'A Plaything Lent Me for the Present'

A pleasing and serendipitous convergence: I was listening again to the Sinatra/Jobim recordings from 1967, including their arrangement of “Baubles, Bangles, & Beads,” from Kismet. I always associate “baubles” with Alexander Pope, especially “The Rape of the Lock.” Later I was reading William Cowper’s “Yardley Oak,” one of the great tree poems in English, and encountered these lines: 

“Thou wast a bauble once, a cup and ball

Which babes might play with; and the thievish jay,

Seeking her food, with ease might have purloin’d

The auburn nut that held thee, swallowing down

Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs

And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp.”

 

That’s Cowper addressing an acorn. (See “Acorn, Yom Kippur” by Howard Nemerov.) Looking further I found a letter Cowper wrote to his friend the Rev. John Newton on May 3, 1780. Cowper expresses gratitude with a cascade of metaphors. He has entered one of his manic phases:

 

“I delight in baubles, and know them to be so; for rested in, and viewed without a reference to their author, what is the earth—what are the planets—what is the sun itself but a bauble? Better for a man never to have seen them, or to see them with the eyes of a brute, stupid and unconscious of what he beholds, than not to be able to say, ‘The Maker of all these wonders is my friend!’ Their eyes have never been opened to see that they are trifles; mine have been, and will be till they are closed for ever. They think a fine estate, a large conservatory, a hothouse rich as a West Indian garden, things of consequence; visit them with pleasure, and muse upon them with ten times more.”

 

The OED define bauble as “a small ornament, piece of jewellery, decorative accessory, etc., that is showy or attractive but typically inexpensive or of little value; a trinket, a knick-knack.” In other words, a showy trifle or geegaw, a shiny tchotchke that might attract a magpie or a child. Cowper continues:

 

"I am pleased with a frame of four lights, doubtful whether the few pines it contains will ever be worth a farthing; amuse myself with a greenhouse which Lord Bute’s gardener could take upon his back, and walk away with; and when I have paid it the accustomed visit, and watered it, and given it air, I say to myself: ‘This is not mine, it is a plaything lent me for the present; I must leave it soon.’”

 

A bauble for Cowper is a pretext for a sermon on humility.

'They Don’t Have Sense Enough to See Our Flaws'

He was friendly, the sort of guy who welcomed strangers of almost any species. Though a little slow, mentally speaking, he usually got our jokes. His instinctive reaction to you was something like: “Hi! Would you like a cup of coffee?” He was trusting and affectionate. We tried to learn something from his temperament. 

Luke was roughly fifteen when he died on Monday. We had him for thirteen years. A friend had rescued him and already had another dog so she offered him to us. He had already been named "Luke" so I thought of him as Luke the Drifter, one of Hank Williams’ recording pseudonyms.

                                                                     

I was not a dog person but Luke converted me, especially because he got along so well with our cats. What always irritated me about dogs was their eagerness to please, a quality I confused with sycophancy. Cats are independent. They don’t give a shit, which makes sense to me. They’re less likely to be disappointed. As R.S. Gwynn puts it in the final words of his villanelle “Why They Love Us” (No Word of Farewell: Selected Poems 1970–2000, 2001):

“They don’t have sense enough to see our flaws.

Thank god for that. A big round of applause

 

“For what can sniff your ass and still love you.

Dogs love us uncomplainingly because

They don’t have sense enough to see our flaws.”

'Having Such an Enjoyable Time All the Time'

I keep happening on books and poems I think my late brother might have enjoyed. Ken was not a dedicated reader but his tastes tended to be fierce and impulsive. He once sent an overheated email urging me to read this new writer he had discovered. This guy was good and funny and seemed to have few illusions, and that was how my brother fancied himself: Samuel Beckett. The book was How It Is (1961; trans. 1964), which I had first read around 1974. I would never have told him that. I was always pleased when he found, on his own, a book that excited him. 

