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The Fabulous Beasts: Poems
This collection of fifty-two poems from the author of Angel Fire and Anonymous Sins explores the annihilation of the time-bound ego, a liberating, sometimes terrifying experience for all who live within the “fabulous beast” of history and nature. The poems explore the shifting, elusive point at which the inwardness of individual experience touches upon the larger consciousness of a species or an era, forming a connection with a “self” that goes beyond subjectivity.
The poems are grouped into four parts: “Broken Connections,” “Forbidden Testimonies,” “The Child-Martyr” and “A Posthumous Sketch,” are prose poems which, though technically different from the others, are concerned with the same theme―the relationship between the individual and a larger, all-inclusive whole. Neither fatalistic nor rebellious, the poems convey the idea that as long as we live in time we must struggle, and that is this struggle that determines our humanity.
The poems are grouped into four parts: “Broken Connections,” “Forbidden Testimonies,” “The Child-Martyr” and “A Posthumous Sketch,” are prose poems which, though technically different from the others, are concerned with the same theme―the relationship between the individual and a larger, all-inclusive whole. Neither fatalistic nor rebellious, the poems convey the idea that as long as we live in time we must struggle, and that is this struggle that determines our humanity.
- GenresPoetry
86 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1975
About the author
Joyce Carol Oates
869 books9,881 followersJoyce Carol Oates is an American writer. Oates published her first book in 1963, and has since published 58 novels, a number of plays and novellas, and many volumes of short stories, poetry, and nonfiction. Her novels Black Water (1992), What I Lived For (1994), and Blonde (2000), and her short story collections The Wheel of Love (1970) and Lovely, Dark, Deep: Stories (2014) were each finalists for the Pulitzer Prize. She has won many awards for her writing, including the National Book Award, for her novel Them (1969), two O. Henry Awards, the National Humanities Medal, and the Jerusalem Prize (2019).
Oates taught at Princeton University from 1978 to 2014, and is the Roger S. Berlind '52 Professor Emerita in the Humanities with the Program in Creative Writing. From 2016 to 2020, she was a visiting professor at the University of California, Berkeley, where she taught short fiction in the spring semesters. She now teaches at Rutgers University, New Brunswick.
Oates was elected to the American Philosophical Society in 2016.
Pseudonyms: Rosamond Smith and Lauren Kelly.
Oates taught at Princeton University from 1978 to 2014, and is the Roger S. Berlind '52 Professor Emerita in the Humanities with the Program in Creative Writing. From 2016 to 2020, she was a visiting professor at the University of California, Berkeley, where she taught short fiction in the spring semesters. She now teaches at Rutgers University, New Brunswick.
Oates was elected to the American Philosophical Society in 2016.
Pseudonyms: Rosamond Smith and Lauren Kelly.
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Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews
September 19, 2016
Even though this books of poems is divided into four parts (Broken connections, Forbidden testimonies, The child-martyr, The fabulous beasts), the main underlying theme is that of broken connections. The first part of the book begins with a fine poem (Broken Connections) in which a traveller is cut off by snow in a remote cabin in the country:
This collection of poetry also includes a memorable short story, A Posthumous Sketch, which is a chronicle of alienation and deepening despair triggered by a drowning at sea, and a veritable case study of broken connections.
Oates sums it up in a father's inexplicable, awkward and nervous last visit (Occult):
[...]As we read the poem, it becomes clear that what is dead is more than the line; it is the fragile connection to people we care about or, or are supposed to care about. Thus the ambiguity of whether the following lines refer to the outer or the inner landscape, and if the inner landscape, whose:
Across the snow-maddened miles
we shout questions and answers.
The air is choppy as a river.
He is saying, Can you hear-
as the telephone lines crackles, like laughter,
then goes dead.
It is dead.
It is not your storm,Yet, the world of broken connections is where we live, and deep down we are aware of this:
it is not your life.
Not a way of explaining the churning sky,
your quiet panic,
your curious smile of betrayal.
