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poetry

JANE RYDER NOMINATES: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

123_2302a I nominate “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot.

One of the reasons I’m convinced of its sublimity is that I’m really not keen on poetry, and in fact don’t care for anything else Eliot ever wrote.

But this particular poem encompasses, encapsulates, the entirety of human existence, in a way no other type of writing could. A novel would make all the subtext into text, and rob it of its nuance; a play would make it mundane and common by forcing the words to be spoken by mere mortals; setting it to music would limit and trivialize it. It has a solemn, tragic beauty that would be diminished in any other form.

The poem isn’t flawless (“I should have been a pair of ragged claws …” is a tad goofy), but the missteps add to the poem’s overall perfection, the way a slightly “off” feature on a beautiful face makes it even more beautiful.

This is my favorite stanza:

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail… Continue reading

BLUE NOTES

105_0596a“Art is never finished, only abandoned,” said the man who painted The Last Supper and The Mona Lisa and drew the Vitruvian Man. Leonardo da Vinci should know.

It seems an apt statement for creative writing as well, no matter the form.

I wrote “Blue Notes” several years ago while living in Tucson, but was never really sure I’d finished it.  It seemed to leave its subject unresolved, a town (and its people) in slow and silent decline into the dust from which it rose.  I’ve felt the poem was missing either the spark of optimism or the mercy of certainty.

Yet sometimes the blues are not just a beat.  Sometimes they just don’t end.

I’ve come across another observation about art which I hope applies to this poem.  It’s from Paul Gardener (Strength to Love, 1963):  “A painting is never finished.  It simply stops in interesting places.”

 

BLUE NOTES

The colors of this town, once vibrant and proud,
Have blanched toward white, tan and brown.
House paint and trim and storefront signs,
Once bright of hue are faded and rimed.
Even the tags of graffiti, once… Continue reading

AUTOSCHEDIASTIC AND OTHER WORD QUERIES

La Colina.35aAutoschediastic:   Have you encountered a more mechanistic word than this?  One that sounds more bolted together?  Auto-sched-i-as-tic.  Other forms are “autoschediasm” and “autoschediastical.”

Its synonyms include “spontaneous,” “extemporaneous,” “impromptu,” and “off-hand”.  Have you come across another word whose sound seems so contrary to its meaning?

“On Saturday, we made an autoschediastic trip to the beach.”

“Don’t take offense, John.  I’m sure it was just an autoschediastic remark.”

“I don’t have a prepared speech for you today.  I’ll be making just a few autoschediastic remarks.”

Is there any other word whose structure and sound are so unlike its meaning?

Agony and antagony:  The noun form of this word is agony, yet its direct antonym is antagonism.  Seems to me the more symmetrical construction “antagony” should at least be an option.  It’s more direct and more poignant.  In this form, it is clear emotion.  In the other, it’s once removed, a thing.   Whatever happened to “antagony?”

And what about “minify”?

Several dictionaries define the word “magnify” as  “to make greater in actual size.”  For a word meaning the opposite, “to… Continue reading

Jongleur

 

In verse and in song, in prose soaring and long,
His grandfather told stories in village and town.
In swales and plains and mountains he roamed
Led by the sun where the weather fit his clothes.

Traveling south in the winter, north when hot,
West to east, east to west was as good as not.
Stopping to sing, to tell a story for a pence,
To lift a draught, to give a laugh, to court a wench.

His voice was pure and amber and sweet.

At every stop, townsfolk gathered round to hear him sing,
And listen to stories of presidents and kings,
Knights in armor and ladies with braids,
Cracked mirrors and iguanas and damsels afraid.

Now he, the grandson, hitches rides in trucks and cars
Carrying a knapsack, bottled water and two guitars.
Cities and suburbs and townships he covers
Led by visions of stardom and being discovered.

He croons in clubs and casinos and small town bars.
Stories he tells are of missed chances and second-rate stars.
In cities, he plays on the streets for nightly rent
For dimes and quarters that are quickly spent.

Few stop to listen, many more stride past
Talking on cell… Continue reading

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