He read a lot of art history, with for many years a tight focus on Albrecht Dürer, his favorite painter. We both loved Alec Wilder’s American Popular Song: The Great Innovators, 1900–1950 (1972). I remember him reading a biography of Paul Robeson. One of the few poets I know he read closely was Zbigniew Herbert, whom he considered a humorist. He once told me he had been reading Boswell’s Life of Johnson for the first time, at age fifty-four, and said, “There’s this nice edition, and you talk about it a lot and so do some of the people on your blog, so I thought it was just time to read it.” Ken was partial to The Facts on File Visual Dictionary (1986) and reference books in general. The last book I’m certain he read or at least looked at was one his son brought to him in the hospital: Cleveland Calamities, a history of disasters in our native city.

 

I wish I had suggested Ken read Stevie Smith. He would have “got” Smith, I think, as many do not. The humor, especially about death, coupled with her drawings, would have amused him. Of course, everyone loves “Not Waving but Drowning” (1957) but Ken would have appreciated “The Death Sentence” from Harold’s Leap (1950):

"Cold as No Plea,

 Yet wild with all negation,

 Weeping I come

 To my heart's destination,

 To my last bed

 Between th’ unhallowed boards –

The Law allows it

 And the Court awards.”

 

In “What Poems Are Made Of,” an essay collected in Me Again: Uncollected Writings (1982), Smith writes: “Why are so many of my poems about death, if I am having such an enjoyable time all the time?"

'I Can Taste the Language'

The Scottish Poetry Library in 2006 asked American poet August Kleinzahler to name some of his “old favourite” books. This is how he replied: “Old favorites, gee . . . Moby-Dick, Isaac Babel’s stories. I could go on. I seem to respond to closely written texts, sentence by sentence, where I can taste the language, experience the musculature of the syntax.” 

Nicely put. How telling that a poet’s first choices are prose writers, though not, fortunately, writers of “poetic prose” from the tribe of Thomas Wolfe. I share Kleinzahler’s taste, though not exclusively. In the wrong hands, “closely written texts” can turn into purple prose or high-compression avant-garde inertia, with words so dense they emit no light, like a black hole. My preference is always for language that is rhythmically organized, balancing the explicit with the denotative, unafraid to share some of its music – formal beauty tempered by a commonsensical regard for the reader. Good prose is such a pleasure.

 

In the September 7, 1935, issue of The Saturday Review of Literature, Walter de la Mare published “The Art That Nature Makes,” in which he writes:

 

“Words are not merely fixed symbols with an absolute meaning and innumerable personal connotations; they consist also of sounds; and of sounds made by the most complex and direct of all instruments—the human voice. Which of the two is the more natural, speech or singing, I cannot say; but the one can be of at least as delicate, supple, and mutable a melody and charm as the other.”

 

I would argue that the same applies to prose. Most of us, of course, read prose silently. I propose an experiment: try reading a favorite writer aloud, fiction and nonfiction, Nabokov and an essay by Hazlitt. Pay attention to the flow and the logic. Do they stumble? Do they commit what jazz musicians call a “clam,” a wrong note? Read with someone else present and watch their reaction. De la mare writes:

 

“Needless to say we may value poetry [and prose] more for its ideas, its philosophy, its message, its edification than for the delight which the mere music of its language may bestow. But that music absent, poetry, in the generally accepted meaning of the word, is absent, whatever else may remain. Like all immediate appeals to our senses, mind, and being, it is a secret language, but one with scores of dialects.”

'Untrue For Ever'

Valentine’s Day invites declarations of love and their opposite. As Dylan, the reliable author of anti-love songs puts it, “You've got a lotta nerve to say you are my friend.” Some find the day’s institutional sentiments insufferable, or at least worthy of mockery. Charles Lamb, that lifelong bachelor, writes in "Valentine’s Day”: 

“[T]his is the day on which those charming little missives, ycleped Valentines, cross and intercross each other at every street and turning. The weary and all for-spent twopenny postman sinks beneath a load of delicate embarrassments, not his own.”

