tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post3270593407923636763..comments2024-01-28T03:56:39.351-08:00Comments on TOM CLARK: Robert Herrick: Memorials of the ObscureUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-65420479220553910182013-04-21T16:07:12.973-07:002013-04-21T16:07:12.973-07:00http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9VRAOf9VKkhttp://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9VRAOf9VKkAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-37234812687862543592012-09-01T05:28:05.280-07:002012-09-01T05:28:05.280-07:00Don,
That delicately brilliant capture of an all-...Don,<br /><br />That delicately brilliant capture of an all-too-brief beginning, "But borne," with the built-in (and crucial to the meaning) long pause between words -- "born" of a craftsman's intimacy with the micro-measured stretched-out timing between the closing and opening consonants in those two adjacent stressed syllables -- is always a reminder to me (as is the trip from "let" across the chasm of that last line-break to "Spring") of how much a great poet can do in a very small space.<br /><br />That's your area of expertise of course!<br /><br />So glad you picked up on these.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-70676773846607042402012-09-01T04:23:10.284-07:002012-09-01T04:23:10.284-07:00Tom:
So very beautiful, these Herrick lyrical epi...Tom:<br /><br />So very beautiful, these Herrick lyrical epitaphs. <br /><br />The use, the weight, of the single word "But" in the first poem is so, so heavy, truly a stone about the neck. It sticks, too, in my throat every time I read it - the thud, thud of "But borne ...".<br /><br />And the transcendent "Upon <i> Prew</i> his Maid". The violet as spark, life in death.<br /><br />The circle complete.<br /><br />DonIssa's Untidy Huthttps://www.blogger.com/profile/07352841590717991698noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-55892854823720448182012-08-25T17:34:08.003-07:002012-08-25T17:34:08.003-07:00Grave on the high plains, Dawson County, photo by ...Grave on the high plains, Dawson County, photo by Russell Lee, March 1940<br /><br /> What was I doing there?<br />This is written in a lanugage <br />I will never comprehend.<br /><br /><br />Grave and headstone in mountain cemetery. Pie Town, New Mexico: photo by Russell Lee, June 1940 <br /><br /> These shadows are clear<br />their meaning not. I thought<br />everything would be bigger<br />larger than life.<br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /> Grave and headstone in mountain cemetery. Pie Town, New Mexico: photo by Russell Lee, June 1940 <br /><br /> We had to guard the grave <br />of Russell Lee, despite his protests. <br />He was not freshly dead<br />or even nearly, you see.<br /><br /><br /><br /> Newly-dug grave, Rochester, Pennsylvania: photo by John Vachon, January 1941 <br /><br /> Lots of times the numbers seem backwards<br />but this time they are not<br />because of the horizon line<br />curved and holding my bones<br />(Sincerely, Hamlet, Prince of Denmark).<br /><br /><br />Grave, Kempton, West Virginia. The cemetery is on the top of a hill behind the town photo by John Vachon, May 1939<br /><br /> Well, they said to build a castle<br />and we got a start on one<br />but gave up after the gate<br />to keep out the pigs was finally finished.<br />There was a crest attached at one point of a black eagle and (real) castle. The old one had a bear.<br /> <br /><br /> Old grave near Cruger, Mississippi: photo by Russell Lee, September 1938 <br /><br /> I was a baker<br />of almond crescents<br />those cookies for dipping<br />into hot drinks. My toes <br />pointed to the next town<br />ten miles away,<br />a day's walk and I'm glad <br />to be in the orchard under a small moon<br />a small feather.<br /><br /> <br /> Decoration of grave in Spanish-American cemetery, Penasco, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, July 1940<br /><br /> A plywood mirror doth maketh the (dead) man.<br /><br /><br /> <br /> Mexican grave, near Santon, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /><br /> I've said enough, previously. <br /><br /><br /> Spanish-American grave in rural section of Bernalillo County, New Mexico: photo by Russell Lee, April 1940<br /><br /> I requested that they please <br />plant some corn. <br /><br /> Grave in the cemetery at Santa Rita, New Mexico. Santa Rita is a copper mining town, inhabitants mostly Mexican: photo by Russell Lee, April 1940 <br /><br /> I always liked the wind,<br />all the different kinds<br />with their different names--<br />I loved to listen to<br />their whistles.