The Best American Poetry

"Stick" [by James Cummins]

It was intra-squad, not a real game,
But teenage boys don’t know the difference;
And to the pitcher who’d just thrown
An adrenaline-powered fastball at my head,
I was a pretender he could intimidate.
When the next pitch nearly took off
The top of my left knee, I knew,
With all the force of a mystical vision,
This talented boy, this ace of the staff,
A senior expected to bloom after showing
Such promise last year, such grit, such
Competitive fire, would fail.  I saw it
In his eyes when I got back up; I saw
The momentary hesitation, the confusion.
I knew the next pitch would be right
Down the middle of the plate, and as fast
As all the pride in his body could muster.
And he knew I knew; that was the key.
He didn’t know how, but he knew;
And it scared him, this giant of a boy,
That a stick of a kid he could break
In half in study hall, or a parking lot,
Would stare back at him as I stared back.
You never know who’ll relish the arena;
Who won’t care what he looks like,
As he approaches the game from his side,
Watching you watching him as he steps up.
The pitch was pretty, a beauty of a pitch,
But it depended on my believing what
Had transpired between us the last two.
His arrogance became my coldness;
I’d done this before, and he hadn’t.
The pitch was pretty, a beauty of a pitch,
And a few seconds later it hit a limb
Of a sycamore behind the left field fence.
“You’re going to have a bad year,” I yelled
As I trotted down the first base line,
Even then disliking myself for shouting it;
But something will rip out of you
In those moments, both you and not you;
It's not just triumph.  Bullies, sociopaths,
Narcissists—you have to demarcate—
You have to spell out a moment’s meaning
For them, in words they can’t mistake,
Because to them others have no outlines—
Other people are just blurry shapes
At the edges of their self-absorption.
And facts aren’t facts; you have to replace
The voice in their heads with a new voice:
I glued that home run to a voice
That jeered like the voice of his father,
Perhaps, or his mother, or a brother;
A voice that said this is your stupid soul
Flying over the fence after being struck
By the oldest weapon in the world,
A wooden stick.

From Recalcitrant Actors (2021, Dos Madres Press) by James Cummins,

The Last Word on Napoleon [by David Lehman]

The last word on Napoleon has not been written. More than 600,000 books have been published about the military genius who crowned himself emperor of France in 1804 and united the rest of Europe in fear. Does the world really need another book on Napoleon? Yes, if only because our fascination with him endures.

As Alistair Horne points out in his cogent and highly readable account of “The Age of Napoleon” (Modern Library, 219 pages, $21.95), every era refashions Napoleon in the image of its own aspirations. But there are constants. For generations since he lost his final gamble at Waterloo in 1815, Napoleon personified courage, leadership, ambition. Only heroism or madness can account for some of his gambits, and so he tends to be popular among professional soldiers and inmates of loony bins. The diplomacy assuring European peace for the ninety-nine years preceding World War I resulted directly from the British and continental reaction to Napoleon, whose image takes a body blow when authoritarian dictators bent on world conquest come to power.

On the other hand, Napoleon represented – not only in France but in all of Europe – the triumph of an idea made possible by the French Revolution but realized only in the meteoric career of the Corsican-born artillery captain who, at age twenty-four, saved the day for the French army at the Siege of Toulon in 1793. Two years later, he dispersed a Paris mob with a “whiff of grapeshot,” as historians have termed it, and thereafter rose irresistibly to power, replacing the anarchy of revolution with order and military ardor.

To Ralph Waldo Emerson, champion of American self-reliance, Napoleon was the model of a “self-made man.” To other illustrious observers it seemed that the spirit of Romanticism and Rousseau culminated in him. But he was as much a despot as a liberator, capable of cruelty, some of it gratuitous, and full of an overweening arrogance. Beethoven composed the Eroica symphony in Bonaparte’s honor but withdrew the dedication in disgust, ripping up the title page, on learning that the French republic had terminated in Napoleon’s imperial coronation.

Horne, the author of two previous books dealing with Napoleon’s military career, devotes this little tome to his social and cultural impact. “The Age of Napoleon” is rife with arcane details (that, for example, matches were invented in 1809) and ironic asides. The cemetery of Pere Lachaise was Napoleon’s monumental solution to “the urgent problem of creating space for the grateful dead of Paris.” If Josephine showed too much cleavage, Napoleon would tear off her dress and throw it into the fire or spill a bottle of ink on it. “She put up with a lot,” Horne comments.

To Josephine, the love of his life, Napoleon wrote hot passionate letters from whatever front he happened to be on. “Arriving home in three days,” he instructs her after the battle of Marengo. “Don’t bathe.” He loved Josephine hopelessly, despite her infidelities. “She had the prettiest little ----- imaginable,” he told a confidant. But that didn’t stop him from divorcing her in 1809. Needing a male heir, Napoleon married the daughter of the Emperor of Austria, the Grand-Duchess Marie-Therese, a nubile nineteen-year old said to have had a bovine expression, who dutifully bore him a son.

Legendarily capable of inspiring his troops to overcome bigger and better-equipped opponents, Napoleon inspires or haunts the heroes of great novels. The battle of Austerlitz, Napoleon’s greatest victory, figures in Tolstoy’s “War and Peace.” Waterloo does the same in Stendhal’s “Charterhouse of Parma,” which opens with the declaration that the French army’s triumphal entry in Milan in 1796 “taught the world that after so many centuries Caesar and Alexander had a successor.”

Not that the Napoleon complex is always or even usually benign. Julien Sorel in Stendhal’s other masterpiece, “The Red and the Black,” comes to a bad end following the Corsican’s star. Raskolnikov, in Dostoyevski’s “Crime and Punishment,” suffers under the delusion that he is a type of the Napoleonic man, who is exempt from all laws except those of his own making. As a result he murders two harmless old women.

Napoleon exalted glory higher than all else, and the glory he craved came at a steep cost. He was, said a contemporary, “the kind of general who needed a monthly income of ten thousand men.” In twenty years of warfare more than a million lives were lost in France alone. What should frighten us most about Napoleonic hero-worship is that he serves as the primary role-model not only for lunatics in asylums but for genocidal maniacs. It is possible to consider Adolf Hitler as precisely a perversion of the Napoleonic ideal. Like Napoleon, the Nazi dictator was expert at manipulating public opinion and ruthless in the exercise of power. Both aspired to world domination, and both tasted defeat at the hands of a Russian winter.

