22 July 2007
That I Stammer...
Once, while I
was still living in Trenton (where the hell do I
live, now?), I was at a show at the now-defunct
ArtWorks where I met a man who had met the great poet
Ezra Pound. This man (whose name has been lost to me,
though I still remember something of his face) told
me that he met Pound when he was younger while he was
backpacking across Europe. This was a time, I imagine
in the 60s, before student travel cards, certain
advances in wire-frame backpack manufacturing and
pre-packaged trips - when it still took a little
courage to embark across this continent on your own.
The story, as he told me, was that he came across Pound in an Italian cafe and recognized him immediately, but had to have a few beers to muster the courage to go up to the venerated poet to introduce himself. Pound was with his mistress and when the fellow introduced himself, begging the question to which he already knew the answer - "Excuse me - pardon me if I'm intruding, but are you Ezra Pound?" Pound's companion invited the young man to sit with them and to talk. I have searched for her name, because I didn't want to tell this story - as she is central to it - with her as a nameless woman, but from what I have read, Pound had many mistresses. Not being a Pound scholar and not knowing the exact date, makes it difficult.
By that occaision in Italy, Pound had lived through what were his worst years. The trial after the Second World War, where he stood accused of being a treasonous propagandist. The asylum, where he was held (albeit, every source seems to agree, quite comfortably) for years and finally judged to be mentally unfit. The literary dueling of his dear friends and hangers on. He probably still dealt on a daily basis with the sort of dark and obssessive thoughts that a person like him lives with, but if he could have had what one can call a "retirement," or to be more sentimental, "his golden years," they were spent in Italy around the time that this man had met him.
The man who told me the story imparted to me that he was probably a bashful, garrulous college boy who had probably had a little too much to drink on that hot day in the cafe. Pound's companion, graceful and charming, inquired about he and his studies and made civil conversation, when she could have just waved him off, dejected as I'm certain she likely did with many an unwelcome admirer. (Pound was known for who would visit him and what lengths they would go to see him.)
When he felt that he should leave, so that his welcome didn't wear thin - a long time, I remember - this man took from his bag an edition of Pound's that he had purchased from a nearby bookshop between the beers that he had drunk to gather the courage to approach Pound. He asked Pound if he would please personalize it. Pound agreed, and he realized that it was the first time that Pound has said a single word to him.
I've heard anecdotes about Pound and his long silences. Some have told me that his final years were ones in which very few words were spoken and that he had understandings, like those he had with his mistress with someone, or did not. One of my teachers, who had been the visit Pound in the mental hospital, when he was younger said to me: "I don't know if he thought that there was anything more for him to say."
I've often wondered what that must have been like. Not to talk, even to those you love, out of frustration of what gets lost in the moment in the verbal exchange between two people. I've often considered what it's like to love words and their exactness and to use that love to say exactly what you mean and still be misinterpreted, misconstrued, or misheard.
When I write, things become clear, deliberate, logical. When I talk, I'm certain that I often come off as a bit flaky, whether or not I actually have a point. And, I think that's something I share with Pound, a bit of flakiness and that we both had positions and visions that we probably could not in our fervency, to our absolute bedevilment, express to people in words. It's not a stammer, for me, it's something more confusing - stifling like the heat of that day in the Italian cafe.
Or, perhaps, I am coming to learn after a long period of stubborness, that there are certain divides that cannot an will not be breached if either party is unwilling in the least - that empathy, or the desire for it is indeed rarer than I ever believed. Of the two, I would like very much for the former to be true, but evidence continually points to the latter. That I stammer. That I am stifled. It would give me more hope.
The story, as he told me, was that he came across Pound in an Italian cafe and recognized him immediately, but had to have a few beers to muster the courage to go up to the venerated poet to introduce himself. Pound was with his mistress and when the fellow introduced himself, begging the question to which he already knew the answer - "Excuse me - pardon me if I'm intruding, but are you Ezra Pound?" Pound's companion invited the young man to sit with them and to talk. I have searched for her name, because I didn't want to tell this story - as she is central to it - with her as a nameless woman, but from what I have read, Pound had many mistresses. Not being a Pound scholar and not knowing the exact date, makes it difficult.
