Back Again

I have been on extended blog hiatus.  Various reasons for that, lately the conference on Thomas Merton I organized as part of the term’s Philosophy and Religion Workshop activities.  I gave a talk on Merton’s late long poem, Cables to the Ace.  I will likely share a bit of it in the next few days or weeks.

I am about to get back to work on Wittgenstein–I have a new paper I need to get back to, and a number of old ones that need a bit of dressing up before they go out.  I also have to write a new short paper on him (and poetry) for a talk later this Spring.  So, I am guessing that I will be back to posting about him here this term, as I work on these projects.

I have also finished the manuscript of my new book of poems, Brown Studies.  More about that soon.

 

Amongst the Shadows of Metaphysics…

On the road to Solipsism–which is the doctrine not that I matter to nobody but that nobody exists but me–on the road to Solipsism there blows the same wind of loneliness which blows on the road to the house with walls of glass which none can break.  In the labyrinth of metaphysics are the same whispers as one hears when climbing Kafka’s staircases to the tribunal which is always one floor further up.  Is it perhaps because of this that when in metaphysics we seem to have arranged by a new technique a new dawn we find ourselves again on Chirico’s sad terraces, where those whom we can never know still sit and it is neither night nor day?

We may hurry away and drown the cries that follow us from those silent places–drown them in endless talk, drown them in the whine of the saxophone of the roar from the stands.  Or, more effective, we may quiet those phantasmal voices by doing something for people real and alive.  But if we can’t we must return, force the accusers to speak up, and insist on recognizing the featureless faces.  We can hardly do this by ourselves.  But there are those who will go with us, and however terrifying the way, not desert us.

John Wisdom

Howard Nemerov, Runes (Poem)

Stanza XV

To watch water, to watch running water
Is to know a secret, seeing the twisted rope
Of runnels on the hillside, the small freshets
Leaping and limping down the tilted field
In April’s light, the green, grave and opaque
Swirl in the millpond where the current slides
To be combed and carded silver at the fall:
It is a secret. Or it is not to know
The secret, but to have it in your keeping,
A locked box, Bluebeard’s room, the deathless thing
Which it is death to open. Knowing the secret,
Keeping the secret–the herringbones of light
Ebbing on the beaches, the huge artillery
Of tides–it is not knowing, it is not keeping,
But being the secret hidden from yourself.

Receptions End

Receptions End

A daughter is a treasure
That keeps her father wakeful

Gather the Bud Lite bottles
Dump the undrunk champagne
Lavender table cloths shake and refold
Abandoned bouquets water and take home

The tent lights the night
Fans blow back the August heat

Revelry done, collect unopened gifts

Stray flowers decorate the ground
As if they would re-root
But life goes on
And life goes on
Sweet-sour sweet

Done is done

Drink what wine you may
With the rest honor the mysteries

Put the trash in the dumpster
On Debardeleben St.

Treasureless, go home to sleep

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Processed with VSCO with c1 preset

Return Smile (Poem)

Pizza joint
Under the Silver Memorial Bridge

The man I do not know
Smiles me a great, toothy smile

Jolted, I stretch my mouth to
Return smile

Then, I know

The man I do not know–
He is eating his pizza
Hot from the oven
His great, toothy smile
Result of trying to bite
His slice without burning
His lips

My return smile meets
Cautious chewing incomprehension

Pizza disjoint
Under the Silver Memorial Bridge

 

Wodehouse’s Caliban at Sunset (Poem)

I stood with a man
Watching the sun go down.
The air was full of murmurous summer scents
And a brave breeze sang like a bugle
From a sky that smouldered in the west,
A sky of crimson, amethyst, gold and sepia
And blue as blue were the eyes of Helen
When she sat
Gazing from some high tower in Ilium
Upon the Grecian tents darkling below.And he,
This man who stood beside me,
Gaped like some dull, half-witted animal
And said,
“I say,
Doesn’t that sunset remind you
Of a slice
Of underdone roast beef?”

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