But the Fuhrer had none of the French Emperor’s saving virtues. No war criminal, Napoleon instituted major civil reforms and imposed, in the Napoleonic code, a coherent legal system on the whole of the continent. An early proponent of a Jewish homeland, he restored freedom of worship in post-revolutionary France. He began the reconstruction of Paris that turned it into the world’s most magnificent city.

Above all, Napoleon embodied – in his own example as much as in his edicts and decrees – the radical idea that careers should be based not on birth but on merit. He proved that a poor boy from a remote island could, through the sheer force of his personality, intelligence, energy, and will, vault higher than kings and popes and, in his words, “push back the boundaries of greatness.”

written for Bloomberg, 5 / 14 / 04

On Kenneth Koch, "Dr. Fun" [by Melanie Rehak]

"May I tell you how much I love your poems?" Frank O'Hara crowed in the first stanza of a tribute to his friend Kenneth Koch in 1953. "It's as if a great pipeline had been illicitly tapped/along which all personal characteristics/are making a hasty departure. Tuba? Gin?/...O Kenneth Koch!" Koch's memories of his writing methods at the time, which he described with typical exuberance in a poem of his own, confirm O'Hara's impression that he drew inspiration from nothing less than the entire world. "I'm excited I'm writing at my typewriter it doesn't make too much sense," he gushed, so thrilled to be putting words to paper he didn't even have a moment to spare for punctuation. Assuming his usual carefree poetic persona combined with just a dash of bemused self-mockery, Koch wrote about his creative process with the breathlessness of a man wholly in love with the universe.

At the time of all this rampant delight, Koch had just returned to New York City from a Fulbright year in Paris, joining O'Hara and their friends John Ashbery and James Schuyler in the merry band that would eventually be known as the New York School of poets. Though they were writers first and foremost, the four were also deeply immersed in the art world and entangled, both personally and professionally, with much of the emerging talent of the moment--painters like Jane Freilicher (who lived upstairs from Koch in the East Village), Larry Rivers and Willem de Kooning. Together they formed a little cosmos where intimacy and self-expression reigned. "We poets and painters hung around a lot together, showed each other our works, and were made by this camaraderie very (or more than otherwise) ambitious, envious, emulous, and, I think, lucky," Koch recalled, trying to capture the fertile, passionate bohemia of New York City in the 1950s. In a poem from the 1970s, he sounded a more sentimental note, making it clear those years had also been a time of great romance. "My friends...meant almost more than anything to me," he reflected. "Their names alone bring tears to my eyes."

Under the influence of Abstract Expressionism and basking in the possibilities of language, Koch and his poetic cohorts were determined to subvert the dominant New Criticism of the 1950s, of which, Koch wrote, "Eliot was the Great Dictator.... One hardly dared to wink / Or fool around in any way in poems." Koch, on the other hand, wanted to have fun (and was actually nicknamed Dr. Fun by Ashbery, whom he had befriended for life when both were undergraduates at Harvard), and he went about it with a seriousness of purpose tinged with hilarity. He had come home from France with the idea that poetry was a language unto itself, and that it needed to be indulged as such. As he explained in a preface to his first book, Sun Out -- the poems in which were written in the early 1950s but not published until after his death in 2002--he had been plunged into a happy and productive linguistic soup as he attempted to get by in French, "which I understood and misunderstood at the same time.... Words would have several meanings for me at once.... Once I began to hear them all together, [they] constituted a way of using the language that was very stirring to me and seemed to mean a lot. It gave me a strong sensation of speaking the truth."

Koch's attempts to render this multiplicity of meaning in straight English, and thereby get to the essential nature of human existence, yielded some rather odd products over the next few years. The opening lines of the title poem in Sun Out, for example, read like a burst of surrealist insanity: "Bananas, piers, limericks/I am postures / Over there, I, are/The lakes of delectation." What on earth is he talking about? "I wanted to keep my subject up in the air as long as possible," he explained in his preface--to which one can only respond, Job well done.

But even in his early work, there are amid the linguistic experiments flashes of pure, everyday ecstasy--that "delectation"--and in them one finds the heart of Koch's work, the immediacy that makes it irresistible. "The land is coughing, 'Joy!'" he wrote in a 1950s poem called "Highway Barns, the Children of the Road." "Hey, pavements, you charmers, / When are you going to bring me good news?" Koch was always looking for good news, and as a result he discovered it everywhere. How many other poets could write "A Poem of the Forty-Eight States" and find something to love in each and every one of them? Who else could have spun, much less thrilled to, the line: "Oh railroad stations, pennants, evenings, and lumberyards!"? His extravagant revels are infectious.

This palpable, ceaseless enthusiasm for both writing and life itself sets Koch apart from a pantheon of poets who too often forget the pleasure principle. Perhaps most important, he generously invited all of us into his neighborhood, even providing instructions for living there on occasion. "Making love must be everything," he advised in "The Art of Love." "A city, not a street; a country, not a city; the universe, the world--/Make yours so, make it even a galaxy." This bountiful tide crashes through Koch's Collected Poems, which comes in at more than 700 pages and is dense enough at times to be daunting to even the most dedicated reader. Still, when one considers how much Koch struggled to exclude, it's hard to hold a grudge against him. His life was a whirlwind of influences and reactions and actions and the mad rush to figure it all out. As he wrote in a long, marvelous poem called "Days and Nights":

There are very few poems
Compared to all the thought
And the activity and the sleeping and the falling in love
And out of love and the friendships
And all the talk and the doubts and the excitement
And the reputations and the philosophies
And the opinions about everything and the sensitivity
And the being alone a lot and having to be with others
A lot and the going to bed a lot and getting up a lot and seeing
Things all the time in relation to poetry

And just when you think you want to stop the ride and get off, Koch chimes in with a revelation so sweet and so calm that you stay on. "I want spring, I want to turn like a mobile/In a new fresh air!" he wrote in an early poem called "Desire for Spring." "O breeze, my lovely, come in, that I mayn't be stultified!"