[...]We can find instances of the main theme thoughout the poetry: Abstract highways that rush nowhere, ice-bound paths and ditches we fear to cross, a river that “...plunges everywhere, drowning”, heavy absences, thinly poisonous memories, “slashes in the flesh that become eccentric scars”, failures of love, hiding, a burgled home (Breaking and Entering), insomnia, sleep gifts we would like to return, hanging up the phone, looking away, lies lovingly told, a friend moving out of our lives, excessive travel, “breathing spaces that fade into spaces”, death and dying.
now that the telephone cable failed
and words cannot be used.
You are here.
Your soul softens, gradually, recognizing
the air, the snow, the silence
of broken connections.
This collection of poetry also includes a memorable short story, A Posthumous Sketch, which is a chronicle of alienation and deepening despair triggered by a drowning at sea, and a veritable case study of broken connections.
Oates sums it up in a father's inexplicable, awkward and nervous last visit (Occult):
[...]the language we invent may be a means
to get us closer,
to allow us to touch one another,
and then to turn back.
January 23, 2022
In the ditches, in the dark crevices,
shrunken glaciers keep their chill.
You cannot step across.
The cold radiates upward, even against the sun,
and you, cannot step across -
a few feet, a few inches -
you fear the tremor of ice
and what is not human.
Over there - an ordinary furrowed field.
You cannot step across
yet you cannot go back.
You cannot move at all.
The long meandering fingers of ice will thicken,
winter upon winter.
Later you may say How cowardly I was!
Now you think Even this is my strength.
* * *
if one rises to stare out a window
the other feels the tugging, the draft of air
if one shuts his eyes
the other feels the leap of a half-vision
that does not take hold
between them a few miles
the chopped-up ridges of a city
others' dreams that whine
like nighttime sirens
this is what they wanted
this is what the legends promised them
and if one telephones the other, the ringing
will anger the night and then subside
to nothing: they will both listen then to nothing
because this is what they wanted
and this is what they got
* * *
there was nothing
until a junk-yard vast as a kingdom
tossed up light:
a galaxy of particles, glittering
one single explosion
broken
into bits
one glow of light
pin-pricked
like a fly's miracle
of an eye
then there was nothing again
except the sign of Highway 98
dull-gleaming metal
the aftermath of a vision
shrunken glaciers keep their chill.
You cannot step across.
The cold radiates upward, even against the sun,
and you, cannot step across -
a few feet, a few inches -
you fear the tremor of ice
and what is not human.
Over there - an ordinary furrowed field.
You cannot step across
yet you cannot go back.
You cannot move at all.
The long meandering fingers of ice will thicken,
winter upon winter.
Later you may say How cowardly I was!
Now you think Even this is my strength.
- The Impasse, pg. 6
* * *
if one rises to stare out a window
the other feels the tugging, the draft of air
if one shuts his eyes
the other feels the leap of a half-vision
that does not take hold
between them a few miles
the chopped-up ridges of a city
others' dreams that whine
like nighttime sirens
this is what they wanted
this is what the legends promised them
and if one telephones the other, the ringing
will anger the night and then subside
to nothing: they will both listen then to nothing
because this is what they wanted
and this is what they got
- Two Insomniacs, pg. 27
* * *
there was nothing
until a junk-yard vast as a kingdom
tossed up light:
a galaxy of particles, glittering
one single explosion
broken
into bits
one glow of light
pin-pricked
like a fly's miracle
of an eye
then there was nothing again
except the sign of Highway 98
dull-gleaming metal
the aftermath of a vision
- A Vision, pg. 76
April 6, 2022
Joyce Carol Oates is a writer who digs deep into the human psyche. Because it has been awhile since I last read her, I had forgotten how intense and sometimes painful her writing is. This book explores the nature of the relationship between the inner world of the individual and the larger outer world and our species' tenuous connection to it. It asks "who are we and why are we here anyway"? Though it is a slender book, it takes serious attention to grasp its insights.
