Comments on: written on terrestrial things

written on terrestrial things

eustacescrubb — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 13:31:14 -0800

Former Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky (re)posted Thomas Hardy's "The Darkling Thrush" to Slate. Discussion ensued, and became very lively when National Book Award winner Mark Doty observed that the poem contains an overt homage to an earlier poem by Keats. Guggenheim fellow Mark Halliday, MacArthur fellow Jim Powell and Annie Finch chime in. An opportunistic Billy Collins (also a former Poet Laureate & Guggenheim fellow) even showed up, attracted by the discussion of a "bird poem." A fascinating look at some of the finest American poets geeking out over poems that were hits before your mother was born.

By: everichon

everichon — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 13:40:48 -0800

Nice catch, eustacescrubb. Thank you!

By: everichon

everichon — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 13:42:43 -0800

I wonder why Billy Collins wrote his post in all caps. Tsk. Poets--not scrutable!

By: plexi

plexi — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 13:43:51 -0800

It's absurd to arraign Hardy for projecting human consciousness into his thrush -- his work is everywhere full of the contrary awareness and the poem depends on our understanding the distance between speaker & bird wat

By: Verdant

Verdant — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 13:56:32 -0800

So the title of Billy's next anthology is TIME FOR SOME STORIES?

By: Potomac Avenue

Potomac Avenue — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 14:08:04 -0800

Ah bird poems. A good post could be made of just links to and between them. They are one of the primary tropes of English (or any) verse. My favorite: by Johnny Milton. Important to note that many cuckoo's are brood parasites who can disguise their calls to replicate the songs of many other birds, including nightingales, in order to kill and replace their young. The bird is almost always the poet, or poetry's source...any more in-depth interpretation is best left to the experts. PS: I'm pretty sure Collins is trolling there.

By: Iridic

Iridic — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 14:08:42 -0800

THE BOOK WILL BE UNLIKE THE (MANY) OTHER BOOKS OF BIRD POEMS IN THAT IT WILL BE ILLUSTRATED BY DAVID SIBLEY AND IT WILL CONTAIN AVIAN INFORMATION NORMALLY FOUND ONLY IN FIELD GUIDES. THE MARKET IS BIRDERS WHO READ POETRY (THERE SEEMS TO BE AN OVERLAP HERE, NOT SURPRISINGLY.) SO, THE POEMS HAVE TO BE VERY SPECIES-SPECIFIC (NOT JUST "I SAW A BIRD") AND SHOULD TAKE THE BIRD AS THEIR SUBJECT, RATHER THAN JUST USING THE BIRD METAPHORICALLY. NORTH AMERICAN BIRDS PREFERRED. Huh? Omitting the ornithological notes and replacing Sibley with Mel Hunter, Collins' project sounds very similar to the late Hayden Carruth's The Bird/Poem Book, which collects descriptive, species-specific poems about North American birds. As the Amazon reviewer points out, even Carruth, an editor of extreme talent, couldn't scrape together more than 26 poems that fit the criteria; I'm not particularly optimistic that Collins will outdo him.

By: steef

steef — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 14:51:32 -0800

Hark, where my blossom'd pear-tree in the hedge Leans to the field and scatters on the clover Blossoms and dewdrops—at the bent spray's edge— That's the wise thrush; he sings each song twice over, Lest you should think he never could recapture The first fine careless rapture! Robert Browning, from that "O to be in England" poem.

By: Doktor Zed

Doktor Zed — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 15:10:07 -0800

Other echoes Inhabit the garden. Shall we follow? Quick, said the bird, find them, find them, Round the corner. Through the first gate, Into our first world, shall we follow The deception of the thrush? Into our first world. - T. S. Eliot, "Burnt Norton" Nice find, eustacescrubb. I only wish that I were better in tune with natural birdsongs to appreciate the allusions in poetry.

By: the bricabrac man

the bricabrac man — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 15:45:52 -0800

Everybody knows that the bird is the word.

By: the bricabrac man

the bricabrac man — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 15:51:13 -0800

Walt Whitman watches two eagles have sex: Skirting the river road (my forenoon walk, my rest) Skyward in air a sudden muffled sound, the dalliance of the eagles, the rushing amorous contact high in space together, The clinching interlocking claws, a living, fierce, gyrating wheel, Four beating wings, two beaks, a swirling mass tight grappling, In tumbling, turning clustering loops, straight downward falling, Till over the river poised, the twain yet one, a moment's lull, A motionless still balance in the air, then parting, talons loosing, upward again on slow-firm pinions slanting, their separate diverse flight, she hers, he his, pursuing. (from Leaves of Grass)

By: thomas j wise

thomas j wise — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 16:00:28 -0800

Yet another source for "The Darkling Thrush," first pointed out by G. B. Tennyson. The author is the now-decanonized John Keble, who was one of the nineteenth century's most popular religious poets (and thus as likely an influence as Keats). Keble barely escapes Hardy's poem alive.