Above all else, Koch was a poet of charm. He was so mesmerized by the world that no one can fail to be enchanted by his vision of it, not least because it rarely comes without a good dose of irony and appreciation for just how ridiculous the position of the "artist" can be if it goes to your head. While he took his practice very seriously, and spent many years teaching poetry and the value of artistic expression in venues from nursing homes to elementary schools, Koch never gave up on the idea that verse is based, ultimately, on life. In a tiny poem called "AESTHETICS OF BEING GLORIOUS," he argued, simply, for the pleasures of beginning from one's rightfully earthbound spot: "To be glorious, take off your wings / Before you fly." In a series of poems called "In Bed" that explore, with varying degrees of sobriety, the role of this central piece of furniture to human existence, he wrote first a one-liner called "BEAUTIFUL GIRL IN BED": "Why I am happy to be here." He followed it up with a singular, deeply comic contribution to the genre of worshiping one's lady love that reminds us how silly such flights of romantic fancy can be. Marvell has nothing on the jovial spoof "OTHER POETRY BED": "Shall I compare you to a summer's bed? / You are more beautiful."

Contrary to conventional wisdom, Koch was more than a poet of comic verse, a label that dogged him throughout his life. At its best, his work captures the deep pleasures of being alive and of being fully conscious of one's own luck. There is a gentleness to his joy that in no way diminishes its force, a rare combination that reverberates in anyone fortunate enough to be open to it in all its possibility. Here is Koch, in "To My Heart at the Close of Day":

At dusk light you come to bat
As Georg Trakl might put it. How are you doing
Aside from that, aside from the fact
That you are at bat? What balls are you going to hit
Into the outfield, what runs will you score,
And do you think you ever will, eventually
Bat one out of the park? That would be a thrill
To you and your contemporaries! Your mighty posture
Takes its stand in my chest and swing swing swing
You warm up, then you take a great step
Forward as the ball comes smashing toward you, home
Plate. And suddenly it is evening.

How mournful to lose such a wellspring of loving energy. O baseball! O balmy nights! O Kenneth Koch!

This article can be found on the web at: http://www.thenation.com/doc/20060123/rehak

Ed. note: "Doctor Fun" was Ashbery's jovial nickname for his friend. Kenneth didn't like it as I learned when I published an essay on him with that title in the American Poetry Review. He made me promise not to use it as the title for the chapter on "Vitamin K" in my book The Last Avant-Garde. But Melanie Rehak liked it, and it fits her tribute to KK. -- DL

Said Disraeli to Gladstone. . .

 

 

At a social gathering, Gladstone said to Disraeli, "I predict, Sir, that you will die either by hanging or of some vile disease."

Disraeli replied, "That all depends, Sir, upon whether I embrace your principles or your mistress."

Disraeli replied, "That all depends, Sir, upon whether I embrace your principles or your mistress."

Flying Into the Unpredictable: Publishing During a Pandemic [by J. Chester Johnson]

(ed note: We checked in with J. Chester Johnson to find out how he's fared over the course of the last 18 plus months with the publication of his timely Damaged Heritage. Here's his update. sdl)
My latest nonfiction book, Damaged Heritage: The Elaine Race Massacre and A Story of Reconciliation (publisher: Pegasus; distributed by Simon & Schuster), was released on May 5, 2020 in the midst of a raging covid pandemic that relentlessly and unmercifully brutalized New York City. Those of us who reside in the City and who could do so clung to the interiors of our homes, going outdoors with much fear and trembling.

Into this environment, Damaged Heritage had been published. In turn, a book launch, scheduled for the New York City Harvard Club, was kyboshed, and both my agent and publisher told me to “cool” my expectations on book sales, for Damaged Heritage would be flying into the unpredictable, but clearly adverse headwinds of covid with bookstores everywhere then being shuttered for indefinite periods of time. So, I then chalked up my new book as just one more learning experience to be encased among others that friends and relatives suggest should make me stronger; however, I was getting too old to make much use of such learning experiences. . .I thought.

Nonetheless, there were obviously new paths to be conquered in response to the pandemic. Zoom-type presentations and book plates replaced traveling for in-person gatherings and face-to-face signing of personal inscriptions. On-line interviews then prevailed. At the same time, accommodations were now made possible as a result of new ways of reaching the public. For instance, on Sunday, June 28^th, 2020, I conducted a zoom appearance at 8:30AM before a congregation of the Episcopal Diocese of Florida that lasted an hour; just three hours later, I made another zoom presentation on the book before the Washington National Cathedral in the District of Columbia.

Such a tandem would not have been possible in the absence of zoom or its equivalent. Indeed, I’ve already given nearly 90 presentations, including interviews, on Damaged Heritage. I found that zooms allowed me to reach more people and to participate in more places. Moreover, podcasts represented not an insignificant part of the book marketing effort. Zoom-type appearances will undoubtedly be with us for future “book tours”. One cannot predict an experience like the covid pandemic affecting the way future practices will be conducted; however, speaking as one, I found the results from new approaches of marketing books often quite effective and satisfying.

Damaged Heritage had three, main messages. First, it told of a terribly murderous massacre of African-American sharecroppers and their family members – known as the Elaine Race Massacre – on the Arkansas side of the Mississippi River Delta; too few people knew anything about this event, which was conceivably the worst attack against African-Americans in our country’s history. Second, the new book told of my maturation process in discovering that my favored grandfather participated in the Massacre; in addition, notwithstanding my having grown up in a racist family in the very racist region of the Massacre, the process also led this erstwhile white Southerner to the embracement of both Black liberation and a progressive, structural format for racial reconciliation between Blacks and whites.

Third, Damaged Heritage tells the story of racial reconciliation and deep friendship that developed between Sheila Walker and me for seven years and extended to family members on both sides. Sheila was a descendent of victims of the Massacre, granduncles who were shot numerous times by white posses and left for dead, but survived. For several years, Sheila and I talked publicly in numerous forums about our reconciliation. She died in March of this year, and I was requested by her family to give the eulogy.

The torture and murder of George Floyd occurred only three weeks following the release of Damaged Heritage. I simply had no idea how much the racial reconciliation and deep friendship that existed between an African-American woman (Sheila Walker) and a white man who grew up in the South along the Mississippi River (namely, me), as described in this book, would resonate with people following the death of George Floyd that resulted in public outpouring of grief and horror by both Blacks and so many whites, together with consequential confrontations between citizens and law enforcement, including, on occasion, federal troops. Sheila and my racial reconciliation and friendship, combined with the disclosure of this unknown event, the purposefully hidden story of the Elaine Race Massacre, seemed to galvanize readers to Damaged Heritage.

