false 13273 0075536064 9780075536062 113 17 http://photo.goodreads.com/books/1166550959m/13273.jpg http://www.goodreads.com/book/show/13273.Poetic_Meter_and_Poetic_Form 8278 Paul Fussell 1249 215 5 0 false Wed Aug 06 10:45:46 -0700 2008 Thu Jul 24 10:20:55 -0700 2008 Wed Aug 06 10:45:46 -0700 2008
Urban density is what our exalted elders decided upon for Eugene: establishment of an urban growth boundary to salvage the farmlands, wetlands, wild places beyond. But the Amazon headwaters fall within the urban growth boundary, so now--how to save them? Capitalists encroach upon the wild mystery, demanding their pound of flesh, catch of fish, corrupting industry. Maybe a hospital, a prison, a place for human beings to work or live, make enough money to buy the next thing, already obsolete, long ago planned that way, to deflect radicalism arising naturally from working-class leisure. Lane County Commissioners budget in herbicides to kill weeds
rodent houses, insect nests
feed reptiles, raptors, and their flighted, leathery cousins--bats.

I saw three eagles at the headwaters lately: two mature, one juvenile, gliding above the slough where herons rest lazily, visiting Canada geese assemble, mallards splash down noisily. I think of Central Park, a place carved out of concrete misery . . .

there must be space for wildness in the density. Is it given by Fussell, or neglected? Does he nod to nature in his caveat: "the closest possible approximation?" Let's give him that.

"the texture of a poem must be dense." Perhaps poetry is a weaving. Allow this weaving to be a dense one, multi-layered, warming. But suppose a semi-permeable membrane is wanted, substance that allows breath like a tea towel resting on rising bread or employed to filter coffee. I may not enjoy as much my unleavened bread with coffee-stained water as I love my wine, must racked time and time through holy cheesecloth, erasing bitterness from the flow of rich juice.

Take, and drink. This is my blood dense as water, 'cause that's what I'm made of. Mostly water, but also a fragrant summer breeze, making my breath after it flows over spiked leaves of flowering mimosa--how fine and insubstantial their brilliant petals, like strokes from my pen.

In fact it's so hot this summer, I prefer my clothing linen-light, loose-weaved, so coastal wind softly meets the sweat of my skin. Why density? Why this, only this dogma, with no other way to be?

If I strip in my yard, my breasts and belly sway gently; invisible particles bind my body, draw soft boundaries as they careen through empty spaces--space makes me, yet Fussell commands I make artful density. Hard cheese, not Swiss or a spreadable brie. Only one sharp flavor may please his critical palate.

PRAISE GOD I'm still a redneck, nobody woman. I'll spread triple-cream Camembert on my flat crackers, sip champagne full of fun, empty bubbles, & give you the finger while I surrender to frothy, indulgent excess.

"old-fashioned critics . . . quaint." Kinda like old-school chauvinism that praises only male poets and invokes a male reader? Mattie Peterson expends all her energy on rhyme, Emily belongs solidly (having been refined), Tess Gallagher for her opening, and Marianne Moore, the novelty who may demonstrate her superficial, feminine syllablism just to entertain jaded males--so far, these are my women, shyly inviting masculine criticism. So glad I'm here to amuse you, really. Can't think of anything else but that you might want and use me.]]>