Want to Read
June 5, 2025Cutting is for The Child-Martyr
By Joyce Carol Oates
By Joyce Carol Oates
August 26, 2015
Publicado en http://lecturaylocura.com/the-fabulou...
En mi afán imposible de tener todo el material publicado por la escritora norteamericana Joyce Carol Oates ( afán irrealizable, por ser tal la cantidad de libros publicados que, varios de ellos están incluso descatalogados); hoy me he acercado a una vertiente suya que desconocía: la poética.
“The Fabulous Beasts” es un libro de poemas escrito en 1975 que goza de las detallistas Ilustraciones de A.G. Smith Jr. ; se estructura en cuatro partes bien diferenciadas, que suponen elnexo de unión de los poemas.
La primera parte, “Broken Connections”, nos habla de la dificultad para comunicarse en un mundo cada vez más fragmentado. Dentro del poema homónimo hallamos la manida metáfora del teléfono para reflejar esta falta de comunicación:
“[...]He is saying, Can you hear -
As the telephone line crackles, like laughter,
then goes dead.
It is dead.
Nothing to do but replace the receiver,
like this.
If the line is dead it is totally dead.
There is no deadness like it [...]“
Aun así, el tema es muy actual, en un mundo social en apariencia por la posibilidad de poder compartir mediante redes sociales y con todos los medios que nos sirven para comunicarnos, es paradójica la falta de relación con los demás; esta separación de lo individual con respecto al conjunto total de la sociedad es expresada desde lo pequeño. La consecuencia de lo pequeño lleva igualmente a lo grande.
Los testimonios prohibidos de la segunda parte, “Forbidden Testimonies”; ahondan en lo que está oculto en lo individual, lo que no se refleja habitualmente, llegando a ser prohibido por el resto de miembros de la sociedad o, simplemente, por la vergüenza de expresarlos. Es el caso del poema “But I love…” donde asistimos a la ansiedad ante el amor no correspondido, la amargura de la incompletitud y la frustración ante ella:
“[...] Useless, the labor on unloving
you beg him to begin
Useless, your explanations.
He does not listen.
Yes, he listens, but smiles patiently .
Because he pursues you he is defined to himself
as one who pursues you
as one in constant bitter pursuit
as one who does not listen or who listens
but smiles patiently. [...]“
La tercera parte, “The Child-Martyr”, nos hace contemplar el jugueteo con la prosa de la escritora para hablar de una vidriera, aquella que contiene el niño mártir. La prosa es igualmente muy poética, más cerca del poema que de los párrafos prosaicos. Esta tercera parte es la expresión de nuestros anhelos, con poemas que reflejan nuestra separación con respecto al orden existente; gran ejemplo de esta situación es el que J.C. Oates dedica a Sylvia Plath, epítome de esta desesperación latente en nuestras vidas (“Mourning and melancholia: In Memory of Sylvia Plath”)
“[...]
Ceaseless the noise, the strangers -
Readying for enormities, we are anchored hard
We persist in our Being.
We are never known.”
“Persistimos en nuestra forma de ser y nunca se nos conoce”.
La cuarta parte, definitiva, “The fabulous beasts”, lleva el nombre de la antología, esas “bestias fabulosas” que representan la conjunción de espacio-tiempo; nosotros, indefensos ante el devenir de los tiempos nos refugiamos en la espera (“Waiting”), poema que cierra la antología y que supone nuestra única respuesta:
“Too many gulls to be counted.
Unrhythmic waves -inmense, shallow-
the sucking noises never predictable.
He waits on the beach, his arms tight around his knees.
He is not a child, he sits too heavily.
A Canada goose flies in, the wings ungainly, noisy.
Seven mallards ride the waves
and there are innumerable sailboats, all silent.
Is this perfection?
He waits for the next wave to change everything.”
Lo arquetípico temporal, cada instante que esperamos, lo puede cambiar todo.