For example, in late July, 2020, two months following release of the book, I was informed by my publisher that Damaged Heritage stood at #3 on a significant Amazon Best Seller list for books sold through Kindle. More recently, I found that the book had been included in Goodreads’ multi-year list of Best Nonfiction Books of Horrifying Events, alongside The Diary of Anne Frank, Hersey’s Hiroshima, and Solzhenitsyn’s The Gulag Archipelago – admittedly, my book is down the list, but nevertheless on the list.

The ole saw that “timing is everything” has its use, but I prefer to believe and adhere to a terse epigram I discovered that had been written cryptically in small, printed letters and incongruously on the gray walls of a New York City latrine located in a writers’ hangout: “Just keep writing”. Part of this book had been written as far back as 2013; filling in the blank spaces between the lip and the cup meant years. One shall never know, and one should never guess. Just keep writing.                                                                                                                                  

Chester Johnson is a poet and nonfiction writer. In addition to Damaged Heritage, he has written three, other books, recently published: St. Paul’s Chapel & Selected Shorter Poems, Now And Then: Selected Longer Poems, and Auden, the Psalms, and Me. Find out more about Chester Johnson here.

You Choose: Two Versions of “Autumn Song” [by W. H. Auden]

Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last,
Nurses to their graves are gone,
But the prams go rolling on.

Whispering neighbours left and right
Daunt us from our true delight,
Able hands are forced to freeze
Derelict on lonely knees.

Close behind us on our track,
Dead in hundreds cry Alack,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Scrawny through a plundered wood,
Trolls run scolding for their food,
Owl and nightingale are dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Clear, unscaleable, ahead
Rise the Mountains of Instead,
From whose cold cascading streams
None may drink except in dreams.

-- March 1936 

Posted by  Stacey on November 03, 2013 aComments

Auden was not an American poet--and this version of "Autumn Song" is the better one.

Autumn Song

Now the leaves are falling fast,
Nurse's flowers will not last;
Nurses to the graves are gone,
And the prams go rolling on.

Whispering neighbours, left and right,
Pluck us from the real delight;
And the active hands must freeze
Lonely on the separate knees.

Dead in hundreds at the back
Follow wooden in our track,
Arms raised stiffly to reprove
In false attitudes of love.

Starving through the leafless wood
Trolls run scolding for their food;
And the nightingale is dumb,
And the angel will not come.

Cold, impossible, ahead
Lifts the mountain's lovely head
Whose white waterfall could bless
Travellers in their last distress.

Posted by: James Obertino | September 30, 2014 at 03:48 PM

I prefer “able hands”, and “lonely” to “derelict “.
Also, the “thes” in these two lines can be omitted.

Posted by: Annette D'Arcy | October 06, 2018 at 06:59 AM

I, too, vote for "able hands," and I guess "lonely," while not ideal, is superior to "derelict." But I would contest the view that Auden was not an American poet. True, when he wrote this poem he had never been to America. There were two main periods, and there are those who feel that the English Auden of the 1930s is the authentic voice. But he came to America in 1939, settled in New York, wrote a couple of his greatest and most ambitious poems in the US (the Freud elegy, "Sept 1, 1939," "Under Which Lyre). He became a naturalized US citizen (in 1946, I believe). He is nearly as American as St. Louis native T. S. Eliot is English. -- DL

Posted by: The Best American Poetry | October 06, 2018 at 10:10 AM

I feel like the last two lines are much better in the first version. "From whose cold cascading streams None may drink except in dreams." conveys a sense of privation and bleakness that is in line with the rest of poem, and it's a much more powerful ending.

Overall, I feel like there are moments when the first version is better, and other moments in which the second version is better.

Posted by: Valerie Yip | November 29, 2020 at 11:27 AM

"Autumn Song" is a poem that shows Auden at his most British American or the other way around.

Posted by: William Barnes | January 28, 2021 at 10:39 PM

The second of these 2 versions is the one set to music by Benjamin Britten, in his song cycle, "On this Island." Britten and Auden knew each other.

Posted by: Frances Brock | September 10, 2021 at 06:58 AM

from the archive; first posted November 3, 2013

Listen: Tracy K. Smith Reads and discusses Kamilah Aisha Moon's "Irony" and Louise Erdrich's "Stone Love" from The Best American Poetry 2021

 

Louis Armstrong in 1934 & in Australia c. 1956 & on the Edsel Show

"I Cover the Waterfront" .  .

Now you has jazz. . .

with Crosby  & Sinatra & Rosemary Clooney: On the Sunny Side of the Street

Berlioz & the music in "The Shining"

From Berlioz's "Symphonie Fantastique," the music in "The Shining" by Stanley Kubrick:

Perils of the Poetry Reading [by Katha Pollitt]

Am I the only person who finds it hard to follow an unfamiliar poem when I hear it read out loud and don’t have the text in front of me? Even when reading to myself at my own pace, I might have to go over a poem several times to really get it,  but  at a reading,  the poems whizz by  unstoppably-- no chance of a second hearing, and all the helpful visual cues of print , like punctuation, italics, quotation marks, and even line breaks,  are absent.  A stray thought enters my head --  I wonder why they painted this room turquoise? -- and in seconds I’ve lost the thread.  (I’m speaking of what you might call “literary poetry” here,  poetry written primarily to be read silently, not spoken word, which is intended for the ear from the outset.)

  I often find that the poems I’ve enjoyed most at a reading  seem oddly flat on the page when I hunt them down in a book.   What made the poem seem striking and fresh was  the poet’s performance: the energy and especially the humor was in the voice and manner and gestures, not the words themselves.  Or it was the story the poem told: the poetry reading as a series of anecdotes, with the poet placing and embellishing each one in his introductions: My uncle ran a chicken farm in Iowa,  and when he ran off with the Methodist minister’s wife my aunt killed all the chickens and  gave them to the nuns, and out of that comes this next poem, “Saint Rooster and the Holy Choir of Hens.”  it’s been suggested, in fact, that the proliferation of poetry readings, and their importance to a poet’s career, has actually changed the way poets --  “literary poets” -- write, encouraging verbal simplicity, talkiness, easy emotions, simple narratives, and punchlines. It’s the poet as stand-up comedian/tragedian. 

