you're supposed to be excited to be living, or something

Jack London shares my birthday, although he was born in 1876. Quite a long time ago. He has written a semi-autobiographical novel called Martin Eden, which tells the story of a young man consumed with the desire to become an artist. It's a sad story, I'm told. Here is a more upbeat poem of his ("credo" = "what I believe"):

CREDO

I would rather be ashes than dust!
I would rather that my spark
should burn out in a brilliant blaze
than it should be stifled by dry-rot.

I would rather be a superb meteor
every atom of me in magnificent glow
than a sleepy and permanent planet.

The function of man is to live
not to exist.
I shall not waste my days trying to prolong them.
I shall use my time.

i'm all about diversity

Last night I dreamed that Andrew told me that we're already failing the revival of this blog, so I flew to Dublin with the intention of punching him in the face for being a liar.

Anyway, I thought I'd share a fun poem with you. It's by Paul Laurence Dunbar, who was a popular African American poet back in his day. The poem is written in dialect, and therefore Herbert Martin reads it way better than I ever could. (You can listen to this and a wide selection of Dunbar's poems at dunbarsite.org.)

"A Negro Love Song"

a little advice

I'm so stoked we're back in action, my friends. I'm currently taking a Contemporary American Poetry course, and I love the fact that I can sit and drink tea for hours while reading Adrienne Rich and Robert Lowell, and say I'm doing something academically productive.

However, I'm in a bit of a pickle. I have to pick one poet to do a major research project on (15 page paper) and I was looking for suggestions. My current leaning is either Adrienne Rich or Elizabeth Bishop. However, as part of the project, we have to read every single thing our poet has ever written, multiple times. I welcome your thoughts.

...oder ich werde melancholisch

That's right, another Wozzeck quote, from Alban Berg's opera. I just thought it was applicable to this article. The book has been reviewed constantly for the last month in various papers, but this is the author's column in the LA Times. "The miracle of melancholy," is the article, based on the book Against Happiness: In Praise of Melancholy. The section on Keats (fittingly, one of the longest sections) is the reason I felt it needed to be shared. The perfect gift for the tortured artist in your life.

The Captain (Herr Hauptmann), in the first scene, says some things to Wozzeck that I don't understand, then threatens "...or I will be melancholy," which I do understand.

das Messer einsinken

That's right, we are blogging machines. Enough of this third-party nonsense about poetry and inevitability and slamming. Not that I don't appreciate these things. I'm just trying to find something to fight about. It's not a joint-blog unless there's fighting. We're the Oasis of poetry blogs.

Two poems: first, Louis MacNeice's "Snow," then, no interval, "History" by Paul Muldoon. Both are Irish; Muldoon seems to draw on the poetic mantra of MacNeice, drawing it out into the self, the two parts of the self, instead of the customary post-war-divided-Ireland interpretation of much mid-century Irish poetry.

Snow

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of one's hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.

-Louis MacNeice (from an anthology, I don't have a date)

History

Where and when exactly did we first have sex?
Do you remember?  Was it Fitzrow Avenue,
Or Cromwell Road, or Notting Hill?
Your place or mine?  Mareilles or Aix?
Or as long ago as that Thursday evening
When you and I climbed through the bay window
On the ground floor of Aquinas Hall
And into the room where MacNeice wrote 'Snow',
Or the room where they say he wrote 'Snow'.

-Paul Muldoon, Why Brownlee Left (1980)

quotes (about poetry). you know, to inspire you.

True eloquence consists in saying all that is necessary, and nothing but what is necessary.
-German poet Heinrich Heine

A poet must leave traces of his passage, not proof.
-French poet Rene Char

I don't want to write good poems. I want to write inevitable poems--given who I am, they are what I will write.
-American poet William Stafford

(A theme? Yes, there is one.)

because we have no excuse to learn

And we're back. I'd like to begin with some video--ease us back into the game.

My classmate Lauren, who interns for the PI, goes to a lot of local events to report on the new blog aimed at our age group. (I wish them luck.) Her latest post covers the Youth Speaks preliminaries. I love listening to slam poetry. You should too.

Who speaks? Youth Speaks