Tag Archives: The Burn Poems

A Wondrous Thing: New Poetry by Lynn Strongin

Note: Lynn Strongin’s poetry and poetic prose has appeared previously in this blog – mostly in the form of fragments cited in reviews, more recently (as today) by direct publication of new material. Interested readers can find these instances, using the Archives at the right of your screen, on the following dates: August 4, 2012 (review of Orphan Thorns, “a novel in verse,” and Bread of the Angels, poetry); January 30, 2013 (in comparison with the work of Argentine writer, María Rosa Lojo, whose prose poetry and narrative I have translated from the Spanish, further discussion and excerpts from Orphan’s Thorn and review of the lyric novel, Nikko’s Child); March 30, 2015 (review of The Burn Poems and the lyric novel, Fabrytius’ Chylde); and July 28, 2019 (original publication of the cycle of poems, Saturday Evening Taffetas).

Today’s contribution is a selection I have made from the larger cycle of poems in-progress called WATER GLASS: A Wondrous Thing. Lynn writes them out of “the darkness of these times,” as she expressed it in her email – with a nod toward the dark but not un-hopeful fiction I had just posted in my June 10th blog, and which prompted her submission – but more significantly she writes, as always, from a luminous place, shining a clarifying (or, at least, illuminating) light on the darkness we all inhabit by virtue of our fragile mortality.

“Before we wore masks back before the world ended / we saw face-to-face,” Lynn writes in one of these poems, clearly evoking this moment we live in; yet then, in another: “Swing by the bars of my trapeze of hope” – an invitation that I join her in extending to you, dear reader.

 

from WATER GLASS: A Wondrous Thing

by Lynn Strongin

 

FAUCETS, fabric, fayth:

All is changed             & time hath its

Dominion

 

As death shall have no favorite:

Like

So search for me by the barn              beside the pony-skinned trunk:

 

Turn the page.

The universe condenses before my eyes:        But before the world changed,

the angelic orders

 

A wondrous thing

 

Passion with its rage

Is followed by sleep.

No longer in my nonage   Now, I keep           O wondrous thing

The dwarf beside, in velvets, morphing into the sage waking between naps:

the deep sleep.

 

I TURN . . . a wheel

Flaming steel

A square building this life:                             Fieldstone

Quarried in New England.

If my front door hasn’t been opened for a long time,

Home care workers bathe my body with warm suds

Unlived life cuts a knife

Thru lather,

“Now I will baythe your girliie parts”

soul parts with body

Fayth!

Swing high, sweet chariot O wondrous thing mercy.

 

WHICH IS IT I PART WITH? The torment of near-touch?

Tenderness                  withdrawn

‘It am a bit daft anyway. . . a bit daft with things,

 buteswoman.  I’m too old,   the leopard doesn’t change his spots,’

says the old

says the old Daleswoman.

What to do with this daftness?

I pick up an object

egg icicle, star

 

Ishmael at the gates of Nuremburg

one

Scar

A half moon                hardly visible this bright sun.

 

Spotting a leopard in my dream                I whisper to God my deepest secrets:        sky the color of fresh cream or milk parlour, the birthing room.

 

WORLD FALLING APART

Be sound,  heart

I catch it in my hands             juggler.

 

Which to wear on my commemoration of beating death as a child?

Tomboy                       or silk lady?

 

Be not heartbroken about the changes in your life: my girl might whisper on               her walks

You still hold it in your hands

 

Photographs take the place of touch

She has no color left in her hair:

Here is bark from trees                       silver from eucalyptus

 

Its oil a dot of color in each cheek

Rouge rubbed in from cranberry

She is my clown-child turned dancing doll

No, Lord, Sunday Sheppard

I shall not  become a wantling

No glass lenses           watching sky gash                   scarred with summer

thunderhead.