    Still, you can see why poets would try to shape their art to please their audience -- and notice how we now commonly speak of  poetry’s audience rather than poetry’s readers, which tells you something right there.   It can be painful and embarrassing to stand up before a small group of  miscellaneous strangers who expect you to entertain them and instead offer poems they might find bewildering, or remote.  I've given readings  at which I just want to say, oh well, never mind, let’s just go have a beer and talk about health care reform. 

      Wislawa Szymborska’s “Poetry Reading” (translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)   may be the definitive account of a reading at its awful,  humiliating worst.  To paraphrase the old Jewish joke about the Catskills hotel (“The food is terrible!” “Yes, and the portions are so small!”), the audience is not only tiny, it’s not even listening.  And yet, Symborska disperses her pity, her warmth and her satirical humor so evenly among poets and audience members and even the muse, poor thing,  that what in lesser hands would be just another complaint about the world’s indifference to art becomes a gesture of understanding, forgiveness, love.

POETRY READING

To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds? 
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare --
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining, 
the rest are relatives. O Muse.

The women here would love to rant and rave, 
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave. 
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.

Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet, 
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life, 
for lack of muscles forced to show the world 
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists 
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.

In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore: 
he dreams his wife's alive again. What's more, 
she's making him that tart she used to bake. 
Aflame, but carefully--don't burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.

-- by Wislawa Szymborska 
                (from View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems Harvest Books, 1996)

from the archive; first posted August 19, 2009

    Still, you can see why poets would try to shape their art to please their audience -- and notice how we now commonly speak of  poetry’s audience rather than poetry’s readers, which tells you something right there.   It can be painful and embarrassing to stand up before a small group of  miscellaneous strangers who expect you to entertain them and instead offer poems they might find bewildering, or remote.  I've given readings  at which I just want to say, oh well, never mind, let’s just go have a beer and talk about health care reform. 

      Wislawa Szymborska’s “Poetry Reading” (translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh)   may be the definitive account of a reading at its awful,  humiliating worst.  To paraphrase the old Jewish joke about the Catskills hotel (“The food is terrible!” “Yes, and the portions are so small!”), the audience is not only tiny, it’s not even listening.  And yet, Symborska disperses her pity, her warmth and her satirical humor so evenly among poets and audience members and even the muse, poor thing,  that what in lesser hands would be just another complaint about the world’s indifference to art becomes a gesture of understanding, forgiveness, love.

POETRY READING

To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds? 
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare --
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining, 
the rest are relatives. O Muse.

The women here would love to rant and rave, 
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave. 
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.

Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet, 
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life, 
for lack of muscles forced to show the world 
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists 
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.

In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore: 
he dreams his wife's alive again. What's more, 
she's making him that tart she used to bake. 
Aflame, but carefully--don't burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.

-- by Wislawa Szymborska 
                (from View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems Harvest Books, 1996)

from the archive; first posted August 19, 2009

"Take the No Out of Now": Rozanne Gold in conversation with poet/multi-media artist Gerd Stern

Gerd Stern in front of Contact Is The Only Love, first shown at the San Francisco Museum of Art in 1963

Politics excepted, death and dying have become the meat of current discourse. As an end-of-life doula (with an MFA in poetry), trained to do “life reviews” that explore the vicissitudes of aging, I was excited to interview Gerd Stern, a renowned psychedelic artist and one of the world’s original Beat poets. Soon to be 93, Gerd eagerly awaits the 2022 publication of his fifth book of poetry, “Take the No Out of Now.” A colleague of Timothy Leary at Harvard, Gerd was Maya Angelou’s lover and manager, living together on a houseboat in Sausalito.

Gerd is a multi-media artist as well as a poet, and an emissary of the Beats. His book, First Poems and Others, was published in 1952. A second, Afterimage, appeared in 1965, followed years later by Fragmeants (2002), and WhenThen (2018). Stern was a founder of USCO, a group of pioneering artists, engineers and poets creating multimedia performances and environments that redefined art in the 1960’s. Their multimedia discotheque, named The World, was featured on the cover of Life magazine.  USCO’s work has been exhibited at the Walker Art Center, the Berkeley Art Museum, the Whitney, the Pompidou, the Tate Liverpool and museums in Vienna and Munich.   

Over the past decade, Gerd has been an artist-in-residence in Italy, Germany and the U.S. He has given talks and poetry readings on the Lower East Side, Woodstock, San Francisco’s Beat Museum (which celebrated his 90^th birthday), the Sonoma Valley Museum of Art, Utah State University, the National Gallery in Washington and the Fri Art Kunstalle in Switzerland. 

Until recently, Gerd lived in an 18^th-century house in Cresskill, New Jersey, and had a home in Jamaica (in the Caribbean) known as “POETREEF.”  He now lives in New York’s Chelsea neighborhood, near Judith Sokoloff, his partner for fourteen years.  

At 93, Gerd still looks like the hippie he was, forever cool, and open to “what is.”  A father, great-grandfather, and artist-in-residence, Gerd joined me in a frank discussion about this sacred time of life. We called it end-of-life poetics, which, surprisingly, led him to forecast “possibility” and an optimistic view of the future.   

Gerd Stern (right) with Jim Kempner at Jim Kempner Fine Art during a show of Stern's multimedia work, February 2020.

RG: When were you first aware of death?

GS: It might have been my maternal grandmother’s. Her son, a doctor, inadvertently killed her. She had very bad asthma and they put radium pellets into her nose – they left a piece in her nose and that did her in. That affected me profoundly. I was a teenager mid-teens or late teens, I can’t remember. She was a piano teacher – a concert pianist in Europe. She was my first cultural contact in life – she would take me to the Metropolitan Opera. Her name was Oma Levinson and she was in her late 70s. My mother died when I was four, when we lived in Saarbrucken, Germany. I did not get to say goodbye.  

RG: Have you ever had an intimate experience with someone who was dying?

GS: I was with my father the minute he died in a hospital bed. He was in pain but also on morphine – it was a rather decent death. I witnessed a level of acceptance and I am comforted by that. On the other hand, my stepmother was angry that he died without her being there. And she died an angry woman. My father was 95 and my stepmother was 99. 

RG: How would you like to die?

GS: I’d like to die peacefully and somewhere where I’m loved. I’d like to die at home or I wouldn’t mind dying when I’m traveling (I spend a lot of time traveling – Venice, Germany, California). But home feels right – not a bad place. 

RG: Who is there with you?  What’s around you?

