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The
Ghent Reader is proud to present two poems from Joseph Harrison, who read his poetry during |
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Quick bio: Harrison grew up in northern |
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Frost Heaves
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In a
quirky corner of |
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Between
two pummeled spines of the |
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You'll find
a town and college, Middlebury, |
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That once
were haunts of the poet, Robert Frost. |
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He's
honored ways some dead would find offensive. |
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Just read
the markers on the road to |
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Where the
new writers come and go like leaves: |
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You cross the
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To see, on
the Robert Frost Memorial Drive, |
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The Robert
Frost Interpretive Nature Trail, |
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The Robert
Frost Memorial Wayside Area, |
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And then a
crooked stick-sign, with crude letters, |
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Warning of
shocks from shifty weather: FROST HEAVES. |
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And who
could blame you, pseudo-memorialized |
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So
comically in every wrong direction |
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Like any
Vince Lombardi or Joyce Kilmer? |
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Or should
we rather blame that side of you |
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Who packaged
your keen words like maple syrup, |
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Dripping
with smug provinciality, |
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Sticky
with rhyme? As if you never contrived |
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To warp
the ripe world through thin panes of ice, |
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Or plotted
the marshy ground in fours and fives |
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Crisp to the
cut of your long whispering scythe, |
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Or started
the couple arguing on the stairs, |
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The
narrow, clumsy, stoic will defied |
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By love's
white backward gaze of grief at loss |
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Till call
by liquid call the songbirds changed, |
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Or hid the
goblet behind the children's playhouse. |
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And now it
seems you've gotten me lost again |
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Although I
thought I knew these woods by heart: |
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Splashes
of yellow and alizarin, |
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Pulse of
magenta, every fist in flame. |
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Something coaxes
the trees to dress themselves |
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In the
last colors of the alphabet |
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Then
strips them in the nick of the hard north wind, |
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Something
crisps the trail, ices the bridge, |
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Encrusts
the plaque in the wayside area |
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And hoists
the pavement buckling it like clay. |
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Long after
your crumbling image is forgotten |
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(Beside
the hero on inauguration day) |
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Frost will
wrestle stone from underneath |
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And crack
our polished, placid surfaces, |
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Wrenching
apart the road we thought we'd taken. |
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-Joseph Harrison, Someone Else’s Name (2004) |
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Air Larry
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(Larry Walters flew a lawn chair
attached to helium |
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balloons
to a height of 16,000 feet, into the jet |
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lanes
above |
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"Inspiration
I.") |
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When the
idea came |
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It seemed,
at best, a dicey thing to do: |
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You rig
your vehicle, give it a name, |
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Straighten
a line or two, |
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Then,
confident you've given it your best |
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If not
that it will carry you aloft, |
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You put it
to the test |
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And it
just takes off, |
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Lifting
you over the trees |
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And up the
sky |
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Easy as
you please, |
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Till soon
you are really high, |
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Your
neighborhood, turned miniature, is gone, |
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And you