 

DAZE

This is the door to forever:

Blindout light, the eye ball shrinks:                unblinkered, a dozen years of age

I stand at the front of a boat, wear pony skin, legs skinny:

Forever brightness unrolling like a Turkish carpet

A Chinese scroll:

Far-off are the mountains

Brilliance is different from all other things; it dazzles.

 

We must root for the honeybees

The giant orangey hornet          the global virus.

Before we wore masks back before the world ended

We saw face-to-face

I see light only in the darkroom.

In this apocalypse.

 

If you have been in a birthing room

you may never need to sign a contract

you will dance a Joplin rag until you die: but silently. Birthing room,

 

Like a milking parlour

It is sacred:

Holy

In it

One wants to kneel

To hear the after-war peal

Of Big Ben

Of Kyrie Elieson

 

the silken touch of you whom I love

The real deal.

 

TENDERNESS

I want to share tenderness with you               my tentative tenderness

Leaning on touch

As a frail child            too lightweight for her age leans upon a rail

 

A rail protecting her from tumbling into a lake

Central Park lake

Where boys float toy

 

Boats

Every wind shivering

Shimmering them       twinned in reflection.

 

I dream this tenderness, tendresse twinned

You are far more than scribe

When I cannot see your face, the light hovers

 

Above is a presence

Prescient. The camera looks heavy but takes deep light room pictures.

 

A WONDROUS THING one wild day

I dream a holiday with a painter

An Arles convent

 

I came into near-collapse

Then saw the apse

Whose domed room, above altar & at the eastern end gave light & a water glass, fronds trailing.

 

Due to a hole in the bridge deck

There is a huge delay:

So it will be long before I get in:

Driving plough over thorns                      like cradling with velvet hands your

newborn.

 

WANTLING

A wantling must follow the divine laws of love:

We wake started by the nite-lite, a votive of wax:

Might be a border crossing light

 

Warning

Red

But is, instead, a saving grace to step around the iron hospital bed

 

Where I have been:

Yes here I have been laid for my year healing

Waiting for what never came:

Instead a numbered full-fleeced wool sacrifice, scribe-lamb.

 

TRAPEZE

Swing by the bars of my trapeze of hope

Your often ominous tone

As I touch the dome

 

It comforts me to smell the rice my hired woman from Singapore makes down              the hall.

A warm scent downhall, a fragrant pungent waft is home

 

Touch, tangerine

(my nickmane for you little sister)

when the globes, the sun balls of our life darkened:

After war, divorce: after divorce, polio

The palomino turned to glue, the slow sad horse no longer against snow sky

but sink, but breathe, last carrot scoffed, must die.

 

 

Copyright © 2020  Lynn Strongin

GLEANINGS (Henry James on “Mr. Whitman”; new work by Lynn Strongin; a memoir by Joanna Foreman; audio books of Danish poetry, tr. Michael Goldman)

150th_issue_cover_otu_img[1]1. Received yesterday morning the April edition of the usually weekly magazine The Nation, which is celebrating its 150th anniversary with this 268-page anthology of some new but mostly historical material. In my initial browsing I came upon a November 16, 1865 review of Walt Whitman’s book Drum-Taps (one fragment, now, along with Song of Myself and much else, of his ever-evolving masterpiece Leaves of Grass). The reviewer is Henry James.

This is where I confess that I have never read anything by Henry James, though I am familiar with Henry’s brother William through The Metaphysical Club: A Story of Ideas in America, Louis Menand’s book about the American Pragmatists. Henry, according to The Oxford Companion to English Literature, “was a regular contributor of reviews and short stories to American periodicals” from 1865 on, so this review would have been one of his first. Some of his novels (like Portrait of a Lady, 1881) are “chiefly concerned with the impact of the older civilization of Europe on American life”; and in others, more specifically English in setting and content, “he analysed English character with extreme subtlety, verging at times on obscurity.”

I stop on this background on the reviewer for what it might explain of his negative take on Whitman, a less disciplined and mannered writer working in a distinctly American style: a new kind of poetry – ecstatic, ebulient, rough around the edges – that quite deliberately ran away from its European predecessors.