GS: Judith, my kids, my closest friends. I love all kinds of music, especially jazz since I was quite young, but there is nothing I would specify for that moment. I listen to music quite a lot but not as much as I used to. I prefer to be doing and thinking and working on papers. I am surrounded by piles of them – and they are important to me. But I have too many and can’t manage them like as I’d like  That’s part of end-of-life – I’m past the point of organization and can’t control it like I used to. I feel the pressure of facing up to some issues -- IRS stuff and raising money for the church building (the home of USCO) in Garnerville, New York, to become part of its local historical society. I’d like to turn it into an artist-in-residency venue. 

RG: Which poets feel meaningful, or inspiring, to you?    

GS: Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, Ted Roethke, Dylan Thomas. Sylvia Plath, Rachel Hadas, T.S. Eliot.  And my erstwhile lover, Maya Angelou, but I actually preferred her prose. Also meaningful were my friendships – with Lenny Bruce, Chet Baker, Huey Newton, Philip Lamantia, as well as Dylan Thomas.

RG: Edward Said in “On Late Style” posited, “Late works constitute a form of exile.” Although perspectives vary greatly – from Sontag’s war-like posture to defeat death, to Freud’s willingness to go quietly but be in total control, and Dylan Thomas’s self-destructive, ignominious path -- what seems universal is their commitment to creating art until the very end, but in a manner quite distinct from their previous output. What do you think of this idea of late works in general?

GS: I think of “late works” in a strange way – as a time for me to recognize when a poem is mine because it sings and becomes attuned to my own being and knowing. (I’ve grappled with this from my late teens until my early forties, and seem to be grappling with it again). And so at this age my late works are not unlike the waves of the ocean. Each poem, or piece of art, distinct from any previous output.  This is not exile but the nature of things. Late works, then, is each poem, or piece of art, distinct from any previous output, but part of the flow.

(L to R): Vern Bennett, Ann London (Gerd's wife) Gerd Stern, Allen Ginsberg, Mimi London. In the front is Madge Bennett. Standing rear: Percy Heath of the Modern Jazz Quartet. Photograph was taken at Gerd’s barge in Waldo Point, Sausalito in the 1950s. © Gordon Onslow-Ford.

RG:One of Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s patients said, “I want to live through my dying.” I’ll paraphrase this as “I want to live through my aging.”  I know you are not dying but how might your poetry differ at the end-of-life?

GS: I think this is where I might now be in my writing because I believe that everything in the coming years will be end-of-life poems. In my 40s, I began recognizing who I was as a poet and what poems mean to be Gerd Stern poems. Ever since, I identify myself as the poet who wrote or writes those poems. Before that I was struggling to claim who I was. My titles tell their own story in a way: “My First Poems and Others;” “Afterimage,” and my most recent “WhenThen” -- wow, that really sounds like end-of life poetics! I’ve been obsessed with time in my poetry since I started writing. I try to place my poems in some particular time -- so that the inspiration is definite, defined – not just all over the place. The idea of possible futures keeps me laughing, while the consideration of them keeps me creating and very alive.  This may be the best way I can “live through my aging.”

RG: Since getting my MFA I have explored the work of artists and poets at the end of life and noticed great similarities: A pervasive awareness of diminution (shrinking or fading away), stylistic changes (including fragments of texts, weightier lines, erasures, Haiku). Does any of this apply to you or your work?

GS: My late works in collage may be the best example of a stylistic change. A collage in itself is a great metaphor for a life review – where fragments, layers, and the interstices of thought, ideas and memory – overlap, collide, become resemblances of my own cadences and rhythms – essential elements to who I am, and add what is needed now. 

RG: Tell me about your relationship with Maya Angelou.

On Gene Kelly [by David Lehman]

Here's an excerpt from "To Dance an Exclamation Point," a "talking pictures" column in The American Scholar:

<<<
The best stanza of Carl Sandburg’s “Lines Written for Gene Kelly to Dance To” proposes a parallel between the languages of dance and speech: “Can you dance a question mark? / Can you dance an exclamation point? / Can you dance a couple of commas? / And bring it to a finish with a period?” Fred Astaire, my other favorite dancer, can climb the wall and dance on the ceiling, but if anyone can dance an exclamation point, it’s Gene Kelly.

Of Kelly’s four outstanding midcentury movie musicals, Singin’ in the Rain (1952) is the best-loved. In Hollywood history, the title number is second in popularity only to “Over the Rainbow,” and for sheer joy it’s hard to top “Good Mornin’” with Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor. In Singin’ in the Rain, the late Clive James felt he encountered “the absolute concentration of an entire popular culture at its most powerful.” As for Kelly, James said, “it took the whole of America, including all its modern history, to create one of him.

In It’s Always Fair Weather (1955), the most underrated of the quartet, Kelly dances down the street in roller skates, Dan Dailey does a nifty tipsy song and dance, and the two of them and Michael Kidd—Army buddies who reunite 10 years after the end of World War II—dance on trash can lids in one number, and, later on, sing of their plight (as civilians of different classes and backgrounds, who don’t like one another) to the tune of the Blue Danube waltz. Add a Dolores Grey showstopper (“Thanks a Lot, But No Thanks”) and the dancing feet of Cyd Charisse, plus lyrics of Betty Comden and Adolph Green, and well, if it’s a lesser masterpiece, it’s a masterpiece nevertheless.

John Updike believes that On the Town (1949) was the freshest and had the most energy of the group. Kelly himself felt that “we”—the unit assembled by MGM genius producer (and lyricist) Arthur Freed—may have “made better movies,” but On the Town “was the apex of our talent.” Purists may register reservations if only because some of Leonard Bernstein’s sublime songs (“Some Other Time,” “Lucky to Be Me”) were dropped from the Broadway version and replaced with lesser, albeit still good, tunes by Roger Edens. Still, the film is giddy with infectious delight from the moment Kelly, Frank Sinatra, and Jules Munshin, playing three sailors on 24-hour shore leave, get off their ship, take in the sights of New York City, and pair off with Vera-Ellen, Betty Garrett, and Ann Miller, respectively. In the exhilarating opening sequence, shot on location in or near Chinatown, Rockefeller Center, Central Park, Wall Street, the Statue of Liberty and other such landmarks, the fellows sing their hymn of praise to “New York, New York, a wonderful town.”[1]

While I love all four movies, I would press the case for An American in Paris (1951) as Kelly’s best. He plays a painter named Jerry Mulligan, a GI who stayed in Paris after the war because, he says, if you can’t paint in Paris, brother, you might as well go home and marry the boss’s daughter. Jerry is pursued by Milo Roberts (Nina Foch), a wealthy American expat, who looks smashing in a dress she is “almost wearing” and in a brown suit with elegant earrings. She wants to sponsor Jerry; she rents him a studio and arranges a one-man show. But Jerry’s heart belongs to Lise (Leslie Caron), who is engaged to acclaimed music-hall singer Henri Burel (George Guettary).