wonder how, |
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Up here
all alone, |
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To get the
hell down, now |
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That the
transcendental imagination |
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Has proven
it can indeed |
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Surpass
your wildest expectation |
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And raise
you higher than you need |
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Or want to
go, |
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For now
that you are "there" |
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All you know
is how little you know, |
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And that
here in the upper air |
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It is very
cold, |
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A
disenabling extremity |
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Your
clumsy calculations should have foretold, |
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And,
triggering all your anxiety, |
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You hear,
then see, roaring across the sky |
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As dots in
the distance streak into form, |
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The
gargantuan craft come cruising by, |
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Perfectly
uniform, |
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Built for
speed and altitude, |
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So
effortless in shattering sound itself |
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That next
o them your vehicle looks crude |
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And fatally
flawed, just like yourself, |
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Painfully
ill-equipped to play the hero, |
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And
actually beginning to freeze to death |
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At a
temperature far below zero |
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Where the
thin air burns each breath, |
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And you realize
you must, not a moment too soon, |
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Jettison
all original intent |
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And pop
your own balloon |
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To
undertake the perilous descent. |
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-Joseph Harrison, Someone Else’s
Name (2004) |
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PROFILED
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The Ghent Reader posts profiles and interviews
with writers who have a connection to Hampton Roads. This issue the Ghent Reader focuses on Joseph
Harrison. |
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Joseph Harrison: A writer and a Southerner |
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By Deb Markham |
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After 25 years of perfecting his poetry, Joseph Harrison, 47, published his first
collection of poems, Someone
Else’s Name, last spring. The wait was worth it. Critics
heaped praise on his work. They lauded
him for his sense of place, his use of form and rhyme, and his evident love
of language. From The New York Times to London
Magazine, Someone Else’s Name
received glowing reviews. |
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It’s not like he and his work have
been sitting on a shelf for a quarter century. His poems have appeared in a
variety of magazines, including the Antioch
Review, Boston Review, Paris Review, Kenyon Review, and Yale
Review. They have also been included in The Monitor Yearbook of American Poetry 1996 and The Best American Poetry 1998. |
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He was born in |
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On March 22, he read selections of
his poetry to an audience at |
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Joseph Harrison: I wouldn’t say it has any
influence on it really. I guess I would say that one’s culture always has
some general influence, but I don’t really -- and other people might detect
influences that I myself might not detect. I was never that drawn to the
Southern tradition of narrative in poetry other than Robert Penn Warren, whom I very much admired.
The stuff that was self-consciously Southern poetry that I read and
encountered when I was forming my taste and inclinations didn’t speak to me
as deeply as some other things. |
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My dad was a very southern man and he took a
lot of delight in language and the sound of words and he had a lot of fun
with them. I know I inherited what
little felicity I have from him. I’m not sure that is a particularly Southern
thing. I do think that Southerners are good tale tellers. I’m a story teller
more in conversation than I am in poems. Poems tend to be more of a lyrical
or figurative space than narrative space. |
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So my poems will include aspect s
of narrative, but they are never straight-forward narratives. I think that generally
novels do that job find. There are
other things that poems do, but those are just my personal whims, likes and
dislikes. They are not intended to be prescriptive. This is a very oblique
answer to your question about how being a Southerner influences my writing. I
really think of myself as a Southerner and as a writer but not as a “Southern
Writer.” The art, to me, is something that is not regional. It has to do more
with something broader than regional. |
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GR: So what does it have to do with? |
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JH: Well, it has to do with the
language, the vibrant nature of the language -- which is now spoken all over
