here unread, so need to read poesies sometime too)

i think i prefer what i've read of the parasurrealist poets more than the actual thing, people like michaux & daumal, etc

which reminds me of the very to the point and hilarious open letter daumal wrote to breton after rejecting the latter's invitation to join the surrealists which ends with daumal inviting breton to join his own group and includes this classic kiss off: "beware of eventually figuring in the study guides to literary history"

Marvell's flecknoe poem is pretty good. I feel like I enjoy the prose translations provided of his Latin and Greek verse more so than I do his English verse, though, which is probably a sign that seventeenth c . verse is just not for me.

bro u gotta read herrick

i've read herrick but idk if i've read him y'know

you gotta do the hesperides all as a thing, none of this anthologized 'virgins' junk

man that shit sounds long though

well i thought for a second he was out of print but no, there is a lovely £125 edition from OUP last year. same for the next volume with commentary.

they're all super short tho, it's like a 17th c. blog

i luckily happened into a well-appointed old norton complete poetry of, for some reason he went so out of fashion that they seem to have stopped printing him, but there must be something like that kicking around your dusty old country

doing Stephen Dobyns' velocities: new and selected now--a lot of it doesn't resonate so much, but the occasional piece of music breaks through--

He has a job that he goes to. It could be at a bank
or a library or turning a piece of flat land
into a ditch. All day something that refuses to
show itself hovers at the corner of his eye,
like a name he is trying to remember, like
expecting a touch on the shoulder, as if someone
were about to embrace him, a woman in a blue dress
whom he has never met, would never meet again.
And it seems the purpose of each day's labor
is simply to bring this mystery to focus. He can
almost describe it, as if it were a figure at the edge
of a burning field with smoke swirling around it
like white curtains shot full of wind and light.

man that is some p egregious prose w line breaks you got there

one good thing about the seventeeth century was, they knew where you put a line break, and knew it hard

actually that bit includes the indentation at the start of the second line onwards that suggests this is all 'one line'

so

Prose poetry is exceedingly difficult to qualify as poetry. Very few attempts succeed. Rimbaud managed that trick better than most.

all poem it seems the purpose of each reader's labor is simply to bring each line into focus.

Love, love Dobyns's Cemetery Nights and "Beauty."

Prose poems: loved Killarney Clary's books; still might.

Here's Beauty.

The Tobacco Shop

Generally think of Michael Hofmann as a bit of a crepe but was moved by the insane hyperbole of his LRB rave to give Karen Solie a whirl and, wow, she's pretty great.

Also catching up with Harry Clifton's new selected, which feels a little over-refined in comparison.

Hofmann is a man of 'extremes' - he's more like a rock journo at points: a good, and a bad, thing. The LRB needs him tho'.

Really enjoyed that piece too.

picked up Ashbery's "Quick Question," also just ordered selected Auden. haven't read much Ashbery and am sort of struggling for a way in.

It is as though the actual Ashbery poem were concealed from you,writtenon the other side of a mirrored surface, and you saw only the reflectionof your reading. But by reflecting your reading, Ashbery’s poems allowyou to attend to your attention, to experience your experience, thereby enabling a strange kind of presence. But it is a presence that keeps the virtual possibilities of poetry intact because the true poem remains beyond you, inscribed on the far side of the mirror: “You have it but youdon’t have it. / You miss it, it misses you. / You miss each other.”

That's from the novel "leaving the atocha station." I'm not really an expert on ashbery but i like the poems i've read for something like those reasons. his poems always exist just on the edge of comprehensibility. at the moment you feel absorbed, like you are grasping it, it slips away.

also he has a nice voice. you can listen to him reading "daffy duck in hollywood" here http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/daffy-duck-hollywood

there's probably a deeper way of appreciating his poems than those two reasons though.

yeah i was thinking about buying that novel today actually

I adore Ashbery but every time I pick up a new volume at the store or library I put it down. His poems have become such fine-tuned machines: a quasi-profundity here, interlaced with a demotic quip there. I don't need to read anymore.

there's probably a deeper way of appreciating his poems than those two reasons though.

― Treeship,

There isn't really! His considerable pleasures are surface. Plus, there's depth in surface, if that makes sense.

Self-portrait in a Convex Mirror is maybe his most accessible book, and the title poem is p lucid imo. It's a narrative poem for the most part and is a long, discursive but entirely readable meditation on the creative act, the inadequacy of language as a vessel for the stuff of any moment's experience, etc (insofar as an Ashbery poem can be "about" any one thing). So many great lines that just quicken yr heart a little.