Like Victor Lazlo in Casablanca, Burel may have the greater claim on the lady, because he protected her during the war after her parents, active in the Resistance, were deported by the Nazis. But being a man of honor, and not having a world war to fight, he lets true love take its course. The movie ends with a masquerade party, which segues into a full-scale ballet presentation of An American in Paris, arguably George Gershwin’s second greatest work for piano and orchestra. Vincente Minnelli directed the film, which won the Academy Award for best picture. Alan Jay Lerner wrote the Oscar-winning script.

Why do I defy the consensus in casting my ballot for An American in Paris?
>>>

for the answer & for the rest of this article, click here

https://theamericanscholar.org/to-dance-an-exclamation-point/

"Retronym time" from "Time Pieces" [by Rachel Wetzsteon, 1967-2009]

from "Time Pieces" by Rachel Wetzsteon

Cheering: it was done.
But soon the Great War would be
renamed World War One. 

"Time Pieces," a brilliant sequence of haikus, firstappeared in The New Criterion and was selected by Kevin Young forThe Best American Poetry 2011 and by Robert Pinsky for inclusion in The Best of the Best American Poetry: 25th Anniversary Edition, which Scribner published in 2013. A Yale alumna, Wetzsteon did her graduate work at Johns Hopkins and Columbia. She taught at Barnard College. A poet of great intelligence and formal ability, she had just been named poetry editor of The New Republic when she died by her own hand on or just before Christmas 2009.

-- sdl (11/11/18)

"Time Pieces," a brilliant sequence of haikus, firstappeared in The New Criterion and was selected by Kevin Young forThe Best American Poetry 2011 and by Robert Pinsky for inclusion in The Best of the Best American Poetry: 25th Anniversary Edition, which Scribner published in 2013. A Yale alumna, Wetzsteon did her graduate work at Johns Hopkins and Columbia. She taught at Barnard College. A poet of great intelligence and formal ability, she had just been named poetry editor of The New Republic when she died by her own hand on or just before Christmas 2009.

-- sdl (11/11/18)

Brian Clements Presents a Poem by Morton Marcus

The First Laugh 

The first laugh was God creating the universe. That guffaw is still exploding in all directions, hollowing out and filling the farthest reaches of space.

What could have been so funny? The idea of light and sound after all that darkness and silence? After the eons of brooding and grumbling?

It must have been something bigger than we can imagine, something that elicited more than a cackle, a chortle, a chuckle or giggle, a snicker or titter.

Something say as big as a billion chandeliers of stars, millions of spinning galaxies with super nova popping like flashbulbs inside them.

Or maybe not. Maybe something as small as an ocean or a mountain, a whale or an elephant, or even us.
>>>

<<<
About 18 months ago, when Morton Marcus knew that he was terminally ill and was preparing the manuscript for his phenomenal final book, The Dark Figure in the Doorway (White Pine Press), Mort sent me a batch of poems that he wanted to include in Sentence, which he had so generously supported with his work, his money, and his good will. Because I have always admired Mort’s humor, intelligence, humility, and reaching after “something bigger than we can imagine,” it was my pleasure and my honor to be able to include some of Mort’s final work as a tribute to a long and various career, which included not only poems and prose poems (see his excellent Pursuing the Dream Bone from Quale Press) but film criticism and a public radio interview show in California. One of his many guests on that show was Christopher Buckley, who says of Mort:

I was always impressed with his poems, and equally with his writing on poetry—clear, direct, accessible, specific, accurate, historical, all in service of poetry rather than the poet himself—whether in interviews, informal or formal critical evaluation/appreciation. But the great energy and character of the man was the thing. I found that especially evident in the prose poems, but regardless of form, what I always found was a generosity and a wide-ranging embrace of experience of life on the planet.

Near the end, when the diagnosis was bad, but before he was feeling the worst effects, he sat down and wrote up his essay, “My Life with Weldon Kees”, for the anthology in homage to Kees that Christopher Howell and I were editing. He worked hard and consistently and sent me a hard copy with a disc and a note saying he wanted to get this done before he was done—he was dedicated to the work, to contributing to the larger project of poetry. Mort always worked hard, on his own work and on appreciating the work of others. I recall the radio interview I did with Mort for his NPR radio show from Santa Cruz —I was amazed and a little embarrassed that he had invested so much time and attention on my new book, was so supportive. He always made time for you and let you know he was focused on you, something I am sure his students appreciated for over thirty years. Mort had the great character it takes to make great poems. He is missed by many.

Morton Marcus passed away at his home in Santa Cruz in October, 2009.
-- Brian Clements

from the archive; first posted October 3, 2010.

Woman and Skeleton [by Albert York]

The Winning Entry: "When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan" [by Angela Ball] with judge Jim Cummins's comments & runners up

Charles Bukowski in One Corner; in the Other, Bob Dylan

If anyone should take eighteen-shot Dylan Thomas’s name,
it’s me. I challenge you to a duel
with two bottles of Four Roses.

--Chuck, that may be you, but
me, I crossed the green mountain
I slept by the sea.
you’re walkin’ in dreams
where black is the color
and nothing the number.

Bob, I got to tell you
I’m sorry for my wife
I’m sorry for anyone’s wife.
If you want me, find me clinging to a freight car,
Find me underground.
But you’ll never find me
vagrant in the rain, nabbed by a rookie cop,
a skirt, no less,
in Long Branch, New Jersey.

