jude
if life is a larger, later thing, what left this perfect
child-size hole? what nameless wonder wrought
such joy, such sorrow in so short a time, unseen?
tiny saint — a soul unstained by flesh and blood,
a heart too big for a bone cage — we feel your
flutter, little one, and rejoice to know a piece
of this love has found heaven.
poetry
Last Roll Call
sarge calls the roll until —
once, twice, three times:
rank and last name
rank, first and last
rank, first, middle and last
louder each time.
the name echoes in the silence.
to a man, the same thought:
answer, dammit.
it’s the sun that makes
these young men squint;
the dust they blink away.
it’s sweat trailing down
their windburned cheeks
as the bugle cries.
Book Break: Zen Poetry Addendum (for Jinglebob)
Perhaps there is one poem in Ko Un’s collection, Flowers of a Moment, that both an evolutionary anthropology student and a South Dakota horseman can enjoy:
*
We can never again speed
on four legs
over those plains
and ridges where the mist has cleared
Ah, the curse of homo erectus
*
No rhyme, no meter, but it strikes home for me…it’s how I feel each time I overlook the Missouri, headed west.
Book Break: Flowers of a Moment
I like Zen poetry. I don’t really know what that phrase means for sure—Zen poetry—but I totally dig haiku, and have thoroughly enjoyed Korean Zen poet Ko Un‘s Flowers of a Moment in fits and starts since I found it on the Bargain Books rack at the U bookstore.
My rhythmic rhyming friend Jinglebob would not call this poetry. It’s form is formlessness, I suppose. Spacing, punctuation, subject matter—unpredictable. The poet finds unexpected hints of universal truths and shared emotion in mundane occurrences and natural surroundings. Beauty in simplicity—a sentence or turn of phrase set apart from its surroundings to make you see in a new way.
Gibberish you say? My “review” or this “poetry”?
I wonder what makes Ko Un a poet. Is anything lost in the translation from Korean to English? Or is it like a photographer acquaintance of mine, who, when I asked why he was considered a pro when both of us shoot dozens of photos to get one perfect shot, said something like, “The difference is, I know when I’ve got it.”
Whereas I generally had to wait until the prints came back to know if the film contained anything worthwhile…
Perhaps that’s the difference: perhaps the poet knows before he shares his poetry which words, which images will resonate, and throws the rest away. Whereas I’m just guessing.
Homer, or Three Things to Love About The Odyssey
Blogger’s Note: Two long summers (and two even longer winters) ago, I agreed to my friend Jacqui’s challenge to read 15 Classics in 15 Weeks. I’ve wandered far and been adrift much longer than 15 weeks, but I have persisted — a bit like Greek hero Odysseus.
As darkness fell, the ancient tale well-told, he
Closed the book and to his chambers retired.
Beneath a warming mantle he pondered long
In his mind how best to share his far-flung
Thoughts with his godly companions who would
Soon join him online, until at last the bright-eyed
Goddess shed sweet slumber upon his sacred brow.
And there he slept throughout the ambrosial night.
And when the early-born, rosy-finger dawn smiled
Sweetly upon him, warming him awake with golden
Light, he rose and girded himself in cotton trousers,
Blue and well-riveted, and a shirt, tee in form, all
One bright green. Upon his contrary-minded legs
He made his way, duck-like, to the cold-floored
Hall in which great feasts were held. No servants
Found therein, he shed a well-hid tear at cruel
Misfortune, then with skilled fingers fumbled not
The filters nor the beans, but sought to brew
Strong coffee, and he did. The bitter black elixir
Fast consumed, he brightened, and his newly-wakened
Mind sent wingéd words from fingertip to keyboard.
The much-distracted Thorp, so slow to read, thought
Well, and quickly wrote and shared these words:
With no further ado, Three Things to Love About The Odyssey:
- Manly Men Showing Emotion. These ancient Greek heroes were a heart-on-their-sleeves (or togas) lot, weeping, kissing, raging, and pleading with the gods. Bloody, violent, aggressive; romantic, generous, gentle. What’s not to love?
- Oft-Hyphenated Modifiers and Superlatives. Godly Odysseus, whose father was like a god to the people, and whose own son was in form like the immortals, rises each day at the first appearance of the early-born, rosy-fingered dawn, straps fine sandals to his shining feet, grabs his double-edged sword of pitiless bronze, and … well, you get the idea.
- Well Versed in Verse. The particular translation I picked up at the used book store is The Odyssey of Homer: A New Verse Translation by Albert Cook (W.W. Norton and Company, Inc., New York, 1967). I was looking for a verse translation, which seem to be difficult to come by. A bookstore clerk once asked why. I said because it was written as poetry. (Might as well have said, “It’s the ancient Geek in me.”) Anyway, what caught my eye was not only the fact that this was a verse translation, but the notes on the back say, “[Cook’s translation] is distinguished by its adherence to one simple principle: to reflect faithfully what Homer’s Greek says. To achieve this end, Mr. Cook has produced a translation that follows the original line for line — even to the preservation of important key phrases at the beginnings of the lines.” It’s true there is much repetition of phrases and descriptions, but it they almost read as sight words in the end; the reading moves swiftly and calls to mind that this was an oral work first and foremost. Well done.
Next up? Joyce’s Ulysses was on tap, but now I’m not sure. I’ll surprise you — hopefully in less than 11 months.
Archangel Stomp 