<br /><br /> <br /> Mexican grave, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /><br /> The idea of balance in life has never been so lovingly recreated.<br />I've already written about this and it might have seemed like I had the chairs all figured out and such, but, in truth, I haven't. This might be one for the Wooden Boy.<br /><br /><br /> Mexican grave, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /><br /> It is a little too late. <br /><br /><br /> <br /> Mexican grave, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /><br /> I will need lots of garlic where I am going.<br /><br /> <br /> Mexican graves, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /><br /> Damn that frost! Damn those petrified forest branches!<br /> <br /> Mexican grave, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939<br /><br /> The wind has not forgotten me.<br /> <br /> Mexican grave, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /> <br /> The playground<br />is never<br />this interesting.<br /><br /><br /><br /> Mexican grave, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939<br /><br /> I always loved art.<br /><br /><br />New Mexican graves in cemetery, Raymondville, Texas: photo by Russell Lee, February 1939 <br /><br /> It will be quite noticable if<br />somebody walks around. Lightbulbs will break.<br /> <br /> Decoration of graves at New Roads, Louisiana on All Saints' Day: photo by Russell Lee, November 1938<br /><br /> I know things are covered up and all... <br /><br /> <br /> Decorated graves in cemetery at New Roads, Louisiana on All Saints' Day, with chickens eating the flowers: photo by Russell Lee, November 1938<br /><br /> The road was not that new to them--just the crossing seemed strange.Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-78913678516777419892012-08-25T15:19:48.398-07:002012-08-25T15:19:48.398-07:00Upon a Teacher. An Epitaph
He spoke, at times sha...Upon a Teacher. An Epitaph<br />He spoke, at times sharply<br />Melted butter with his chords<br />vocal & such<br />Strummed them, charismatic.<br /><br />Upon thinking of a Teacher<br />Don't waste your time<br />It said in other words<br />other worlds too.<br /><br />Upon Ed Dorn her Teacher<br />There are orbits <br />I sighted his path<br />it was rogue, solitary<br />something to keep<br />In mind. They now say<br />Cook wasn't eaten<br />just Cooked.Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-10318825088805748002012-08-25T07:47:03.767-07:002012-08-25T07:47:03.767-07:00Mary Butts, from the story "Green":
The...Mary Butts, from the story "Green":<br /><br />They took him out, a tramp across green, from green to green, entertained him with birds' nests set deep in thorned twigs and split light. There had been tea and toast and chess, an evening to get through and a night. He stood between them at evening at the door of the house. Now in the sky there was a bar of the green that has no name. He was standing on grass darkening beside dark green. She had said, "It is all Hermes, all Aphrodite."larry whitehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05659637420532771765noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-69255695950256908602012-08-24T16:11:43.961-07:002012-08-24T16:11:43.961-07:00Thanks, Hazen.
Vielen Dank.
Wooden Boy, how is it...Thanks, Hazen.<br />Vielen Dank.<br /><br />Wooden Boy, how is it that you know everything?Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-31010939092208430202012-08-24T16:09:10.306-07:002012-08-24T16:09:10.306-07:00My bones emerged from the ground
they are these wo...My bones emerged from the ground<br />they are these words<br />I listen to them<br />held at arm's length<br />kickshaws decorate<br />my throat<br />around my waist bottles<br />turned dull in the sun<br /><br />Dance with me<br />dance here we will<br />enjoy the song<br />familiar but unlike<br />any other greenSusan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-81678891522127624222012-08-24T09:14:57.122-07:002012-08-24T09:14:57.122-07:00Sublime comments on sublime Herrick.