By that occaision in Italy, Pound had lived through what were his worst years. The trial after the Second World War, where he stood accused of being a treasonous propagandist. The asylum, where he was held (albeit, every source seems to agree, quite comfortably) for years and finally judged to be mentally unfit. The literary dueling of his dear friends and hangers on. He probably still dealt on a daily basis with the sort of dark and obssessive thoughts that a person like him lives with, but if he could have had what one can call a "retirement," or to be more sentimental, "his golden years," they were spent in Italy around the time that this man had met him.
The man who told me the story imparted to me that he was probably a bashful, garrulous college boy who had probably had a little too much to drink on that hot day in the cafe. Pound's companion, graceful and charming, inquired about he and his studies and made civil conversation, when she could have just waved him off, dejected as I'm certain she likely did with many an unwelcome admirer. (Pound was known for who would visit him and what lengths they would go to see him.)
When he felt that he should leave, so that his welcome didn't wear thin - a long time, I remember - this man took from his bag an edition of Pound's that he had purchased from a nearby bookshop between the beers that he had drunk to gather the courage to approach Pound. He asked Pound if he would please personalize it. Pound agreed, and he realized that it was the first time that Pound has said a single word to him.
I've heard anecdotes about Pound and his long silences. Some have told me that his final years were ones in which very few words were spoken and that he had understandings, like those he had with his mistress with someone, or did not. One of my teachers, who had been the visit Pound in the mental hospital, when he was younger said to me: "I don't know if he thought that there was anything more for him to say."
I've often wondered what that must have been like. Not to talk, even to those you love, out of frustration of what gets lost in the moment in the verbal exchange between two people. I've often considered what it's like to love words and their exactness and to use that love to say exactly what you mean and still be misinterpreted, misconstrued, or misheard.
When I write, things become clear, deliberate, logical. When I talk, I'm certain that I often come off as a bit flaky, whether or not I actually have a point. And, I think that's something I share with Pound, a bit of flakiness and that we both had positions and visions that we probably could not in our fervency, to our absolute bedevilment, express to people in words. It's not a stammer, for me, it's something more confusing - stifling like the heat of that day in the Italian cafe.
Or, perhaps, I am coming to learn after a long period of stubborness, that there are certain divides that cannot an will not be breached if either party is unwilling in the least - that empathy, or the desire for it is indeed rarer than I ever believed. Of the two, I would like very much for the former to be true, but evidence continually points to the latter. That I stammer. That I am stifled. It would give me more hope.
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Some Good News!
27/07/07 02:10 Permalink
So, good
news! I won a writer's residency for the month of
October in Montana. It's fully funded, except for
transportation. I was actually thinking of taking my
great, oft-delayed train trip there. I'll pay for it
somehow.
Interesting: How is it that I can I go from a fellowship in the world's homogenous country to a residency in my country's homgenous state?
So, for September, I'll probably go back to the States, sort some things out and spend as much time as I can between New York and Jersey. I don't know exactly how it's all going to work, but I'm good at thinking on my feet.
Also, there is a fete in my village that goes all weekend long. It's pretty damned snazzy. It's 0130 and they're still playing loud and strong. It's good to be a night owl.
Star Trek Poems:
Catspaw: 7/26 (Something a little different, inspired by a challenge someone sent me.)
Day of the Dove: 7/27
The Cage: 7/28
Interesting: How is it that I can I go from a fellowship in the world's homogenous country to a residency in my country's homgenous state?
So, for September, I'll probably go back to the States, sort some things out and spend as much time as I can between New York and Jersey. I don't know exactly how it's all going to work, but I'm good at thinking on my feet.
Also, there is a fete in my village that goes all weekend long. It's pretty damned snazzy. It's 0130 and they're still playing loud and strong. It's good to be a night owl.
