Paul Muldoon

Robert Fulford had this nice profile of Paul Muldoon in the National Post.

NOT by Anne Michaels, Toronto's Poet Laureate

not will, not desire:
perhaps prayer

not still:
held

at the end you said:
I want to keep my eyes open,
to miss nothing

not entreaty, not regret
not future, not past:
touch and warm weight

breath and again:
what word can be heard

not loss, not absence:
perhaps soul

not inside, not outside:
dusk's doorway

not alone

From All We Saw

George Gray by Edgar Lee Masters (1868–1950)

I HAVE studied many times
The marble which was chiseled for me—
A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.
In truth it pictures not my destination
But my life.	5
For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;
Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;
Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.
Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.
And now I know that we must lift the sail	10
And catch the winds of destiny
Wherever they drive the boat.
To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,
But life without meaning is the torture
Of restlessness and vague desire—	15
It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid.

Matthew Zapruder, Why Poetry? (Ecco)

Poet and editor Matthew Zapruder’s Why Poetry is a welcome argument against the utilitarian view of reading, instilled in many of us as high school students, that often overshadows the pleasures of poetry. By subverting the view that understanding is the ne plus ultra of reading poetry, Zapruder opens the door to mystery, revels in the strangeness of language, and finds solace in the unknown, lessons that apply, of course, to so much more than lines on a page.

–Stephen Sparks, Lit Hub contributing editor

Two Poets Walk Into A Book Store

The New York Times has this short piece on what's selling:
https://www.nytimes.com/2017/07/28/books/review/two-poets-walk-into-a-bookstore.html?_r=0

Can Poetry Change Your Life?

Springsteen and Dylan speak to our current condition, and so do Boethius and Sappho: On Michael Robbins’s Equipment for Living: On Poetry and Pop Music and “advanced-pop criticism.”
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/07/31/can-poetry-change-your-life

The Most Anthologized Poems of the Last 25 Years

Emily Temple did a lot of work here:
http://lithub.com/the-most-anthologized-poems-of-the-last-25-years/

Poetry is everywhere, soaked into language: Mallick

Interesting column on poetry in our everyday language:
https://www.thestar.com/opinion/2017/07/14/poetry-is-everywhere-soaked-into-language-mallick.html

June 14: Tracy K. Smith named U.S. Poet Laureate

I guess this is important:
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems-and-poets/poets/detail/tracy-k-smith

Emily Dickinson

In Our Time presented a programme on Emily Dickinson today.

Great Lives did a programme on Emily in 2011.

The Morgan Library has an exhibit on her now too.

May 9: The General by Siegfried Sasson

“Good-morning, good-morning!” the General said When we met him last week on our way to the line. Now the soldiers he smiled at are most of 'em dead, And we're cursing his staff for incompetent swine. “He's a cheery old card,” grunted Harry to Jack As they slogged up to Arras with rifle and pack. But he did for them both by his plan of attack.

US Poets Laureate and the Presidents They Served Under

US Poets Laureate and the Presidents They Served Under, by My Poetic Side

March 2: Robert Lowell at 100: why his poetry has never been more relevant

Lowell’s confessional work of the 1960s marked a sea change in American letters – then he fell out of favour. But on the eve of his centenary, his work offers an urgent political message in a time of Trump

https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2017/mar/01/robert-lowell-at-100-poetry-centenary

March 1: Reading Myself by Robert Lowell

Like thousands, I took just pride
     and more than just,
struck matches that brought my
     blood to a boil;
I memorized the tricks to set the
    river on fire—
somehow never wrote something
     to go back to.
Can I suppose I am finished with
     wax flowers
and have earned my grass on the
     minor slopes of Parnassus....
No honeycomb is built
     without a bee
adding circle to circle, cell to cell,
the wax and honey of a
     mausoleum—
this round dome proves its maker
     is alive;
the corpse of the insect lives
     embalmed in honey,
prays that its perishable work
     live long
enough for the sweet-tooth bear
     to desecrate—
this open book...my open coffin.

From <i>New Selected Poems of Lowell</i>, edited by Katie Peterson.

February 9: Big Six Romanitc Poets

On In Our Time, Jonathan Bate said that in the early 1970s there were six big romantic poets to study:

• William Blake (1757-1827)
• Lord Byron (1788-1824)
• Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772-1834)
• John Keats (1795-1821)
• Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
• William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

February 1: Falling Awake by Alice Oswald

Won the Costa Book Award for Poetry for this book.

Heard  her read a few poems on the Vintage Podcast.

I did not  enjoy them.

January 31: Do not go gentle into that good night by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night

Dylan Thomas, 1914 - 1953

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

 Hear Dylan read it himself! 

See an analysis.