-- Angela Ball

James Cummins writes:

As with most of David's prompts, this one resulted in some terrific entries.  I went with Angela Ball's poem for the first prize, but there was a good pool to pick from (I counted eight entries as possibles).  It came down to some great lines.  Angela wrote (in Buk's voice) "I'm sorry for my wife / I'm sorry for anyone's wife" which seemed to me to combine the compassion B. tried to keep hidden with the world-weariness we love about the guy.  And the ending, referring to Dylan's run-in with the police in 2009, who thought he was a homeless vagrant, was perfect; the word "skirt" was inspired.  George Schaefer's prose-poem "scene" takes second; it combines the grittiness of many of the entries with a lyric grace I love.  "The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour" and "Poetry only happens when nothing else can" are two examples.  And again, the ending is perfect.  Finally, Adam Baron's poem gets honorable mention for the use of the word "dumb," the moon sitting on Bukowski's solipsistic rim, and the friendly atmosphere of two schmucks having a moment together.  The difference between these three and at least four or five other entries is as thin as the bill Buk slides into his favorite pinball machine.  Thanks to all.  

George Schafer's prose poem (second place):

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

A jaded old bard pounds a shot of J.D. and mocks an idealistic young troubadour. “So just how many beers must one man drink before he’s allowed to pass out?” The bartender chuckles at the joke. The young troubadour debates if Jesus will ever forgive these sins. Loose leaf papers holding his poems gets blown away in the wind. With a soul deader than a dead Christmas tree, the jaded old bard orders another beer and another shot. The bluebird in him allows him to order a round for the idealistic young troubadour. After all, poetry only happens when nothing else can. The sooner this kid learns the ways of the world the better. The young troubadour claims everyone gets stoned so he can abide. He pulls up a stool and throws down the shot. Old poet says “Don’t try.”

Adam Baron's poem (third place)

When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan

Night fell, broke.
One day they'll reward you old man.
Chuck laughed. Me? Not me, but I'll tell you
this: if I knew guitar I'd strum the
moon out of the dumb sky. I'd make it sit on
the edge of my glass - and stare
at me for a change.
But you don't, Bob said
and Chuck laughed. Then I'll leave it
where it is, which he did, and
though Bob tries now and then, he
can't shift it.

"Modernist Lament" [by James Cummins]

Modernist Lament

When his gods are fragments, man’s of a piece;
But once he put his Higher Self in charge,
Man languished in a dualistic grief,
Always seeking a demon he could purge.
The desert was empty, so Self learned late
It didn’t have to bellow like a Fool—
Dark rants about its destiny and fate,
Prostrate before a statue of a bull.
Then ‘new man’ rose—hypocrite lecturer—
And the Obsequious found they could sway
Whole empires, built on fault-lines of the Slave.
Now artists are agents-provocateur,
Returning home to Ithaca’s blue bay,
Lashed to the mast against the song and wave.

 

From Recalcitrant Actors (2021, Dos Madres Press) by James Cummins, who judged this year's BAP poetry challenge. Tomorrow we will post his pick for the best submitted poem titled "When Charles Bukowski Met Bob Dylan." 

"The Morning Line" by David Lehman: Poetry Feature of the Month on "The Common"

Today The Common published The Morning Line, the title poem of my new poetry collection, as its poetry feature of the month. I wrote the poem on May 22, 2020, having always wanted to write a poem with that resonant title. The phrase dictated the subect matter: chance, gambling, and faith. Here are the opening two stanzas of this extended three-part meditation. -- David Lehman

The Morning Line

— May 22, 2020

1.

You can pick horses on the basis of their names
and gloat when Justify wins racing’s Triple Crown 
or when, in 1975, crowd favorite Ruffian, “queen 
of the century,” goes undefeated until she breaks down 
in a match race with Derby winner Foolish Pleasure. 
Who could root against Ruffian? 
Did patriotic Englishmen cheer 
when Sir Winston won the Belmont last year? 

I rejoiced when Monarchos, a ten to one bet, became 
the second horse ever to break the two-minute mark
at the Kentucky Derby. Why did I pick it? I liked the name.
Those two minutes in May 2001 and the giddy hours after 
now seem a little like a garden party in England in July 1914 
as the nineteenth century approached the finish line 
and collapsed.

Please click here to read the rest of the poem.

How to Write: First you've got to think of something . . . [Agatha Christie's secret, by Stacey Lehman]

 

        Agatha Christie

  “It’s splendid that you’ve rung me up,” she said.  “I was just going out to give a Talk on How I Write My Books. Now I can get my secretary to ring up and say I am unavoidably detained.”

            “But, Madame, you must not let me prevent—“

            “It’s not a case of preventing.” said Mrs. Oliver joyfully. “I’d have made the most awful fool of myself.  I mean, what can you say about how you write books?  What I mean is, first you’ve got to think of something, and when you’ve thought of it you’ve got to force yourself to sit down and write it.  That’s all.  It would have taken me just three minutes to explain that, and then the Talk would have been ended and everyone would have been very fed up.  I can’t imagine why everybody is always so keen for authors to talk ab out writing.  I should have though it was an author’s business to write, not talk.”

            “And yet it is about how you write that I want to ask you.”

            “You can ask,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I probably shan’t know the answer.  I mean one just sits down and writes. . .”

-- from Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie

-- sdh

        Agatha Christie

  “It’s splendid that you’ve rung me up,” she said.  “I was just going out to give a Talk on How I Write My Books. Now I can get my secretary to ring up and say I am unavoidably detained.”

            “But, Madame, you must not let me prevent—“

            “It’s not a case of preventing.” said Mrs. Oliver joyfully. “I’d have made the most awful fool of myself.  I mean, what can you say about how you write books?  What I mean is, first you’ve got to think of something, and when you’ve thought of it you’ve got to force yourself to sit down and write it.  That’s all.  It would have taken me just three minutes to explain that, and then the Talk would have been ended and everyone would have been very fed up.  I can’t imagine why everybody is always so keen for authors to talk ab out writing.  I should have though it was an author’s business to write, not talk.”

            “And yet it is about how you write that I want to ask you.”

            “You can ask,” said Mrs. Oliver, “but I probably shan’t know the answer.  I mean one just sits down and writes. . .”

-- from Dead Man's Folly by Agatha Christie

-- sdh

"More Than You Know" [by Helen Morgan, Rosemary Clooney, Ella Fitzgerald et al]

Cole Porter in "Red, Hot, and Blue":

<< I don't like Schubert's music or Schumann's,
I'm one of those humans
Who only goes in for Berlin and Vincent Youmans. >>

So here's to You, Mr. Youmans, composer of "Without a Song" and "Tea for Two," his most famous song, which he wrote at the last-minute for the show No, No, Nanette.