“Mr. Whitman,” writes James, “prides himself especially on the substance – the life – of his poetry. It may be rough, it may be grim, it may be clumsy – such we take to be the author’s argument – but it is sincere, it is sublime, it appeals to the soul of man, it is the voice of a people.”

In James’s view, Whitman’s poetry is quite simply “an offense against art,” and James has some specific advice with regard to it: “To become adopted as a national poet, it is not enough to discard everything in particular and to accept everything in general, to amass crudity upon crudity, to discharge the undigested contents of your blotting-book into the lap of the public. You must respect the public you address, for it has tastes, if you have not.”

image097[1]In the retrospect of 150 years, that dismissal might well strike one as a tad snobbish, but at least James has his standards. The general American public, in any case, from northern to southern hemisphere, seems to have had a different view of things – or perhaps just a different understanding of artistic taste. Be that as it may, Whitman is honored and imitated perhaps more than any American poet before or since. His chief imitator would have to be Carl Sandburg, who wrote no less ecstatically, in free and ranging verse, of his rough-and-tumble Chicago. And who, like Whitman, was a great admirer (and in Sandburg’s case, biographer) of Abraham Lincoln.

The poems that immediately follow Drum-Taps, entitled Memories of President Lincoln, include the much-anthologized “O Captain! My Captain!” This elegantly crafted poem, which I recall teaching to my eighth-grade English students, is surely proof that Whitman could write a perfectly disciplined poem if he chose to.

As for Song of Myself, while the poet does seem to go overboard from time to time, I have come to find it quite admirable in the sheer boldness of its scope. And where at times Whitman may seem a bit full of himself, possessed of boundless, perhaps excessive self-regard, it is at least partly because of the inclusiveness of his usage of the pronoun myself, which intends to include everyone. If perhaps not so much the more elitist, Europe-gazing Henry James.

The individual poems in Drum-Taps were unknown to me before a couple of years ago, more or less, when I finally got around to wading through the immense entirety of Leaves of Grass. I have to say that it particularly moved me. In part because for the first time, it seemed to me, the poet’s seemingly boundless optimism was brought to its knees, overwhelmed by the horrors of an internecine war whose wounds, this century and a half later, are still not completely acknowledged, let alone healed. And, in the face of this day’s apparently endless international “war on terror,” I needed him to acknowledge the limits of optimism.

That impression is perhaps most clearly expressed in the following short poem, which I cite in its entirety:

 Year that trembled and reel’d beneath me!

Your summer wind was warm enough, yet the air I breathed froze me,

A thick gloom fell through the sunshine and darken’d me,

Must I change my triumphant songs? said I to myself,

Must I learn to chant the cold dirges of the baffled?

And sullen hymns of defeat?

It seems to me that our political discourse, of late, could stand a dose of this modesty. Before the present drum-beats to war with Iran turn the whole region, and perhaps the world, into a conflagration that is bound to decisively give the lie to all our exceptionalist triumphalism.

2. Have been acquainted with Lynn Strongin, strictly by long distance, since editing some of her poems during my year as managing editor of the online journal New Works Review. She has an extensive body of work since the Sixties and seems to have no intention of slowing down in her own seventies, having two new books (one just published, the other forthcoming) in 2015.

As she has herself pointed out, Strongin has been exploring essentially the same subject and themes for all these years, over and over and yet never the same: every poem, every particular narrative, seems completely fresh and original despite the familiarity. And by no means less skillful than earlier work.

Lynn Strongin as a childMost evident in all her work is her experience as a child victim of polio, which left her in a wheelchair but did nothing to inhibit her intellectual and artistic adventuring. This infuses her work with a particular sensitivity to young people of any day, whatever the specific troubles physical or emotional that sometimes isolate them. Additional themes that resurface in her work include the menace of the Holocaust and other forms of marginalization and prejudice manifest variously in our shared human experience.

