love this 💌...brilliant observations dear sir ....real treasure here and you have got a new follower in me ....I am a Kashmiri language poet and I agree with every word you say 💌
just because you gaze at the repugnant does not mean it is beautiful or you can transform something evil into beauty. You can embrace, accept, or gaze upon something with no power to transform them into something different. It is in the eye of the beholder so perhaps if you are evil you may see evil as beautiful. He obviously was depressed as well. Drugs will do that to you.
ALL of Dana Gioia's lectures on poetry are not only intelligent and insightful, but they help any anyone who writes or reads poetry to understand the elements of this art. His own poetry has always been a testament to this. He's one of our finest, and one of the best lecturers on the art. And this is such an important aspect of poetry.
Thanks to your lectures I have discovered there is a name for my malady: New Formalism. I've written to my own drumbeat for several years but was constrained by a limited frame of reference, mainly poets covered in basic literature classes. In recent years I have begun exploring other poets, not obscure to others but unknown to me. It is in part through lectures, such as those you provide, that I broaden my exposure. It's an ever-widening gyre.
You might find Robert McPhillips's excellent book, "The New Formalism: A Critical Introduction," both interesting and useful. You can pick up a copy inexpensively on the internet or order a copy of the expanded edition from the publisher, Textos.
Noticed this, written by Helen Vendler for the NY Times in 2009: "Holly [his daughter] scoffed at the tale of Stevens’s reputed baptism and 'conversion' related many years later by the hospital chaplain; in her daily attendance, she saw no sign of it and heard nothing of it. (There is no written record of that 'baptism,' although all Roman Catholic priests are required to record the baptisms they perform.)"
Vendler rejected the conversion story, but there is independent testimony, which is widely available. There is even a letter from the priest who baptized Stevens who stated that the local bishop told him not to document the baptism (and others) because he was worried that Protestants would stop coming to the hospital if they feared their relatives might convert to Catholicism. This letter contains information about Stevens that would not have been public at the time. I would direct you to look at Peter Brazeau's oral biography of Stevens and Paul Mariani's biography as well as the scholarship of Janet McCann. Of course, there is an element of uncertaintly, but Vendler is not infallible on this issue.
That was amazing! I was listening to it when making a salad, and when the video had finished, an idea for a new poem popped up! I've already finished the poem, and with imagery. Off to binge-watch the rest of the videos from this channel.
Thanks for all that you do, Dana. That said, I hope in the near future you will produce some new videos about poetry. Perhaps one about neglected poets. Edna St. Vincent Millay, Josephine Miles, Louise Bogan, Ann Stanford come to mind.Too often someone who is an excellent poet, but not widely read, falls between the cracks in the world's smooth surface. Edward Thomas' lovely poem, "Adlestrop," is a poem I return to again and again. We can all cite favorite poems by lesser known poets or poems by poets who are anthologized but are remembered for one or two especially remarkable poems. I can however think of only a few people I know who if I asked them to read a poem, any poem, they would respond with enthusiasm. That said, if I asked almost anyone who is not a poet or hasn't an interest in poetry, "they" would likely respond as if I had asked them to "eat bean sprouts," as you have suggested in another of your discussions about poetry. I see little reference to the work of such poets as Jean Follian, Bert Meyers, Ann Stanford, Josephone Miles, Louise Bogan, Edna St. Vincent Millay (almost forgotten these days), and never anything about poet Agnes Lee (see her poems "The Ilex Tree," "The Sweeper," "Mrs. Malooly," and "Old Lizette On Sleep"). The poems are remarkable though there is little else she wrote that is as fine. She died in 1939, the same year W.B. Yeats died. The best of her poetry can be read online at the Poetry Foundation site. I should also mention Benjamin Saltman's contribution to poetry. In 1992, W. S. Merwin wrote, "Benjamin Saltman is a fine poet, a genuine one, which is saying a great deal, because I think that at anytime there is a lot of showy performance and not so much of always rather surprising welling up of the source itself. Lovely plainness, apparent plainness, with that depth beyond it." Poet Reed Whittemore was also fond of Saltman's poetry. I have taken your advice and stopped worrying so much about Saltman's readership or lack of it. That said, my interest in promoting his work was never something I regarded as "tiresome." I have written and remarked that some of us write merely for the pleasure of writing and have no delusions about the kind of readership that some others enjoy, including yourself. I think it was my friend, William Stafford, who wrote: "Writing is a private act, publishing a public act." I'm not suggesting others look at writing as I do. I have, as you know, recruited actors such as Sally Day, Michael Justice, and others to record my poems. I have found the public is more likely to listen to recordings rather than read a book of poems. You have recorded some of your poems. I like your discussion titled "Poetry as Enchantment," during which you examine why poetry is not as popular was it was during the 19th and early 20th Centuries. Be well, Dana.