Questioning the heart as the seat of love, Lamb writes: “[W]e might easily imagine, upon some other system which might have prevailed for any thing which our pathology knows to the contrary, a lover addressing his mistress, in perfect simplicity of feeling, ‘Madam, my liver and fortune are entirely at your disposal;’ or pputting a delicate question, ‘Amanda, have you a midriff to bestow?’”

Lamb was an unrequited admirer of the actress and singer Frances “Fanny” Kelly. He even wrote her a sonnet, “To Miss Kelly.” Having seen her the night before on stage, Lamb writes to her on July 20, 1819, saying her performance “has given rise to a train of thinking, which I cannot suppress”:

 

“Would to God you were released from this way of life; that you could bring your mind to consent to take your lot with us, and throw off for ever the whole burden of your Profession. I neither expect or wish you to take notice of this which I am writing, in your present over occupied & hurried state.—But to think of it at your leisure. I have quite income enough, if that were all, to justify for me making such a proposal, with what I may call even a handsome provision for my survivor.”

 

Lamb approaches “stalker” status. Has anyone ever proposed marriage so obliquely? And is he asking Kelly to marry “us” – that is, Lamb and his matricidal sister Mary? And what happened to his sense of comedy? It gets worse: “I am not so foolish as not to know that I am a most unworthy match for such a one as you, but you have for years been a principal object in my mind. In many a sweet assumed character I have learned to love you, but simply as F. M. Kelly I love you betterm than them all.” Our eloquent Elia – he would soon write his first essay under that pseudonym – is tongue-tied.

 

Reading this letter, I’m embarrassed for Lamb but sympathetic. Anyone who has been romantically rebuffed can’t help but feel for the guy. At the time, he was forty-three and Kelly was twenty-eight. As insurance, he writes: “It is impossible I should feel injured or aggrieved by your telling me at once, that the proposal does not suit you.” Kelly’s reply, a masterpiece of tact and diplomacy written the same day, is a single sentence:  

 “An early & deeply rooted attachment has fixed my heart on one from whom no worldly prospect can well induce me to withdraw it but while I thus frankly & decidedly decline your proposal, believe me, I am not insensible to the high honour which the preference of such a mind as yours confers upon me—let me, however, hope that all thought upon this subject will end with this letter, & that you will henceforth encourage no other sentiment towards me than esteem in my private character and a continuance of that approbation of my humble talents which you have already expressed so much & so often to my advantage and gratification.”

 

Kelly signs off as “Your obliged friend.” Within hours, Lamb replies to her reply, having regained some of his sense of humor:   

 

“Your injunctions shall be obeyed to a tittle. I feel myself in a lackadaisacal no-how-ish kind of a humour. I believe it is the rain, or something. I had thought to have written seriously, but I fancy I succeed best in epistles of mere fun; puns & that nonsense.”

 

Lamb died unmarried and perhaps celibate in 1834. Mary, who also never married, outlived him by thirteen years. Kelly died unmarried in 1882 at the age of ninety-two. My favorite anti-love poem was published by A.E. Housman, another bachelor, in More Poems (1936):

 

“Stone, steel, dominions pass,

  Faith, too, no wonder;

So leave alone the grass

  That I am under.

 

“All knots that lovers tie

  Are tied to sever;

Here shall your sweetheart lie,

  Untrue for ever.”

'Time So Vicious in His Reaping'

I moved to Montpelier, Ohio, a small town in the northwest corner of the state, late in the summer of 1977. My mental model for such a place was fictional, Sherwood Anderson’s Winesburg, Ohio. I was born and raised in a Cleveland suburb and a small town surrounded by corn and soybean fields seemed terribly exotic. Anderson prefaced his stories with “The Book of the Grotesque,” a brief scene-setter which today I find condescending to smalltown people. He writes:

 “It was the truths that made the people grotesques. The old man had quite an elaborate theory concerning the matter. It was his notion that the moment one of the people took one of the truths to himself, called it his truth, and tried to live his life by it, he became a grotesque and the truth he embraced became a falsehood.”