Another good one is Three Poems, all prose poems and on the other side of the easy-to-parse scale, but virtuosic in the way that they mix different types of voices and discourses and organize them into a holistic end product. Also the Caliban section to the audience in Auden's The Sea in the Mirror (prob incl in that Selected Poems) is a huge influence on this book and one of my favorite poems ever.

Houseboat Days is a particular favorite; so are the sonnets in Shadow Train and the title poem of Wakefulness ("Little by little the idea of the true way returned to me.").

yeah self-portrait is definitely a major marker of clarity – that's a work where the pleasure has something in common with stevens, & not the more usual ashbery joy of sliding slightly off sense while riding syntax & tone (& then sense pulling you back)

Been reading quite a lot of German poetry lately: Goethe, Heine (love his last poems -- they seem to be looking forward to death), Holderlin (and his vision of ancient Greece), Rilke's Duino Elegies.

Picked up a couple of Italian poets in the Penguin European Modern poets edition (you see quite a lot of these in 2nd hand shops): Montale and Quasimodo. Looking forward to a run of Italian, French, Eastern European and Russian poetry I've collected, so I'll be returning to this thread for much of the summer.

xposts: The Sea & the Mirror is really good; probly the only Auden I've read (while studying The Tempest) but I'd buy the Collected Poems just to get a copy.

Lately I have been reading all the non-Mariner, non-Khan Coleridge poems + Charles Lamb's letters to Coleridge + Coleridge on Imagination by I. A. Richards (a book Stevens owned and annotated!); but not the Biographia Literaria just yet.

i read 'ode to dejection' carefully a while back, it's no wonder i ditched english for philosophy in college, i really wasn't ready to read a bunch of the shit we had to read

Going through all the 'conversation poems', with their stereotyped three-part structure, has given me a new appreciation for the more dynamic & surprising shifts in e.g. "Tintern Abbey".

"Dejection" is one I need to read a few more times—tends to be grouped in with the conversation poems based on tone + genesis (many of its lines were quarried from an earlier, unpublished poem to Sarah Not-Coleridge's-Wife) but there's clearly more going on there... like I said, I haven't fully comprehended it yet. At present, I think I prefer Shelley's 'Stanzas Written in Dejection', which treat similar content in a more pleasingly musical form.

keeping up with this thread along with the I Love Comics 'what are you reading' thread, it's really something to see the symmetry of people who follow newer releases versus people who happily explore the classics.

pfft, what am i gonna do, read emily gould

Frederick Seidel again, Karen Solie for the first time, back to Dryden.

read a bunch of george herbert last night!

I do love Herbert but I read the Church Porch recently & he can be a drag.

Drink not the third glasse, which thou canst not tame,
When once it is within thee; but before
Mayst rule it, as thou list; and poure the shame,
Which it would poure on thee, upon the floore.
It is most just to throw that on the ground,
Which would throw me there, if I keep the round.

NO! DRINK IT!

I read about a dozen Bab Ballads last night, but they hardly count as poetry.

ashbery was mentioned earlier by mr. hoos and i want to share the text of "wet casements" for people who haven't read it.

“When Eduard Raban, coming along the passage, walked into the open
doorway, he saw that it was raining. It was not raining much.”—Franz Kafka, “Wedding Preparations in the Country”

The conception is interesting: to see, as though reflected
In streaming windowpanes, the look of others through
Their own eyes. A digest of their correct impressions of
Their self-analytical attitudes overlaid by your
Ghostly transparent face. You in falbalas
Of some distant but not too distant era, the cosmetics,
The shoes perfectly pointed, drifting (how long you
Have been drifting; how long I have too for that matter)
Like a bottle imp toward a surface which can only be approached,
Never pierced through into the timeless energy of a present
Which would have its own ideas on these matters,
Are an epistemological snapshot of the processes
That first mentioned your name at some crowded cocktail
Party long ago, and someone (not the person addressed)
Overheard it and carried that name around in his wallet
For years as the wallet crumbled and bills slid in
And out of it. I want that information very much today,

Can’t have it, and this makes me angry.
I shall use my anger to build a bridge like that
Of Avignon, on which people may dance for the feeling
Of dancing on a bridge. I shall at last see my complete face
Reflected not in the water but in the worn stone floor of my bridge.

I shall keep to myself.
I shall not repeat others’ comments about me.

Last night I read this harsh review of Charles Wright's new book (hey, it shows up on my Longreads; not actively seeking out The New Criterion), and found myself completely opposite to the reviewer. I used to have a hard time with Wright's poems, but the last few books have become clearer and more straightforward and less B.S.-ey.

i'm fond of charles wright!

wow, slam after slam in that thing.

Without even clicking, is it by Logan? I hqve his first volume of crit but boy has his schtick hardened.

Yep, it's a group review by Logan: four hatchet jobs and a kind one at the end.