the globe -- that goes back hundreds of years. A lot of the work that I do is
in traditional forms or variations of traditional forms, nonce forms that I
concocted but with an eye to certain traditional model. So there is a very
powerful and quite old tradition of poetry in English that’s always
fascinated and attracted me long before I tried to write the stuff myself. |
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I think when I’m writing -- or perhaps I should say when
I’m writing well -- feel that I’m a
part of that larger tradition, larger trajectory, and that something that
transcends regional boundaries. Also, the American poets who I have been most
moved and instructed by don’t tend to be Southern poets. Wallace Stevens, the poet more than anyone else, who made me
want to be a poet. I thought his poems were so amazing, and I wondered how he
did what he did. How you get to the end of his poem and realize you had some
kind of coherent aesthetic experience, but there was no way on god’s earth to
paraphrase it. He had done something
to you that was magical and transformative. And, I was very much attracted to
his poetry. Then, at a slightly later age, I was attracted to the poetry of Robert Frost. Those are both Northeastern poets. |
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I do think I’ve
been more influenced by Northeastern poetry in terms of American regions than
by Southern poetry. Now, that doesn’t say, that being a Southerner doesn’t
give me a certain different angle on those traditions; perhaps a different
way of phrasing things and thinking about things. I’m not saying that my Southerness does not
in any form appear in my work. I’m sure it does. I think it probably appears
in subtle ways rather than in an overt allegiance to a Southern tradition of
writing. If anything consciousness of the sort of dominant narrative modes
within the Southern tradition of writing may have helped send me in the other
direction. But I don’t really think so. I just think I was attracted to the
kind of poems that did the kind of things that I really like poems to
do. I tried to teach myself - well if
I could - how to write those. The question of Southerness has never really
been one that concerned me. |
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GR: But you do like to play with words? |
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JH: Oh yeah! Yeah I do! |
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GR: How do you decide form? Is it something that grows from the subject you
have in mind, or do you decide on a certain form before taking on a topic? |
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JH: It’s a little bit of both of
those. You want to find a form that seems appropriate to the poem and that
seems to be appropriate to the subject matter. Different forms do different
kind of things, so you want there to be that fit between tenor and vehicle,
if you will. You certainly want to make sure you’ve got the right kind of
form. You wouldn’t, for instance, want to try to do a sort of meditative
reflective verse in heroic couplets. That just wouldn’t work. You wouldn’t be
doing much meditating. Those you have to come up with witty barb every two
lines, and that wouldn’t lead you into the minds meandering the way blind
verse does as Wordsworth uses it. |
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I would say that the question of form -- or what form to
choose -- is there immediately, from the first time you put pen to paper. I
heard Richard Wilbur once say that he knew in a line and a half he
knew what his form was. I think there is some truth to that. I work a lot in
these little stanza forms that I make up with varying line length and cross
rhymes. With those things, I feel my way toward what I want to do to the
first stanza. Once the first stanza is done, then that is the form. It‘s
always a very sensitive and delicate moment in the process of composition.
You have to be very careful because if you don’t get it right, the poem is
not going to work. It’s very much a
sense of feel and learning to listen to that voice in your head which usually
has some idea where it wants to go. |
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GR: How long does it take you to get from inspiration through the first
stanza and into the poem itself? |
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JH: It really varies depending on the poem.
Sometimes I’ll have an idea for one, and a first line will come to me. I’ll
go sit down, write that first line, and another one and another one.
Sometimes I go on and write the whole poem. Sometimes I sit down and have an
idea and write a line or two in a notebook and leave it. It can sit there for
months, for years, before I page back through and say, “Hmmm. I kind of like
that,” and pick it up and do something with it. |
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It can happen very quickly, or it can take a very long
time. I’ve spent months carrying the idea for a poem around in my head. I
have some I’ve had for years. I’ve sat down a couple of times and made a
couple of false starts. I know I don’t have it right, but that’s just part of
the process and the mystery of the process. It can come very quickly, or you
can get an idea – “Hey, I’d like to write about that” -- and it can take you
forever to figure out – “Exactly how on earth I’m going to write about that.”
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For one thing, you don’t know anything about it.
Therefore, you have to find out about these strange aquatic phenomena in |
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GR: Do you ever give up on an idea? |
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JH: I have bits and pieces of this,
that and the other in the notebooks that for one reason or the other didn’t
really work. I have a lot of poems that weren’t in the book that I published
that may get published in some other form at some point. You do the best you
can with what you have. And you keep writing. I think it was Horace that said the first thing people
should do when they have written a poem is put it in a draw for seven years.
