Hwaet.
Old English for "So." Seamus Heaney’s choice to start of his translation of Beowulf. As attributes of the ancient masterwork go, it is one of David Eldridge’s favorites, or so it was some years ago. I may have mentioned this fact somewhere else on this site. I don’t know how to get in touch with you, Dave. How’ve you been? Are you still in Boston? May Googling your name – we all do it – lead you here.
I’m set up in Brooklyn. I have hardwood floors and hardwood-looking furniture which is spare and somewhat sleek. My desk has on it, left to right, Anthony Hecht’s Collected Later Poems, an alligator clip, roughly $1.07 in change, a twist-tie, the “Mano Poderoso” or “Powerful Hand” candle, which is lit, my like ninth blank notebook of poetry which is about a week away from being completely filled, the first draft of mss. #2 Safety Culture (uncorrected, unedited), this laptop, the third draft of mss. #1 Food Bed Gospel, an empty white coffee mug, and an earthenwarish lamp from I believe Ikea.
Recently I opened up a post from JBG, which contained a tiny card with a nude woman named Monica voguing on it and, on the inside, a poem about Vegas typewritten on the smudgy machine Jeremy’s dug up from somewhere. Reading this poem, I can’t overemphasize, helped remind me about poetry as I want it to be. Reading Jeremy’s work often has this effect; it strikes Whitmanic chords in me, and not just because of the “O ____ ! O ______ and _______ !” Although those Os are in the mix of effects upon me. He’s having an incredible time in Vegas, if not with his time then at least with his spirit. They have him working pretty hard at the private school, I can only imagine, but it seems as though for him at least the Vegas aura fuels him. I sense a gathering, recurrent power in these little poem-notes of his. That city is good for him. And these poem-notes are good for me. I sat down to write a poem in an almost-forgotten spirit of celebration regarding my own adopted city—so many of this summer’s poems aren’t hitting the notes I want them to: notes of revelry and, if they assert or discover some critical fault in the culture or human spirit, suggest that fault's patchibility. JBG’s work jump-starts that optimism in me. Poetry editors reading this site and in a position to OK any of his submissions would be wise to do so.
I’m set up in Brooklyn. I have hardwood floors and hardwood-looking furniture which is spare and somewhat sleek. My desk has on it, left to right, Anthony Hecht’s Collected Later Poems, an alligator clip, roughly $1.07 in change, a twist-tie, the “Mano Poderoso” or “Powerful Hand” candle, which is lit, my like ninth blank notebook of poetry which is about a week away from being completely filled, the first draft of mss. #2 Safety Culture (uncorrected, unedited), this laptop, the third draft of mss. #1 Food Bed Gospel, an empty white coffee mug, and an earthenwarish lamp from I believe Ikea.
Recently I opened up a post from JBG, which contained a tiny card with a nude woman named Monica voguing on it and, on the inside, a poem about Vegas typewritten on the smudgy machine Jeremy’s dug up from somewhere. Reading this poem, I can’t overemphasize, helped remind me about poetry as I want it to be. Reading Jeremy’s work often has this effect; it strikes Whitmanic chords in me, and not just because of the “O ____ ! O ______ and _______ !” Although those Os are in the mix of effects upon me. He’s having an incredible time in Vegas, if not with his time then at least with his spirit. They have him working pretty hard at the private school, I can only imagine, but it seems as though for him at least the Vegas aura fuels him. I sense a gathering, recurrent power in these little poem-notes of his. That city is good for him. And these poem-notes are good for me. I sat down to write a poem in an almost-forgotten spirit of celebration regarding my own adopted city—so many of this summer’s poems aren’t hitting the notes I want them to: notes of revelry and, if they assert or discover some critical fault in the culture or human spirit, suggest that fault's patchibility. JBG’s work jump-starts that optimism in me. Poetry editors reading this site and in a position to OK any of his submissions would be wise to do so.
posted by Wil at
7:03 AM
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