Derek Walcott’s “Crusoe’s Journal,” published in The Gulf (1970), asks how prose style and poetic sound are hewn from the same materials as everything else the intellect approaches. When we first hear the sonorous rhythms and cadences of biblical language or the professional authority of bureaucratic prose, how is it that we regard this as a language “without metaphors” (Collected Poems, 93)? When we experience voice and voicing for the first time, does it matter what the ideological concatenations are inside that sound? Surely, whatever our parents say and we parrot carries a certain tense and tension, strains of privilege or poverty in its sound.
Gabriel von Max, “Saure Erfahrung”
My neighbor gave my wife a bucket of lemons yesterday, and I’m discovering how to make limoncello today. Apparently, before their circuitous path to the New World and their introduction to Europeans, lemon trees were first cultivated in South Asia, somewhere in the vicinity of Assam.
In a letter to Cissie Sinclair written in 1937, Beckett wonders if he is avoiding going to see Jack Yeats on his Thursday “at-home” evenings because of the growing significance of Yeats’s work for his thinking about images. At least, that is one of the implications of the way Beckett talks about Yeats.
We walk by the sea-shore
holding firmly in our hands
the two ends of an antique dialogue
—do you love me?
—I love you
with furrowed eyebrows
I summarize all wisdom
of the two testaments
philosophers of the gardens
and cloistered philosophers
In 1966 a forty-year-old James K. Baxter returned to the University of Otago, having that year published one of his most successful collections, Pig Island Letters. Yet the memories and landscapes surrounding his adolescence are not revisited with the same elaborate abstractions that characterized his early verse. In “Travelling to Dunedin,” Baxter begins to use the unrhymed couplets that will become the dominant medium of his late work.
We ride south on a Wednesday
Into the clearer weather,
In On the Boiler (1939), W.B. Yeats’s Swiftian impersonation of a “mad ship’s carpenter” in Sligo who used to stand on a boiler to denounce his neighbors, the poet (or the collapsing mind of the speaker) rails against the degeneration of European culture. The customs and ceremonies of old Europe–including, but not restricted to, the smashed Big House culture in Ireland that Yeats had relied on for so many years–were being degraded by commercial production and fetishized by fascism. But for Yeats there was no going back, or rather, there was only going back. The mechanization of art was itself an irreversible return to the originating moment of the Western form of life. “There are moments when I am certain,” Yeats wrote
that arts must once again accept those Greek proportions which carry into plastic art the Pythagorean numbers, those faces which are divine because all there is empty and measured.
‘Enterprise and effort,’ he would say to us (on his back), ‘are delightful to me. I believe I am truly cosmopolitan. I have the deepest sympathy with them. I lie in a shady place like this, and think of adventurous spirits going to the North Pole, or penetrating to the heart of the Torrid Zone, with admiration. Mercenary creatures ask, “What is the use of a man’s going to the North Pole! What good does it do?” I can’t say; but, for anything I can say, he may go for the purpose–though he don’t know it–of employing my thoughts as I lie here.
Take an extreme case. Take the case of the Slaves on American plantations. I dare say they are worked hard, I dare say they don’t altogether like it, I dare say theirs is an unpleasant experience on the whole; but they people the landscape for me, they give it a poetry for me, and perhaps that is one of the pleasanter objects of their existence. I am very sensible of it, if it be, and I shouldn’t wonder if it were!’ (Dickens’ Skimpole, quoted in Watts, Voices, 20).