Mark Fuller Dillon's Blog, page 40
August 19, 2015
Noun Power
Never underestimate the power of a carefully-selected noun.
From
The Poetical Works of Robert Herrick, edited by F. W. Moorman.
Oxford University Press, London, 1921. (1957 reprint.)
Upon Julia's Clothes
by Robert Herrick.
When as in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (me thinks) how sweetly flowes
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
That brave Vibration each way free;
O how that glittering taketh me!
From
The Poetical Works of Robert Herrick, edited by F. W. Moorman.
Oxford University Press, London, 1921. (1957 reprint.)
August 12, 2015
Enjamborama
Enjambment is a popular technique
That tweaks the metric tyranny of line
By breaking through the end-stops that consign
The words to pattern, for a voice unique
And unpretentious. But does all this push and pull
Make verses conversational, or merely dull?
That tweaks the metric tyranny of line
By breaking through the end-stops that consign
The words to pattern, for a voice unique
And unpretentious. But does all this push and pull
Make verses conversational, or merely dull?
August 9, 2015
The Best Advice On Writing
How sick I am of all these books on writing,
Of all their consolations and their lies:
"The key to your success will be igniting
The Special Voice that you alone provide!" --
As if an editor would give a prize,
A gluey-reeking star, with arms held wide,
To any voice that rang with such a stark wit
That it would be impossible to market.
The best advice on writing they could offer
To anyone who dreams of getting lost
Would keep the coins from chiming in their coffer,
But at least would have the charm of being true:
"Stop writing, now. Right now. And see the cost --
If happiness pervades your life, eschew
This wretched writing fad. But if you feel gored,
Then you had better curtsy to the keyboard."
Of all their consolations and their lies:
"The key to your success will be igniting
The Special Voice that you alone provide!" --
As if an editor would give a prize,
A gluey-reeking star, with arms held wide,
To any voice that rang with such a stark wit
That it would be impossible to market.
The best advice on writing they could offer
To anyone who dreams of getting lost
Would keep the coins from chiming in their coffer,
But at least would have the charm of being true:
"Stop writing, now. Right now. And see the cost --
If happiness pervades your life, eschew
This wretched writing fad. But if you feel gored,
Then you had better curtsy to the keyboard."
August 8, 2015
I Remember Love
I remember love, and how it felt
To have my dead heart quicken at your glance,
Your voice, your kiss, your fragrance -- at the chance
To have my dead ice crack below the sky
Of your calm passion. Then you let it die.
But I remember love, and how it felt.
To have my dead heart quicken at your glance,
Your voice, your kiss, your fragrance -- at the chance
To have my dead ice crack below the sky
Of your calm passion. Then you let it die.
But I remember love, and how it felt.
The Body, In Its Wisdom
The body, in its wisdom, longs to die;
With clots, with diabetes, breaks the flow
Of all the pointless patterns.
But ego,
That blinded parasite in love with lies,
Hangs on for one more day, to paralyze,
To drag out with its mindless, heartless NO
The circling-vulture blankness of the snow,
The tumbling ashes from a burnt-out sky.
With clots, with diabetes, breaks the flow
Of all the pointless patterns.
But ego,
That blinded parasite in love with lies,
Hangs on for one more day, to paralyze,
To drag out with its mindless, heartless NO
The circling-vulture blankness of the snow,
The tumbling ashes from a burnt-out sky.
August 7, 2015
Those Who Persist
Those who persist under punches of rejection,
Who can take every slap as a cue for resurrection
In writing or in love, in craftsmanship or dreams,
I always wonder
How
You can rise from the mire of your own incomprehension
And go back to your chair despite all of the dissension
That denies what you whisper in your modulated screams.
I need your guidance
Now.
Who can take every slap as a cue for resurrection
In writing or in love, in craftsmanship or dreams,
I always wonder
How
You can rise from the mire of your own incomprehension
And go back to your chair despite all of the dissension
That denies what you whisper in your modulated screams.
I need your guidance
Now.
August 6, 2015
Meanwhile, In A Dull White Void
"Hey Ted," said Fred.
"Hey Fred," said Ted.
"What are you reading these days, Ted?"
"Fred, I've been trying to read John O'Hara."
"John O'Hara? Why, Ted?"
"Because Damon Knight had some good things to say about O'Hara's technique with short stories."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I really admire Damon Knight, and I respect his opinions. But you know, Fred --"
"No, I'm Ted. You're Fred."
"Oh, right," said Ted. "But you know, Fred, I'm having my doubts."
"Doubts?"
"Princeton doubts. Harvard doubts. Yale doubts."
"Those are some of the biggest doubts of all, Fred."
"Yeah, Fred, they are. Big prestigious Theta Delt Princeton doubts. You see, this O'Hara guy writes many stories that are nothing much more than dialogue."
"Dialogue, Ted?"
"Endlessly repetitive dialogue, Ted. No matter where a story might be set, the textures of the prose are always the same, and there's never any sense of place. People might be discussing universities and consumer items in a void."
"That sounds a bit stifling, Doris."
"It is, Bob. There's not much sense of a world in his work, and the people seem kinda thin. But they went to good schools. And they dress pretty good."
"I guess he's just not the sort of writer for me. Wanna play golf, Al?"
"Sure thing, Al. I wanna try out my new Honma Golf’s Five Star Set golf clubs."
"Wow! They start at five thousand and four hundred dollars each."
"Those are the ones, Kit. They'll come in handy when I go to Yale."