Star Trek Poems:
Catspaw: 7/26 (Something a little different, inspired by a challenge someone sent me.)
Day of the Dove: 7/27
The Cage: 7/28
For All This, I Give You
The Kevin Blues...
This only
makes sense if you have had more than a five minute
conversation with me in which you were actually
listening. That ain't many people.
Just imagine that I have back-up singers. I do.
The K-Kevi-Kev Blues
I ain't got no money! I ain't got no house! And my pretty kitty can't get out an' catch no mouse!
Goin' back to the city, that don' run me away! Tryin' ta find me a flop, but it don' matter anyway!
'cause I got the blues, (Oh YEAH!) I got the blues (oh YEAH!)
An' the Tao ain't tellin' me what to do. (Oh YEAH! Oh NO! NoNo! SNAZ-ZY! SNAZ-ZY!)
I got the no money havin', kitty ain't mousin',
city slicker hustlin', it don't matter blues
(Oh YEAH! Oh NO! SNAZ-ZAY!)
My uncle was a bluesman, I loved him very much. I hope that I he is not rolling over in his grave.
Just imagine that I have back-up singers. I do.
The K-Kevi-Kev Blues
I ain't got no money! I ain't got no house! And my pretty kitty can't get out an' catch no mouse!
Goin' back to the city, that don' run me away! Tryin' ta find me a flop, but it don' matter anyway!
'cause I got the blues, (Oh YEAH!) I got the blues (oh YEAH!)
An' the Tao ain't tellin' me what to do. (Oh YEAH! Oh NO! NoNo! SNAZ-ZY! SNAZ-ZY!)
I got the no money havin', kitty ain't mousin',
city slicker hustlin', it don't matter blues
(Oh YEAH! Oh NO! SNAZ-ZAY!)
My uncle was a bluesman, I loved him very much. I hope that I he is not rolling over in his grave.
Star Trek Poem Titles...
I thought
that it would be neat to keep track of the Star Trek
Poems on my blog, so you have some idea of how I'm
keeping myself busy based on poem titles. If that's
possible.
Remember, I draw these randomly from a cup. Perhaps soon, I'll be able to have some up in Recent Poems.
Yesterday is Tomorrow 7/23
Let That Be Your Last Battlefield 7/24
All Our Yesterdays 7/25
Catspaw 7/26
Remember, I draw these randomly from a cup. Perhaps soon, I'll be able to have some up in Recent Poems.
Yesterday is Tomorrow 7/23
Let That Be Your Last Battlefield 7/24
All Our Yesterdays 7/25
Catspaw 7/26
To What Am I Returning...
I've already
reached and passed the halfway point of my stay here
in France. And, though there are days, my return to
physical and spiritual health has been swift, aided
in no small part by the cradle of mountains, the
swaddle of rives and the respiration of the altitude.
Now, I must consider what comes next. I have a ticket
to return back to the United States. I am trying to
find a place to live, to plot and plan for some
future, but everything is so inbetween and up in the
air.
For now, I have no job, no domicile, and no prospects. I'm hopeful, but I've thought about setting up a paypal button this site so that people can contribute to my repatriation and resettlement. Or, I could have a "Sopranos"-style homecoming party, where people come up to me and hand me wads of cash in white envelopes. In any event, the well is dry and looks to be for a while, especially with the new life form that I happen to be sharing living space with. She's so cute, though, I can't possibly mind.
I suppose that, for now, the place I return to must be New York, but If you had told me 3 years ago that I would come to consider New York a home, I'd likely have laughed at you. It took me months into my Fulbright - when I had the chance to choose the place to which I would return - that I could imagine no other place than that one.
Why? It's a place where I've certainly experienced my share of travails, but there's no place like it. A good night in New York is a night that I am convinced cannot be had anywhere else on the planet. When the right people, Conversation, food and wine come together, it is something, to ape a term of one of my former teachers, "magical."