If you still like it seven years from now, then try to publish it. |
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GM: Would you advise poets to do something like that drastic? |
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JH: No. It would be ridiculous. Most people
want a quicker payoff. They don’t want to be told that it takes time. The
fact of the matter is that, in terms of becoming a poet, becoming a serious
poet, it takes a long time. A lot of people have some talent. There are plenty of people who have something
of a flair for writing and who like to read poetry and have penned some
poems, and some of them show something. But there is a big difference between
the people who do that and the people who really devote the work to it for
years and years. Pushing themselves to get a little bit better and to get a
little bit better and to get a little bit better. Sending out poems to
magazines and getting rejected, and sending out to the magazines, and getting
rejected, and sending out to the magazines, and getting rejected, and going
through that whole process. |
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People want immediate gratification. Poetry is great for
immediate gratification. Tell me how many art forms you can have an immediate
aesthetic experience with. It’s actually possible during our distracted
hurly-burly times to be able to just pick up a poem, read it, and have some
sort of experience. But people want things to happen quickly. I’m speaking
from experience. I’m sure somebody who wanted things to happen quickly and
expected things to happen quickly. |
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I composed a massive book when I
was in my 20. I sent it around to various bewildered editors. I had a whole
book of poems. One of the poems got published. I wrote another book. The
first was pretty flawed. The second
had its flaws too. I have a certain
fondness for it. Then, eventually, my
work moved in another direction than the first book, which had some form in
it. The second was more experimental. (Second manuscript, I should say,
because it isn’t a book unless someone has published it.) Once I started writing Someone Else’s Name, I lost interest in some of the older
stuff. That’s just some of the things
you have to go through to get there. |
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I’m
somebody, who took a break for two to three years in the 1980s, wrote pretty
much from about 1980 on. It took me nearly 25 years for a book to come out. I
realize most people don’t have that kind of patience. I didn’t do things that
a lot of writers do. I didn’t go to a writing program. I just went off and
did my own thing in my own way. I wouldn’t necessarily advise people to
follow my example. |
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GR: So, do you regret it? |
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JH: Not at all. I think that you do
what you have to do to get where you need to go. I had to wait a long time,
but now that the book is out I’m pleased with it. People have been very nice about
it. It’s gotten some pretty good press. It exceeded my expectations of how
much attention it would get and what sort of praise it would bring from
people whose opinions matter to me.
That’s pretty much all you need. You get that praise and attention and
you go: “Well, thank goodness the last quarter century hasn’t been a waste.”
Then you go on. |
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I won’t pretend for a minute that an enormous weight
wasn’t lifted when I realized I was going to get the book published. Retrospectively, I felt pretty good about
the whole enterprise. Had that not happened, I’m not sure what I would say….
You wouldn’t be interviewing me today. |
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GR: So, what’s next? |
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JH: More poems. I’ve been doing a good bit
of reading –quiet reading - and giving public readings. I’ve also just been
doing a lot of reading for my own instruction. That’s been very good. I’ve
taught for many years. I’ve taken a break from teaching. It’s a nice relief
to have a little more time to yourself and be able to read. I’m getting to
read some of thing I should have read when I was a young man. |
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GR: Like what? |
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JH: Oh, lots of stuff. The Dialogues of Plato, which are
amazing. I took a course on it as a freshman. I k now I must have read
it. I sat there turning the pages and
staring at it, but you couldn’t really have gotten very far with me on a
discussion about what really goes on in Plato. … Once you read enough you get
critical mass, it helps. When you’re reading and someone says something about
“x”, it might actually be something you really read. |
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GR: You don’t have to go look it up or any
more. You already know it... So, tell me, are you on sabbatical or something? |
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JH: Well, no, I just sort of quit. I
got sort of tired of the teaching. |
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GR: Do you ever see yourself going back? |
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JH: I wouldn’t rule that out. I think
it would depend on what people wanted me to teach, where they wanted me
teach. I hoping I’m not going to have to go back to it just to pay bills. I enjoyed
teaching, and taught for years, and had some wonderful students. There is a
certain sadness at not doing it. But really, you know, I like retirement. Not
that I’m really retried, but I’m taking some time to concentrate on other
things. |
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GR: I have two final questions for you. The poetry group associated with
the |
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JH: Not at all |
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GR: How accessible should poetry be? |
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JH: That’s a question that has always
vexed poets, American poets, perhaps, in particular. It involves the whole
question of audience. Some of that depends on who your audience is, and what
you see your poems as doing. For instance, if your aim is to write social
protest poetry, if you have a kind of definite political agenda or definite
message that you want your poetry to get across. I think that it’s pretty
important for it to be clear. I don’t particularly care much for that kind of
poetry. John Ashbery told me that his problem with political poems
is they often tell you something you already know. That often tends to be a
limitation for them, but there are certain kinds of poems where accessibility
is crucial. |
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You want the poem to be available, and immediately available
in some sense, but not completely clear, I don’t necessarily think. If the
reader sits down and reads your poem and comes away from it with nothing but
bewilderment, they probably are not going to reread it. I went through a phase where I realized I
was making my work too hard for the reader. The reader was having to struggle
a little bit, but I knew what I was doing. I knew what I was saying. |
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I remember at one point having a
session with Anthony Hecht at the Sewanee Writers Conference.