The narrowed...Sublime comments on sublime Herrick.<br /><br />The narrowed scarcely sacred grove<br />a flat ring of concrete cul-de-sac<br />patrolled by cars, cats and vultures.<br />Now dozens rise to fan us twice with shadows<br />heralding cooler days perhaps<br />or praying put out more scraps.<br /><br />On the crowded side where trash comes first<br />a gravelled alley butt midden for careless motorists.<br />I face the beauty side through a wide bay window,<br />kinder neighbors, garden grass surrounds,<br />the usual companions known as weeds,<br />redbuds, peach trees, walnuts, rabbit<br />romps, the banker's neat brick ranch,<br />then the buried grove itself,<br />four acres belonging to several neighbors,<br />a strip left wild along the upper hollow<br />made hollower by encircling pavements. Since<br />farming ceased in town all pasture gone,<br />a barbed enclosure fit for screening.larry whitehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05659637420532771765noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-33150178419228856592012-08-24T08:16:33.348-07:002012-08-24T08:16:33.348-07:00Thanks to Herrick and your collection of photograp...Thanks to Herrick and your collection of photographs, clearly obscure no more, or more correctly, less obscure than before.vazambam (Vassilis Zambaras)https://www.blogger.com/profile/14515165428574974933noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-19252022214394210822012-08-24T07:23:10.536-07:002012-08-24T07:23:10.536-07:00Tom,
"In this little urne is laid" . . ...Tom,<br /><br />"In this little urne is laid" . . .<br /><br />(Herrick has never been seen in such company as these. . .)<br /><br />8.24<br /><br />light coming into fog against invisible<br />top of ridge, motion of shadowed branch<br />in foreground, wave sounding in channel<br /><br /> “possibly reproduce,” while<br /> one “turned out quite”<br /><br /> defined by that which is in<br /> this, here, happening<br /><br />grey white of fog reflected in channel,<br />cormorant flapping across toward point<br />STEPHEN RATCLIFFEhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/12339481653546188412noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-37635336607612502332012-08-24T05:50:18.989-07:002012-08-24T05:50:18.989-07:00"Because I could not stop for Death –
He kin..."Because I could not stop for Death – <br />He kindly stopped for me – <br />The Carriage held but just Ourselves – <br />And Immortality."<br /><br />Emily DickinsonAnonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-72125086999420149732012-08-23T21:52:18.346-07:002012-08-23T21:52:18.346-07:00A Damon Runyon character sagely suggests that the...A Damon Runyon character sagely suggests that the odds on life are 6-5 against.<br /><br />Ah, how unkind the fates, whisking away the green thought from one instant to the next, tracking you down, knocking you over, and all that's left is the yawning black hole in the ground.<br /><br />The heartbreakingly sad little material displays, the lightbulbs baby dolls toys and kickshaws would presumably mime, in innocent, unknowing caricature, the security-blanket function once served by the substantial booty-duties cargo'd into the next world by the great, the pharaohs & kings & their great consorts. <br /><br />But for the obscure (the great mass of us) there are no such high-end-commodity obsequies to be expected. The obscure go into the next world unburdened by wealth, nor even by a name. And those must be seen as mercies.<br /><br />(The poor have ways of retaining dignity that seem closed off to the better-off; a while back I saw an article about the increasing number of people who insist on having their cell phones buried with them; after all, you'd hate to miss that once-in-a-lifetime power-shot call from your broker.) <br /><br />There are so many heavyweight memorial poems for the world's oh-so-many heavy hitters (but where are they now), still that tradition always includes a certain danger of seeming compulsory, perfunctory -- the job aspect.<br /><br />But with this special poet it's quite different. No weeping, bowing, scraping, no floods of crocodile tears. Only that simplicity and plainness, the lightness of touch, the graceful, gentle, unimposing delicacy of the respect -- captured in the characteristically brilliant Robin Herrick moments ("glided by", "and so I dy'd":; "Th'easie earth"; "let/Spring") that are so very beautiful.<br /><br />Sometimes only a fine subtle vessel will do as proper receptacle for the truth of feeling.TChttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05915822857461178942noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-75389972906455973912012-08-23T14:00:48.224-07:002012-08-23T14:00:48.224-07:00"This is where I sit forever.