En mi afán imposible de tener todo el material publicado por la escritora norteamericana Joyce Carol Oates ( afán irrealizable, por ser tal la cantidad de libros publicados que, varios de ellos están incluso descatalogados); hoy me he acercado a una vertiente suya que desconocía: la poética.
“The Fabulous Beasts” es un libro de poemas escrito en 1975 que goza de las detallistas Ilustraciones de A.G. Smith Jr. ; se estructura en cuatro partes bien diferenciadas, que suponen elnexo de unión de los poemas.
La primera parte, “Broken Connections”, nos habla de la dificultad para comunicarse en un mundo cada vez más fragmentado. Dentro del poema homónimo hallamos la manida metáfora del teléfono para reflejar esta falta de comunicación:
“[...]He is saying, Can you hear -
As the telephone line crackles, like laughter,
then goes dead.
It is dead.
Nothing to do but replace the receiver,
like this.
If the line is dead it is totally dead.
There is no deadness like it [...]“
Aun así, el tema es muy actual, en un mundo social en apariencia por la posibilidad de poder compartir mediante redes sociales y con todos los medios que nos sirven para comunicarnos, es paradójica la falta de relación con los demás; esta separación de lo individual con respecto al conjunto total de la sociedad es expresada desde lo pequeño. La consecuencia de lo pequeño lleva igualmente a lo grande.
Los testimonios prohibidos de la segunda parte, “Forbidden Testimonies”; ahondan en lo que está oculto en lo individual, lo que no se refleja habitualmente, llegando a ser prohibido por el resto de miembros de la sociedad o, simplemente, por la vergüenza de expresarlos. Es el caso del poema “But I love…” donde asistimos a la ansiedad ante el amor no correspondido, la amargura de la incompletitud y la frustración ante ella:
“[...] Useless, the labor on unloving
you beg him to begin
Useless, your explanations.
He does not listen.
Yes, he listens, but smiles patiently .
Because he pursues you he is defined to himself
as one who pursues you
as one in constant bitter pursuit
as one who does not listen or who listens
but smiles patiently. [...]“
La tercera parte, “The Child-Martyr”, nos hace contemplar el jugueteo con la prosa de la escritora para hablar de una vidriera, aquella que contiene el niño mártir. La prosa es igualmente muy poética, más cerca del poema que de los párrafos prosaicos. Esta tercera parte es la expresión de nuestros anhelos, con poemas que reflejan nuestra separación con respecto al orden existente; gran ejemplo de esta situación es el que J.C. Oates dedica a Sylvia Plath, epítome de esta desesperación latente en nuestras vidas (“Mourning and melancholia: In Memory of Sylvia Plath”)
“[...]
Ceaseless the noise, the strangers -
Readying for enormities, we are anchored hard
We persist in our Being.
We are never known.”
“Persistimos en nuestra forma de ser y nunca se nos conoce”.
La cuarta parte, definitiva, “The fabulous beasts”, lleva el nombre de la antología, esas “bestias fabulosas” que representan la conjunción de espacio-tiempo; nosotros, indefensos ante el devenir de los tiempos nos refugiamos en la espera (“Waiting”), poema que cierra la antología y que supone nuestra única respuesta:
“Too many gulls to be counted.
Unrhythmic waves -inmense, shallow-
the sucking noises never predictable.
He waits on the beach, his arms tight around his knees.
He is not a child, he sits too heavily.
A Canada goose flies in, the wings ungainly, noisy.
Seven mallards ride the waves
and there are innumerable sailboats, all silent.
Is this perfection?
He waits for the next wave to change everything.”
Lo arquetípico temporal, cada instante que esperamos, lo puede cambiar todo.
April 6, 2016
I thought if I was going to like someone's poems if would be those by JCO. The fact is I just don't have the desire or training to read poetry. I know if I like a poem and that's the bottom line, but I always think I'm missing something because I just think they are that good.
Read
March 14, 2012read abou half of the poetry collection, nothing memorable. maybe give it another shot
Displaying 1 - 7 of 7 reviews