I could tell he was a little puzzled by a couple of the poems, but he was too
polite to say anything about it. (He is a brilliant man; and, in the end, a
very good reader of my poems.) I could
tell that I was being oblique, coded, and proud of my ability to string these
things together and know that they make sense to me, but that’s not
responsible to the audience. If you’re going to have an audience, you’re
going to have to write stuff that people want to read. You’re going to have
to write stuff that people, at least, feel they are making a start in
understanding. |
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On the other hand, what is the audience for poetry? As |
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Write a poem that is completely
clear and straight forward. You read it, and it says exactly what it means.
Why would you ever reread it? That’s the catch, you see? That’s the
accessibility problem. The poems that last longest are the ones that give us
enough to go on that we can keep rereading and trying to figure out. |
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I think ya’ll are
wise to be discussing the accessibility question, because it‘s a crucial
question. It’s a decision people have to make for themselves. And very much
has to do with who you perceive your audience as being. It’s also important
to remember that poems exist to be reread and not just to be read. If you
make it so oblique that nobody is going to reread it, you’ve lost the game.
If you make it so one dimensional that no one is going to reread it, you’ve
lost the game too. There’s a balance to be struck that is very fine. Each
poet has to work out where that line is for themselves. |
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GR: Who is your audience? |
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JH: I do think of my own audience as primarily
being other poets. That doesn’t’ mean I don’t want people in general to like
my work. It gives me great pleasure when somebody who doesn’t read poetry
comes up to me at one of my readings and tells me how much they like my
poems. It’s always very satisfying. Realistically, it’s other practitioners
of the art that you are really writing for. In some sense, you’re writing for
the ones who are no longer alive and you are writing for ones who have not
yet been born. I feel fortunate to be part of a very long and old tradition.
That is much bigger than the individual people involved in it. Eventually,
there is a way that itself becomes the audience you really think about. You
kind of have to let the chips fall where they may with the rest of it. It’s good to have people buy your books,
though. |
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----------
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How Accessible
Should Poetry Be? |
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Constructed from
posts on the GhentPoetryCafe
board by Drew Stephenson and Stuart McCausland. Edits and additions by Deb
Markham with apologies to the original authors. |
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The thing that always irritated me
about English class, and probably turned me into a history teacher instead,
was that my English teachers always seemed to have interpretations of the
poems we read but couldn't (or didn't bother to) explain how they came to
their conclusion. |
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It didn't matter if I checked out
the writer's background or made what seemed to me to be clear and logical
connections between symbols or important parts of the poem. My teachers would
correct me with “The rice in this poem represents snow falling in the
author's heart," or some such crap.
And they would say that without any inter- or extra-textual support. |
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Ever since, I have had little
patience with an author (or artist) who flops down an arcane work and leaves
no clues for the reader to follow. I understand "art for art's
sake" is a valid aesthetic avenue to some, but I believe anything
offered to public experience that is not accessible is masturbatory
posturing. I can envision a situation where one might create a work that has
meaning only to one's self, but then why put it in the public arena?