Trying to make ..."This is where I sit forever.<br />Trying to make sense of the inscriptions.<br />The place itself, a disappointment but oh, the view!"<br />Susan, I like this. A fine poem.Hazenhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13417573435195561519noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-15014889563974168702012-08-23T13:28:34.258-07:002012-08-23T13:28:34.258-07:00It looks like
some of the graves
need watering
wh...It looks like<br />some of the graves<br />need watering<br /><br />what would<br />sprout there<br />if this <br />were true?Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-30162026363730829262012-08-23T13:10:32.437-07:002012-08-23T13:10:32.437-07:00"Pray be silent, and not stirre
Th'easie ..."Pray be silent, and not stirre<br />Th'easie earth that covers her"<br /><br />There's a quiet plainness in Herrick; here you feel it and it hurts. No great show of tears, just a finger placed to the lips with a soft insistence. Grief, still - a weight of it.Mose23https://www.blogger.com/profile/01100756913131511440noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-54982820950682864012012-08-23T11:17:23.796-07:002012-08-23T11:17:23.796-07:00Much fine company --
little comfort is
better than...Much fine company --<br />little comfort is<br />better than none.<br /><br />Bristol (UK) poet Deborah Harvey<br />has written in her book Communion<br />some memorials I'd love to quote but they're better viewed (if possible) on her excellent blog:<br /> http://deborahharvey.blogspot.com/<br /><br /><br />larry whitehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05659637420532771765noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-61985950526897788972012-08-23T10:39:37.514-07:002012-08-23T10:39:37.514-07:00The forest is a memory
of life
the graveyard remem...The forest is a memory<br />of life<br />the graveyard remembers<br />death with little chairs<br />where we <br />are supposed to sit<br />and chat among other<br />dead things like<br />stone squirrels<br />dried trees their branches<br />abandoned snakes<br />bricked-in like Poe's<br />horror or freshly dug<br />under the snowSusan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-29767908306119102602012-08-23T10:21:02.416-07:002012-08-23T10:21:02.416-07:00My water pitcher, my shell.
Marble the Mustang
so ...My water pitcher, my shell.<br />Marble the Mustang<br />so precious to me <br />now that I am dead<br /><br />I can abuse my things <br />no more<br />crack them against<br />the wall<br />of tired rest<br />my bones in the dust<br />the Polynesian Triangle<br />up above far awaySusan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-47480362209245926402012-08-23T10:08:52.727-07:002012-08-23T10:08:52.727-07:00I'm glad of the light bulb
decorating my grav...I'm glad of the light bulb <br />decorating my grave<br />the chicken<br />the lei<br />someone left<br />it wasn't me<br />the fence was not<br />my idea<br />but theirs<br />to keep me in<br />my spirit<br />and to keep<br />animals out<br />like buffalo<br />like bears<br />there <br />on the High Plains<br />or way down <br />in old MexicoSusan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-5828871771713299452012-08-23T10:04:46.462-07:002012-08-23T10:04:46.462-07:00All that's left of the green thought now.
I wi...All that's left of the green thought now.<br />I will never accept the green thought.<br /><br />This is where I sit forever.<br />Trying to make sense of the inscriptions.<br />The place itself, a disappointment but oh, the view!<br /><br />Nice location if you can afford it.<br />Give me this surreal feeling. I will catalog it.Susan Kay Andersonhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16277139119869470939noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-28292615228800531122012-08-23T09:06:45.153-07:002012-08-23T09:06:45.153-07:00Life, as someone in a moment of utter candor has o...Life, as someone in a moment of utter candor has observed, is a disease with a fatal prognosis. Nobody gets out alive. <br /><br />‘Only against death shall he call for aid in vain; but from baffling maladies he hath devised escapes.’ — Sophocles. <br /><br />So many maladies. So few escapes. One way or another, we work to redress that imbalance.Hazenhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/13417573435195561519noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4445844569294316288.post-12120973160631317512012-08-23T07:33:05.189-07:002012-08-23T07:33:05.189-07:00love that happy acceptance of death...love that happy acceptance of death...Anonymousnoreply@blogger.com