January 25: Robert Burns Day

It being Robert Burns Day, I watched Dawn Steele recite "Tae a Moose."
 
I read along in my Burns book.

To A Mouse, On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi' bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murd'ring pattle!

I'm truly sorry man's dominion,
Has broken nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's winds ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell-
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!
Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain;
The best-laid schemes o' mice an 'men
Gang aft agley,
An'lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me
The present only toucheth thee:
But, Och! I backward cast my e'e.
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

http://www.robertburns.org/works/75.shtml
  

January 24: Toronto Poetry Slam

I went to the Toronto Poetry Slam qualifier for the Canadian Individual Poetry Slam (CIPS) Championships at the Supermarket.

I was asked to be judge. It was the first time I had ever been to a poetry slam so I uniquely unqualified to be judge but that was fine.

I enjoyed some great chicken and shrimp pad thai along with Lagunitas IPA.

Jubilee was a great host and kept things going smoothly.

There were ten poets who presented a 3-minute poem and then a 1-minute poem.

Then there was a cut and six poets presented a 2-minute poem and finally three poets presented a 4-minute poem.

Here are the names of the poets:

• SPIN El Poeta
• Justus
• Nana
• Londzo
• Ayla
• Same Difference
• Ifrah Hussein
• Optimus Rhyme
• Trevor Abes
• Bassam
• yestefania

Andre Prefontaine gave us some poems to start the second half. He had some funny bits but he was not the best poet of the night.

There were two poets who were "sacrifices", presented poems that were judged but not competing themselves. I think the first was Tasha Receno who was great but hard to tell how to score her since she was first.

It was hard to be a judge as I was always thinking about numbers.  I would get a number in my head and adjust it as the poem went along.

Our numbers were made public and mine were consistently the lowest.

I really didn't like Ifrah Hussein and she won. She twice commented on my low scores from the stage. Sorry, I don't like poems about child abuse and female genital mutilation.My favourite was Optimus Rhyme and he didn't make the first cut. He had a poem about a Tinder that was about much more and another about Tim Horton's vs. Starbucks. He had some rhymes.

I really Justus and he finished second. He had a great poem about his his roots going back to Rwanda via Uganda while being Canadian.

I will say that poets looked like Toronto. The winner was from Somalia, Justus is from Uganda, Bassam finished third and he's a Lebanese Jew.

One guy congratulated me on my voting.

I would like to see more poetry slams but I think as an anonymous audience member.

I am still looking for poetry that rhymes.

January 10: Art Bar Poetry Series

I went to to the Art Bar Poetry Series at The Free Times Cafe.

Featured poets were:

• Lucy Brennan
• Jeff Cottrill
• Marc Di Saverio 

Then there were 10 open mic poets.

Jeff was the highlight of the night.

Milo was the only poet to use rhymes.

It was a fun night and I would recommend it.

Allow a half-hour to get there and show up at 7 for supper first.

January 7: Sea Fever by John Masefield

I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking,

And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

Listen to  poet here:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TCYsLqV2CyU

January 2: Praise Song for the Day by Elizabeth Alexander

A Poem for Barack Obama’s Presidential Inauguration

Each day we go about our business,
walking past each other, catching each other’s
eyes or not, about to speak or speaking.

All about us is noise. All about us is
noise and bramble, thorn and din, each
one of our ancestors on our tongues.

Someone is stitching up a hem, darning
a hole in a uniform, patching a tire,
repairing the things in need of repair.

Someone is trying to make music somewhere,
with a pair of wooden spoons on an oil drum,
with cello, boom box, harmonica, voice.

A woman and her son wait for the bus.
A farmer considers the changing sky.
A teacher says, Take out your pencils. Begin.

We encounter each other in words, words
spiny or smooth, whispered or declaimed,
words to consider, reconsider.

We cross dirt roads and highways that mark
the will of some one and then others, who said
I need to see what’s on the other side.

I know there’s something better down the road.
We need to find a place where we are safe.
We walk into that which we cannot yet see.

Say it plain: that many have died for this day.
Sing the names of the dead who brought us here,
who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges,

picked the cotton and the lettuce, built
brick by brick the glittering edifices
they would then keep clean and work inside of.

Praise song for struggle, praise song for the day.
Praise song for every hand-lettered sign,
the figuring-it-out at kitchen tables.

Some live by love thy neighbor as thyself,
others by first do no harm or take no more
than you need. What if the mightiest word is love?

Love beyond marital, filial, national,
love that casts a widening pool of light,
love with no need to pre-empt grievance.

In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air,
any thing can be made, any sentence begun.
On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp,

praise song for walking forward in that light.

See Elizabeth recite the poem at the Inauguration:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_vLBnFk-OFc