Psychosis aside, I think that the only reason an artist would offer a piece
to others is to affect some level of communication. |
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I'm not opposed to working to get
to understand a piece; indeed I sometimes find the work adds significantly to
my enjoyment. But the danger of an arcane piece, to my mind, is that greater
work should have greater rewards. An intentionally difficult syntax or word
choice that leads to the obvious and/or mundane comes across as artificial,
trite and disappointing. On the other hand, working through a challenging
poem that is well-constructed can transport me beyond the perspectives I
know, and that is a wonderful experience. |
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--- |
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As the old saying goes, "a
thing is worth what you pay for it." This does not mean that I should
have to work hard to interpret the Latin or Greek aphorisms in a poet’s work.
It means that if I put in the necessary work earlier to learn those
languages, I will bring more to the reading and consequently take more away. |
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Getting divorced can also be a lot
of work, or raising kids, or working in a factory or on a farm. Bringing all
that work with me to the poem does allow me to get more out of it, even if
it's not exactly what the poet had in mind. |
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Asked what a certain poem meant,
Robert Frost replied "What does it mean to you?" We construct
meaning from both the input (the actual words of the poem) and our mind’s
inner massaging and interpretation of that input. And, we can massage and
interpret better if we have done our homework, either now or somewhere in the
past. |
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My best friend was a writer, if you
define being a writer as somebody who writes incessantly. He said he wrote
because he had to. He didn’t publish anything, so he never considered
“audience.” On the other hand, my journalism teacher taught us that we should
write a story we would like to read ourselves. She said we were normal
enough. If we liked a story, many
others would too. So, how accessible should poetry be? At least, as
accessible as any song behind a good story. |
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If you would like to
contribute an essay or review, please send your ideas to Ghentreader@GhentReader.com |
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NATIONAL NOTES
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The Ghent
Reader scans the Web for national and international literary news articles.
Here you will find excerpts and links to some of the articles we viewed. Send
any interesting literary links we missed GhentReader@GhentReader.com. |
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A young |
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Philip Lamantia, who befriended Allen Ginsberg and |
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"Everyone should read their haikus twice," says Goldsmith. "In case someone blinks." – From a San Francisco Chronicle story about Haiku poetry slams. |
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[Martin] Espada, a Latino poet who
has published seven collections, plans to donate the money to a union for
workers at Colombian Coca-Cola plants -- a union that Espada believes has
been decimated by unfair and sometimes brutal labor practices. – From a Lawrence Journal-World
story about what a poet plans to do with Coca-Cola grant money. |
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How do you bring
poetry to the people? Deliver it to their front doors, of course. – From a Seattle Post-Intelligencer
story about how Ted Kooser plans to offer a poetry column to
newspapers. |
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There will be no
more plays from the pen of Harold Pinter, |
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For those of us who truly care about poetry as a living entity, the present moment is
always the best. – From a San Francisco Chronicle
review of Ashes for Breakfast, selected poems by Durs Grünbein; translated by
Michael Hofmann |
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"Why don't poets focus-group
their poems to better reach a mass audience?" – From an Oregonian
editorial by David Biespiel on the poet’s audience. |
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When I started out, my goals were very self-involved - to
get my work done and published. – From
an Asheville Citizen-Times
Q&A with |
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Patience Agbabi, a bisexual, radical-feminist performance
artist with cropped hair and tattoos, has been called "the PVC poet" by the British
media because of the lesbian, sadomasochistic and drug themes featured in her
poetry.– From a New
York Times article on one of the oldest boarding schools in
England (Eton College) and its new writer in residence. (Registration may be
required.) |
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POETRY
LINKED
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We
like to introduce poetry links to small-press and/or national literary
reviews in each issue of the Ghent Reader. The poets and themes may not
necessarily have any connections to the area. To suggest a literary review
for this section, send an email to GhentReader@GhentReader.com. |
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When Weaver
Ants Cut (A Valentine), by Aimee Nezhukumatathil (Black Warrior Review) |
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Bahia Grass, by
James Kimbrell (Black Warrior Review) |
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My Life as
the Moon, by Brent Hendricks (Black
Warrior Review) |
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Quarantine, by
Michael Dumanis (Black Warrior Review) |
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