In a sense, one might say, her concerns are at once universal and unifying, touching on the world of nature as well as on the varieties of human experience. I especially remember some moving passages, in previous work, on the recent nuclear disaster in Japan, connected as that inevitably is to the atomic bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, to nuclear talks today between Iran and much of the developed world, to traumas both physical and spiritual from the Middle East to urban and rural North America.

None of which is to say that her work is oppressively dark or depressing, quite the contrary. Rather it seems to burst with light and possibility. Her voice is distinct and wholly original. One might say that her words shimmer.

The following radiant poem (I love the closing image!) is from The Burn Poems, just published in time for International Women’s Day on March 18, by Headmistress Press (Sequim, Washington) which specializes in publishing chapbooks by lesbian writers:

Were those sorrowful times

Back on Cook Street?

Did it all melt down to kitchen?

That galley that hung

Me with gin?

Why should those times be more sorrowful than these? Ruined cities always were in my spine:

Fort Mason. Fort Saint John. Fort Spaceman.

To a child it was cruel. To be a woman? There are no words:

Instead I trap

Momentarily

Cup a bird in hand

And let my tears bathe him. 

The lyric novel, Fabrytius’ Chylde (Albuquerque, New Mexico: Casa de Snapdragon), forthcoming later this year, has the feel of an extended prose poem, its narrative comes forth in shimmering blasts that allow the story to emerge slowly, with repetitions of phrase and image that help reinforce it. At slightly over a hundred words, it begs to be read at least twice: once straight through to get the feel of it, and again lingeringly to take it all in more completely.

The title alludes to a 17th-century painting by Carel Pietersz Fabritius, “Rembrandt’s most famous pupil,” with whose subject (the painter’s daughter) this 21st-century narrator self-identifies. She is an older woman, looking back on a lesbian relationship of some fifty years. The painting is The Goldfinch (1654). The following passage, from the beginning of chapter one, helps to set the stage:

This is the story of Velvet and Angel. Velvet was the name given me when Velma-Sue was outgrown, just as Angelique, with whom I fell in love, became Angel, and these names remained ours for life. If I was a Dutch painter’s dream of a girl, Angel was a burly, Roman woman with brogue shoes, a broad-muscled soldier. Her years as instructor had developed her biceps. Her crop of chestnut hair, bangs glistening as though painted with thick oil paints made her resemble a small woman, Roman soldier who fought on burning bridges and canals by sun, lit like candle. She was a delicious woman, Hercules.

the-know-it-all-girl-joanna-foreman-sm[1]3. Recently joined, for support and companionship, the Southern Indiana Writers group, which meets occasionally in Indiana’s original frontier capital of Corydon, at about an hour’s drive from my Indiana home in Tell City. As a former Mormon missionary in South America, no longer practicing the faith but by no means hostile to it, I was interested to read group member Joanna Foreman’s The Know-It-All Girl: A memoir of a former Jehovah’s Witness. (2013. Madison, Indiana: Hydra Publications)

Our experiences have been very different, though both of us have turned against the patriarchal and doctrinal certainties of our former faiths. In her case, I think, the experience was on the whole more restrictive, mine less so given the existence within Mormonism of a distinctly more liberal and expansive wing in opposition or counterpoint to the anti-intellectual wing that, at least in my particular experience, came to suck the original joy from Sunday worship and daily practice. Some of that, both the positive and the negative, is at play in my new Young Adult novel, tentatively called Original Sins and still looking for a home, whose lead protagonist is a Mormon girl (as opposed to her classmates who are not Mormon) with a dilemma (what to do if her boyfriend turns out to really be gay). And who tries to solve the dilemma by drawing some risky lessons from the Mormon version of the Adam and Eve narrative. But that’s a whole other story, which I don’t need to get into just now.