"Oh... Esther... I wish I could have gone to Yale."
"Hey Fred," said Ted.
"What are you reading these days, Ted?"
"Fred, I've been trying to read John O'Hara."
"John O'Hara? Why, Ted?"
"Because Damon Knight had some good things to say about O'Hara's technique with short stories."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. I really admire Damon Knight, and I respect his opinions. But you know, Fred --"
"No, I'm Ted. You're Fred."
"Oh, right," said Ted. "But you know, Fred, I'm having my doubts."
"Doubts?"
"Princeton doubts. Harvard doubts. Yale doubts."
"Those are some of the biggest doubts of all, Fred."
"Yeah, Fred, they are. Big prestigious Theta Delt Princeton doubts. You see, this O'Hara guy writes many stories that are nothing much more than dialogue."
"Dialogue, Ted?"
"Endlessly repetitive dialogue, Ted. No matter where a story might be set, the textures of the prose are always the same, and there's never any sense of place. People might be discussing universities and consumer items in a void."
"That sounds a bit stifling, Doris."
"It is, Bob. There's not much sense of a world in his work, and the people seem kinda thin. But they went to good schools. And they dress pretty good."
"I guess he's just not the sort of writer for me. Wanna play golf, Al?"
"Sure thing, Al. I wanna try out my new Honma Golf’s Five Star Set golf clubs."
"Wow! They start at five thousand and four hundred dollars each."
"Those are the ones, Kit. They'll come in handy when I go to Yale."
"Oh... Esther... I wish I could have gone to Yale."
Smoked Paper
Before sunset this evening, as I biked through Parc Jacques-Cartier beside the Ottawa River, I turned a corner and noticed -- something -- on the asphalt pathway that was giving off a thin stream of white smoke.
When I braked for a closer look at this, I saw that it was a burning paperback of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Someone had set fire to the inner pages, and they were smouldering beneath an undamaged cover.
An unshaven young man in a blue shirt walked up and without pausing for more than two seconds, poured beer from a can onto the book, then kicked it off the asphalt and onto the grass. He went on his way.
After he was gone, I stomped on the book until it stopped smoking -- not the way I'd prefer to treat a book, but conditions at the time were slightly weird.
When I braked for a closer look at this, I saw that it was a burning paperback of Breakfast at Tiffany's. Someone had set fire to the inner pages, and they were smouldering beneath an undamaged cover.
An unshaven young man in a blue shirt walked up and without pausing for more than two seconds, poured beer from a can onto the book, then kicked it off the asphalt and onto the grass. He went on his way.
After he was gone, I stomped on the book until it stopped smoking -- not the way I'd prefer to treat a book, but conditions at the time were slightly weird.
August 3, 2015
Uncertainties, Mysteries, Doubts
While thinking tonight about Negative Capability, I was hit by an extension to this idea that had never occured to me before... or perhaps I should say, by something I had understood and accepted all my life, but without noticing the connection to this idea from John Keats.
Keats applied this quality to people who write, but this Negative Capability could apply as well to people who read -- especially to people who read poems. After all, a poem could mean one thing to you at twenty, and something subtly different at fifty. Which meaning would be correct: the first? the second? neither? both? Sometimes we have no idea, and we have to accept the poem without a firm understanding of what it means -- if it means anything at all, beyond its goosebump effect on some hidden sector of the brain.
Uncertainties, mysteries, doubts -- these are what we have to expect, if we want to enjoy poetry. But how many of us would rather not read it?
"Brown and Dilke walked with me and back from the Christmas pantomime. I had not a dispute but a disquisition with Dilke on various subjects; several things dovetailed in my mind, and at once it struck me, what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously -- I mean Negative Capability, that is when man is capable of being in uncertainties, Mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason. Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half knowledge. This pursued through Volumes would perhaps take us no further than this, that with a great poet the sense of Beauty overcomes every other consideration, or rather obliterates all consideration."
-- John Keats: Letter to George and Tom Keats, 22 December 1818.
Keats applied this quality to people who write, but this Negative Capability could apply as well to people who read -- especially to people who read poems. After all, a poem could mean one thing to you at twenty, and something subtly different at fifty. Which meaning would be correct: the first? the second? neither? both? Sometimes we have no idea, and we have to accept the poem without a firm understanding of what it means -- if it means anything at all, beyond its goosebump effect on some hidden sector of the brain.
Uncertainties, mysteries, doubts -- these are what we have to expect, if we want to enjoy poetry. But how many of us would rather not read it?
August 1, 2015
Alien...?
For an interesting shock, read to the end of this quoted paragraph.
As it turns out, the script was filmed, but without any contribution from the "talented brush-wielder." What a shame!
-- From
"Scientifilm Marquee," by Forrest J. Ackerman,
SPACE TRAVEL, September 1958.
THE CREATURE FROM GALAXY 27, his first screenplay, has been sold by the remarkable young (21) writer Martin Varno to the movies. The "Sci-Fi Studio," American-International, will release this sf thriller in which Varno, himself a fan, and son of actor Roland Varno, will essay an important role! Fanne [sic] Pandora Bronson will also be tested for a part in the picture, artwork for which has been done by another ardent s.f. reader and talented brush-wielder, Ron Cobb. Wait'll you see the monster Cobb has come up with for this one: it out-creatures the Thing!
As it turns out, the script was filmed, but without any contribution from the "talented brush-wielder." What a shame!
