Monsoon Coffee - poem

 

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Monsoon Coffee

 

The old men argue whether we have monsoons

Or if our afternoon thunderstorms are unworthy

Of scientific labels, notations, or marks

To be discussed on the six o’clock news

 

Each day at four I take my coffee outside

To sit beneath the oak and take the air

With a book, the Wordle, or an empty mind

As thunderheads rise like monsters in the east

 

Fearsome clouds menace the sky-paling moon

And breezes wind themselves up for the daily monsoon

And the Earth Will Give Up Its...Old Fence Wire - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Percolation of Our Beautiful Green Earth

 

Like MeeMaw’s aluminum coffee pot

The earth percolates through all the seasons

Of rain and drought and freeze, of dust and mud

The ground we work gives up its annual troves

 

The tiller’s tines turn up old pocketknives

Old nails, old screws, old bits of window glass

An unfired flash cube from a party long ago

Gardening is also archaeology

 

I excavate from the machine while sitting in the shade

Decades-old fence wire wrapped around the blade

 

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr…!

Waiting-Room Art: Same Old Bicycle Leaning Against the Same Old Sunlit Wall - poem

  

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

Waiting-Room Art:

Same Old Bicycle Leaning Against the Same Old Sunlit Wall

 

We’ve all seen that bicycle, that sunlit wall

In photographs taken in Italy

And Austin (don’t forget the bike-lock now)

In paintings from old-lady art classes everywhere

 

Perhaps that bike and wall are a Statement

About Milieu and Patina and, like, stuff

Neoformalist New Socialist Realism

Inverted kitsch deflating the patriarchy

 

I propose a fresh vision: what I would like

Is that old wall crumbling, and crushing that bike!

The Poets of Rapallo: How Mussolini's Italy Shaped British, Irish, and U. S. Writers -review

 

The Poets of Rapallo: How Mussolini's Italy shaped British, Irish, and U.S. Writers
by 

Lauren Arrington

The Poets of Rapallo, Lauren Arrington, Oxford University Press is a brilliant first draft; one looks forward to reading the completed work.

As it is, Dr. Arrington has accomplished brilliant research on the poets - Yeats, Bunting, Pound, Aldington, MacGreevy, Zukofsky - and their acquaintances who happened to be in the Italian resort town Rapallo (they were not a coterie) in the 1920s and 1930s. The notes alone run to 54 pages of too-small type, and the bibliography to 8.

Unhappily, the text appears to have been rushed, possibly by an impatient publisher, and along with numerous small mistakes there are some serious failures in stereotyping, hasty generalizations predicated on little evidence, and a few condemnations more redolent of Dostoyevsky’s Grand Inquisitor than a scholar.

One of the best things about The Poets of Rapallo is the exposition explaining why a great many intellectuals were attracted to Italian Fascism as it was idealistically presented through propaganda early on and not as the moral and ethical disaster it soon proved to be.

Mussolini cleverly promoted his program as primarily cultural, a reach-back to the artistic and architectural unities of an imagined ancient Rome restored and enhanced with modern science and technology. He promoted the arts for his own purposes, of course, but deceptively. In almost any context the construction of schools, libraries, museums, theatres, and cinema studios would be perceived as a good, and absent any close examination accepted by everyone. But in Mussolini’s scheme these cultural artifacts, like Lady Macbeth’s “innocent flower,” concealed the lurking serpent: wars of conquest, poison gas, bombings of undefended cities, death camps, institutionalized racism, mass murders, and other enormities.

The Fascist sympathies of W. B. Yeats and other influencers (as we would say now) in the Irish Republic, including Eamon de Valera, are certainly revelatory. That the new nation came close to goose-stepping through The Celtic Twilight might help explain Ireland’s curious neutrality during the Second World War.

Professor Arrington explains all this very well, and initially is professionally objective. Most of the Rapallo set were not long in learning what Fascism was really about and quickly distanced themselves from it in some embarrassment. Some were later even more of an embarrassment in their denials and deflections; few seemed to have been able to admit that, yes, they were suckered, as we all have been from time to time

But with the exception of the unrepentant and odious Pound, who was himself a metaphorical serpent to his death, Professor Arrington seems to lose her objectivity with the others.

And why Pound?

As with Beckett’s Waiting for Godot, it is difficult to take seriously someone who considers Pound’s pretentious, pompous, show-off word-soup Cantos to be literature. Pound is now famous only for being famous, and while Arrington appears to forgive Pound for his adamant and malevolent anti-Semitism and his pathetic subservience to Mussolini, in the end she is ruthless toward anyone else who, under Pound’s influence, in his or her naivete even once told an inappropriate joke, appreciated Graeco-Roman architecture, or perhaps saw Mussolini at a distance. This is inexplicable in a text that is otherwise professional and compassionate in avoiding what C. S. Lewis identifies as chronological snobbery.

One also wishes the author had discussed Pound’s post-war appeal as a fashionable prisoner adored or at least pitied by a new generation (Elizabeth Bishop, how could you?).

The book ends abruptly, as if the author were interrupted by a demand by the printers for it now, and so, yes, one hopes for a complete work to follow.

The Poets of Rapallo is not served well by the Oxford University Press, who appear to have been more interested in cutting costs than in presenting a work of scholarship to the world. The print is far too small, the garish spine lettering is more suited to a sale-table murder mystery, and the retro-1930s holiday cover would be fine for an Agatha Christie yarn but not for a book of literary scholarship.

From Lonesome Dove: The Hanging of Jake Spoon - poem

  

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Hanging of Jake Spoon

 

Nothing in his life / Became him like the leaving it

 

Macbeth I.iiii.7-8

 

At dusk. Heat. Heat and dust. Jake’s last slow ride

Words through a fog of fear, last words, slow words

Old pals and dead enemies on either side

Slow cooings and callings from unseen prairie birds

 

Smooth Jake, always good for a laugh and a drink

A ladies’ man, a gamblin’ man, a man of charm

Unreliable, yes, not one to pause and think

Tho’ he never meant nobody no harm

 

He suddenly spurred his pacer, making amends

His moment of nobility, to spare his friends

 

 

Lonesome Dove can be said to be The National Book of Texas.

The Fairies Themselves Now Dance Sweet Summer In - poem

 

Lawrence Hall, HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

The Fairies Themselves Now Dance Sweet Summer In

 

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird

 

-Mary Oliver, “Messenger”

 

Everything is sacramental this week:

 

The Strawberry Moon in the fullness of being

Midsummer magic by day and by night

The English quarter day, the Feast of St. John

And holy bonfires in honor of light

 

Good honeybees take Communion at every flower

Soft breezes sing hymns among the ripening corn

The woods and fields are baptized in happiness

The sun and moon bless maidens and swains

 

We need no clocks or calendars to tell us when –

The fairies themselves now dance sweet summer in

1957: The Year We All Became Soviets - poem

  

Lawrence Hall HSG

Mhall46184@aol.com

 

1957: The Year We All Became Soviets

 

“…we’re going to get science applied to social problems and backed by the whole force of the state…”

 

Mark Studdock in C. S. Lewis’ That Hideous Strength

 

Soviet Science launched a beeping toy into space

In the name of Progress; a mass-murderer ordered it so

And a month later Science launched and killed sweet Laika

Abandoned in orbit to die alone

 

Brave America suffered the Aunt Pittypat vapours:

We too must launch our slide-rules into space

And set our children to study Sovietism

Send civilization into orbit to die alone

 

Dogs and apes and men have flamed out in crashes

And Alexandria again is but pale ashes