 

It’s all a little silly and saturated in semi-digested Freudian nonsense, but half a century ago I took Anderson’s grotesquerie seriously. The main financial institution in Montpelier was downtown, two blocks from where we lived, and was called the Farmer’s and Merchant’s Bank. Its president, a very old man, was our landlord, and I resented him for no good reason. The town’s weekly newspaper, where I would soon go to work, was housed in a former gas station. The grocery/liquor store on Main Street was owned and run by a crippled man with a withered arm. Across the street was a pet store owned by a man who always wore olive-green overalls, with a parrot perched on his shoulder. Down his back ran a dense white smear of bird shit.

 

I soon ran into a peculiar-looking young man, always dressed in cowboy regalia. I never saw him do anything except walk around downtown. His face was almost featureless and resembled a slice of ham. Most of one side of it had been erased. He had one eye. I soon learned that he had bungled a suicide attempt with a shotgun. Those not laughing at him adopted a protective attitude. He died a year or two later and I’ve often wondered what his life was like. What made him desperate enough to try to kill himself? Did he ever think about trying again?

 

In his biography of Edwin Arlington Robinson, Scott Donaldson devotes several interesting pages to the poet’s attitude toward death, which remained consistent through the years. When his mother died in 1896, Robinson didn’t grieve. He reasoned that her suffering was over. She was released. When the daughter of neighbors in Gardiner, Maine was drowned while the family was on vacation, Robinson wrote to a friend: “I am never sorry for the dead, but I can be damnably sorry for the living.”

 

An uncle of the same neighbors, Donaldson tells us, “suffered a disfiguring gunshot wound while rabbit hunting,” and lingered for four days. Robinson wrote to a friend that he hoped the doctors “inadvertently . . . hastened things a little.” Robinson was stoical about death, a stance that can be mistaken for insensitivity. His brother Herman became an alcoholic, was estranged from his wife and children and died of tuberculosis in 1909. His eldest brother, Dean, was a pharmacist who became a morphine addict and had taken his life in 1899 with an overdose. Death was like a neighbor in those days, intimately familiar, not something that routinely happened in a hospital.

 

Robinson wrote “For a Dead Lady” for his mother, Mary Palmer Robinson, after her death in 1896, shortly before he published his first book, The Torrent and the Night Before. Here is the final stanza:

 

“The beauty, shattered by the laws

That have creation in their keeping,

No longer trembles at applause,

Or over children that are sleeping;

And we who delve in beauty’s lore

Know all that we have known before

Of what inexorable cause

Makes Time so vicious in his reaping.”

'A Tiny Inkling of Things Far Beyond Me'

“Do you carry a notebook around with you? Do you write things down right away.” 

No, and no. I’m not that organized. My mind operates like a car radio being tuned by a five-year-old, shifting among static, lousy music, commercials and Debussy. I need anchorage. I need to be sitting, preferably at a desk or table, and I need to tell myself, “Now I’m writing.” Nothing is so “inspirational” as the act of writing. I have tested momentum and it works. Boswell quotes his friend in The Journal of a Tour of the Hebrides (1785): “A man may write at any time, if he will set himself doggedly to it.” True, but I’m like a dog with a favorite spot on the porch. Here is Samuel Menashe’s “Inklings” (New and Selected Poems, 2005):   

 

“Inklings sans ink

Cling to the dry

Point of the pen

Whose stem I mouth

Not knowing when

The truth will out”

 

I wondered about inkling and whether it had anything to do with ink, and thus the act of writing. The OED says no. It’s rooted in an older verb, inkle, defined as “to utter or communicate in an undertone or whisper, to hint, give a hint of.” Dr. Johnson has another theory in his Dictionary. He defines the word as “hint; whisper.” Kay Ryan is a poet who shares much with Menashe, starting with concision. Here she is in her 2008 Paris Review interview:

 

“The problem for me was that I willed my poetry at first. I had too much control. But in time the benevolences of metaphor and rhyme sent me down their rabbit holes, in new directions, so that my will—my intention—was sent hither and yon. And in that mix of intention and diversion, I could get a tiny inkling of things far beyond me.”