I love this poem, Dana. I also like the lesser known "A Peck of Gold." I wish however readers here at RU-vid would not misquote the poem. The second line of the second stanza should read, "Appeared like "gold" in the sunset sky," not "God." Perhaps some need to read Frost's "Complete Poems" or refer to the Library of America publication of Frost's "Collected Poems, Prose, and Plays," compiled by Richard Poirier and Mark Richardson. The word God does not appear in the poem. It wouldn't make a bit of sense if it had. I was raised Catholic and attended Catholic schools. I've not a thing opposed to the belief in God or any god. I do however become rankled when a poem is misquoted and "A Peck of Gold" is often misquoted. Nick Campbell, Atascadero, CA.
Yes, 'One should remain drunk at all times, preferably on Virtue. I believe Baudelaire realized the masculine and feminine depths of the universes, the flowers of evil, a degeneration of cosmic love into a sensual whore.
I refer to the change in European and American artistic sensiblity in the early nineteenth century that continued into the "high Modernism" of the early twentieth century. It was the break from neo-classicism and early Romanticism in France. In the English-speaking world, it was a break from Romanticism. In many ways, Baudelaire was the key transitional figure. If you are interested in this complex cultural change, you might enjoy Richard Ellman's inexhaustible anthology, "The Modern Tradition, Backgrounds in Modern Literature."
I have really enjoyed listening to Mr. Gioia's You Tube videos. I am falling in love with poetry. It seems like all my senses are awakened and I'm seeing the world in a richer and fuller way.
though I do adhere to the precept that " a poem should not mean, but be" I must praise Prof Gioia for his lucidity, depth of insight, and non-didactic yet expert style of instruction.
It's very simple, Poetry should have rhythm and rhyme, it should tell a story or have a moral but so called poets like Bukowski whose poetry is so intospective and dismal don't have any of those things, just negative depressing ramblings without any rhythm or rhyme, I suppose it's trendy to pretend to understand their work but it's not poetry. FOREVER LOST - Lili I sat upon a lonely beach, watched the gulls and crabs devour The remains of one large man, no clothes, no eyes, one hand As I enjoyed the morning sun, the waves had washed him clean I lazed there for a little while and then began to dream And wondered of his story, his sad demise upon the sand. - I slowly woke when day had cooled and found I wasn’t alone A Spectre sat at my right side and smiled at my surprise I was a wanderer he said, a Tramp, a Sailor wild And I pray the sea will take me and scatter all my bones I’ll tell the story of my murder, no profit now in lies For I was just a Gypsy, stolen from my tribe as child. - Sunken deep within the mire of crime, four lads with time to kill And kill we did whenever, we found the chance of coin The guilty and the innocent, none spared or conscience felt The hand of Satan on my shoulder, the tempest in my loins But treachery’s around us all and treachery was dealt When I stole within the clan, a wench I didn’t own.- I lost my eyes, I lost my hand, I’m destined now to roam The lonely shore for evermore, no life, no friends, no hand He wandered back to where his form lay rotting on the sand Sometimes I hear a wailing, from that Spectre in the foam He cannot see, he can’t be free, his anger, hate demand The death of any stranger who happens by his home. - The beach looks so inviting for swimmers to its shore Currents deep and fast, take the unwary to the deep Every Summer takes its toll, the Spectre calls for more The warning signs upon the sand, only tempt the brave Dragged out to sea among the fish, reward eternal sleep There’ll be no sleep for the vagabond, the sand his lonely grave. SOPHIE - Lili You know you don’t belong to us he said unto the child We found you poorly in the swamp deep within the mire Your eyes bright red by moonlight, grey blue before the fire We knew that you were different, a difference deep and wild And we were drawn by deepest love this pen cannot explain No thoughts could ever pass our minds of fleeing from the pain. - The pain of one so young and cold we took from death’s dark claws As you grew within our hovel, submissive, bright and smart A child, a girl with deep black curls, brown skin without a flaw We loved you more as time passed by and death called once again To take the man that you called Pa. You never shed a tear You watched the Moon, you understood as Nature made its claim. - I noticed then you hardly slept, in silent meditation deep Things would move before your stare, you never suffered ills You would sing verse you weren’t taught, draw creatures from their sleep And they would sing along with you, nightbirds, raccoons and frogs Until an orchestra of sound rose up so beautiful to hear Surprising to myself as well, I never suffered fear. - But when you grew past childhood, when blood began to flow You ventured nightly through the woods following the song That seemed to spring from all the trees, song I didn’t know When young men came along to call, they froze at your red eyes And went away not to return, then rumors began to grow Fear from all the Villagers, the stories, hate and cries. - One bright morning we were taken by a tap upon our door Standing there all dressed in brown, four girls of Sophie’s age They came inside and took her hand, outside a man on horse She knew them all, they took a draught, then all sat on the floor A chant began, rose to a scream, the sound was tempest worse They took her then, she bade Goodbye, her happiness I saw. - I live alone, shunned by all, inside my mind I know When Moonlight falls and nightbirds sing I feel that I am blessed She’s watching o’er my life and trials, she brings the sun and snow And as I age I feel her here when chairs and tables move A whisper low, a song I hear, the plaintive call of her pet crow. Blessed be.