Joanna’s narrative, in any case, is an affecting account of spiritual struggle and growth which should have large appeal to anyone who enjoys reading popular biography and memoir. While the Organization, as it is called by its members, became too restrictive a place for Joanna’s adventurous and inquisitive spirit, the story of her relationships within the faith with, in particular, her mother and a dear girlfriend, are for the most part positive. As is the overall thrust of her narrative, which ends in a good place and is related with appropriate and abundant humor. The title alludes to the illusion of sure knowledge that the faithful have through reliance on the church elders or patriarchal leaders: because, whatever question anyone could have, they claimed to know all the answers; so all you had to do was listen and obey.

The following passage, part of a chapter that develops her ultimate relationship with belief and doubt even more fully, I particularly admire:

 Most days, I don’t believe there is a god anymore. Occasionally, I think maybe there is, but for me, He or She or It is not a god who knows our every thought (or even cares what we’re thinking), who will strike a match and torture us forever if we refuse to follow specific, complicated and oftentimes silly rules. When I hold a newborn I believe there must be a god. When I see violent anger and hate among the human race I figure there cannot be a god. I walk outside on a spring day – birds sing and a fresh breeze ruffles my hair – or I witness a glorious sunrise; then I think maybe there is a god. But when I see the insensitive, unnecessary bickering and wars between people of various religions, I truly believe with all my heart that if a god exists, he is involved in the self-serving beliefs of the people only in their imaginations. I confess I want to believe in God, first of all because I followed that comfortable path for nearly half a century; second, I like the feeling of having a higher power watching over me. 

It seems to me that Joanna may be leaning toward the American Transcendentalists’ sense of God in Nature. Aside from Emerson and Thoreau, whom a high-school English teacher taught me to appreciate, I am also thinking of Emily Dickinson whose poetry I am presently reading. She has a Transcendentalist sensibility, anyway; and when Joanna speaks of appreciation being superior to worship, I think she means the same thing as Dickinson does as she re-defines worship: “My period has come for Prayer – / No other Art would do – ” she writes; but several stanzas later, at poem’s end, she has come to a new place:

The Silence condescended –

Creation stopped – for me –

But awed beyond my errand –

I worshipped – did not “pray” –

(poem # 525)

And then there’s this little jewel, one of my favorites (#23) in its utter simplicity:

In the name of the Bee –

And of the Butterfly –

And of the Breeze – Amen!

Benny Andersen

Benny Andersen

4. Finally, in passing, a note from my translator friend Michael Goldman, whose rendering of a poem by Danish poet / lyricist Benny Andersen I re-published here (it originally appeared in the Cincinnati Review) on October 23, 2013. It seems that he has some audio books out with Andersen’s poetry and that of a pair of other Danish poets. If relaxing to someone else reading fine, accessible Danish poetry sounds like something you would enjoy, then here’s your ticket to poetic bliss. I have not listened to these particular tapes, but I have heard Michael read his poems on more than one occasion – in person and online – and can thus assure you of their quality.

Here’s the link:  http://hammerandhorn.net/audiobooks-3/ Happy listening!

And as a bonus, here from Michael’s website is a short essay called “Translation is Like Carpentry” (his day job, by the way, is carpentry), a profound poetic glimpse at the craft of literary translation:

I was out on a snow hike last night,  imagining that a piece of Danish literature is not unlike a Danish house to which only someone fluent in Danish has a key.  As a translator and student of literature I have access  to enter that building and experience it in all its facets.  I perceive the building elements, the blueprint, the intent behind the construction.  And I can reconstruct that house, make a replica, though not an exact twin.  Not every screw and nail will be in precisely the same place.  It could be that the original wood is not available anymore.  But the building will appear and feel the same, inside and out.  It will be the American-English neighbor.  And the English reader can enter with their key and experience the same mood as inside the original house – experience the same rooms, the dimensions, the decor, the usefulness and the whimsy.  It takes an enormous amount of work  to replicate literature, of course, not unlike building a house.  And not just to build it, but also to find people who will come and enter, and stay for a while.

February 20, 2015

(http://hammerandhorn.net/)