Except, I doubt that it will be as easy as before. That perhaps I had two years where I had little to worry about and now that's going to change. The universe will provide. I told that to someone when they were once stressed about all the same things that the universe will bring them to where they need to be. Until then, though, I am going to have some wine.
For now, I have no job, no domicile, and no prospects. I'm hopeful, but I've thought about setting up a paypal button this site so that people can contribute to my repatriation and resettlement. Or, I could have a "Sopranos"-style homecoming party, where people come up to me and hand me wads of cash in white envelopes. In any event, the well is dry and looks to be for a while, especially with the new life form that I happen to be sharing living space with. She's so cute, though, I can't possibly mind.
I suppose that, for now, the place I return to must be New York, but If you had told me 3 years ago that I would come to consider New York a home, I'd likely have laughed at you. It took me months into my Fulbright - when I had the chance to choose the place to which I would return - that I could imagine no other place than that one.
Why? It's a place where I've certainly experienced my share of travails, but there's no place like it. A good night in New York is a night that I am convinced cannot be had anywhere else on the planet. When the right people, Conversation, food and wine come together, it is something, to ape a term of one of my former teachers, "magical."
Except, I doubt that it will be as easy as before. That perhaps I had two years where I had little to worry about and now that's going to change. The universe will provide. I told that to someone when they were once stressed about all the same things that the universe will bring them to where they need to be. Until then, though, I am going to have some wine.
Jo Jo Dancer...
So, now I
have a cat. Her name is Jo Jo Dancer. Her name was
already Jo Jo, I just added the Dancer part. What can
I say, I love Richard Pryor. I found her here and she
is the friskiest, cutest, cleverest kitty you ever
want to meet. Getting her home is going to be a chore
and a half, but if you saw this cat (to which I am
not allergic), you'd see why I fell in love.
Despite some minor annoyances, I'm still enjoying France. There was a period of too much socialization, but I think that is going to abate. There are only five weeks left and I want to write as much as I can, as well as prepare some applications. I also have the University of Georgia Ph.D. to think about. GRE, ugh...
Time to start thinking about the future, My friend Adam, who lives in New York, though we met in Prague. He's a together fellow. It will be good to have someone who knows me and has an idea of how I can re-orient myself in New York.
Despite some minor annoyances, I'm still enjoying France. There was a period of too much socialization, but I think that is going to abate. There are only five weeks left and I want to write as much as I can, as well as prepare some applications. I also have the University of Georgia Ph.D. to think about. GRE, ugh...
Time to start thinking about the future, My friend Adam, who lives in New York, though we met in Prague. He's a together fellow. It will be good to have someone who knows me and has an idea of how I can re-orient myself in New York.
Boldly Going...
The Dekalog
is finished - mostly. Everything is there that I
meant to put in there, all ten parts. Now, I've sent
it off to people whose opinions I trust to get some
editorial advice. These things can take a while, as
poets are usually terrible at giving back prompt
feedback. For right now, it's placed aside. However,
that's not to say that I'm without a project, I've
actually started one that I have wanted to start for
a very long time.
I've always found the episode titles of the original series of Star Trek, fascinating, with so many of them making for great poem titles. (i.e. "For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky," "Let that Be Your Last Battlefield" and "In Truth Is There No Beauty.") So I printed them all out and cut them into pieces and put the titles into a bowl. Each day, I write a poem titled after the slip of paper I withdraw. The first attempt at a poem is entitled "Tomorrow is Yesterday." I thought that was a good first draw. I could have gotten, "I, Mudd."
I've always found the episode titles of the original series of Star Trek, fascinating, with so many of them making for great poem titles. (i.e. "For the World is Hollow and I Have Touched the Sky," "Let that Be Your Last Battlefield" and "In Truth Is There No Beauty.") So I printed them all out and cut them into pieces and put the titles into a bowl. Each day, I write a poem titled after the slip of paper I withdraw. The first attempt at a poem is entitled "Tomorrow is Yesterday." I thought that was a good first draw. I could have gotten, "I, Mudd."