By: Powerful Religious Baby

Powerful Religious Baby — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 16:02:53 -0800

Excellent find, eustacescrubb. Let us pray that Billy Collins adopts the davesecretary style in his future poetry, as well; it would be so treasurous: SO I WAS SITTING IN A MAN'S LEATHER RECLINER READING A VOLUME OF VOLTAIRE AND I WONDERED WHAT WOULD VOLTAIRE HAVE TO SAY ABOUT THIS FIELD OF WHEAT THAT IS VISIBLE THROUGH MY WINDOW? RIPE? NO! ROLLING? NO! THE ANSWER IS TAWNY.

By: Sparx

Sparx — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 19:03:27 -0800

Pinksy wrote a piece of Interactive fiction called Mindwheel. It's hard to find these days, and somewhat crap as a game, though excellently written. It may be found via the usual methods

By: kenko

kenko — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 19:47:30 -0800

I'd sooner, except the penalties, kill a man than a hawk.

By: kenko

kenko — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 19:52:47 -0800

...that forum system is terrible.

By: stargell

stargell — Fri, 02 Jan 2009 22:12:27 -0800

...that forum system is terrible. agreed. State's discussion/commentary format is all but useless.

By: bardic

bardic — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 00:00:10 -0800

Billy Collins couldn't be a bigger douchebag. All caps? Seriously?

By: Mikey-San

Mikey-San — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 00:51:41 -0800

Billy Collins couldn't be a bigger douchebag. All caps? Seriously? CAPS LOCK IS CRUISE CONTROL FOR COOL

By: languagehat

languagehat — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 05:52:24 -0800

Nice find! Minor gripe: why did you link "Guggenheim fellow Mark Halliday, MacArthur fellow Jim Powell and Annie Finch" to Wikipedia entries instead of their comments, which (given the appalling commentary format) are, if not impossible to find, more bother to find than I feel like taking?

By: suedehead

suedehead — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 08:23:17 -0800

and also to continue languagehat's gripe -- I'm always so disappointed by Slate's Fray, because I feel like it could be an amazing site for discussion and exchange like Metafilter. Instead, the fragmentation that happens because everyone makes a separate 'topic' makes everything way too chaotic, and in my opinion, discourages participation..

By: ersatz

ersatz — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 11:45:39 -0800

Thanks, that's very interesting! Pinsky seems to share the same concerns: "I'm hopeful that for future "classic poem" discussions we will find a happy medium and better communication or navigation among threads or postings. A somewhat smaller maze, with more conduits and cross-tunnels, maybe."

By: rmless

rmless — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 14:06:29 -0800

My heart in hiding Stirred for a bird

By: rmless

rmless — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 14:09:37 -0800

Should have included a link to The Windhover, the best bird/Jesus poem around.

By: Kattullus

Kattullus — Sat, 03 Jan 2009 20:18:45 -0800

I might as well, being in Iceland and all, post The Pipit by Icelandic Romantic poet Jónas Hallgrímsson. The translation comes from Dick Ringler's excellent Jónas Hallgrímsson site which include a lot of his quite good translations. I made a post about the site a while ago. Anyway, here's a video of a meadow pipit bathing and here's the the poem: The Pipit Out in the fields, one autumn, when easy southern breezes blew, I blew into straw-blades, blissfully making whistles. Later a brute wind blustered, bracing men to face danger. They made me sit inside then, sullen, dull, with the women. I feared the freezing blizzard, fretted about my pet ram and Toppa too, my stripling two-year-old colt, my jewel. These were my joys, my gentle jealously treasured pleasures; I thought they both, that bitter biting cold night, might perish. By dawn the wind had dwindled. Day broke, brilliant but chilly. We suited up and set out to search the blowing snowfields. My ram and tripping Toppa, the two I loved unduly, fetching but foolish creatures, floundered around the ice-slopes. I felt at fault. I needed to feed my pets, to lead them --- both of my youthful beauties --- back unharmed to the farmstead. What happened next? I'm happy to hail our frail endowments: men have, though hopelessly evil, a heart that God imparted. I saw, deep in a snowdrift somewhere among the hummocks --- cowering --- an olive-colored crippled meadow pipit. Frozen fast to the mosses, flight and hiding denied it, the weary creature watched me, wary with fear and terror. If God had suddenly sent me psalm-singing angels who promised rams by the ton and twenty Toppas, I swear, declaring: Out in Iceland, a little ardent boy could hardly aim at imitating Abraham's brave behavior. But now, zealously kneeling, knees in the freezing snowdrifts, he lay down flat and let his lips brush the thin, cold pinions. Unfaltering mercy melted the maiming, laming fetters those ranting winds of winter had wound around our darling. Surely "our darling" --- surely! for sheer affection yearly hurries the happy pipits, heading back to our meadows. --- Bolting aloft, it lilted its love to God above me; down below, but not downcast --- deep in joy! --- I sat weeping. ------- Frozen in fate's dark blizzard, felled to the earth --- quite mirthless --- I'd flourish were my Father's informing breath to warm me!