Next to Nothing: Collected Poems, 1926-1977

by Paul Bowles

This virtually untouched copy is one of 500. It is a collection of 47 of Paul Bowles' poems from the years 1926-1977. Bowles began his literary career in 1926 and lived for many years as an expatriate American in Morocco. In addition to writing poetry, he also wrote novels and short stories and is responsible for an important collection of native North African music gathered for the Library of Congress. viii , 74, 4 pages. stiff paper wrappers. 8vo..

Genres: Poetry

73 pages, Paperback

First published July 1, 1981

About the author

Paul Frederic Bowles grew up in New York, and attended college at the University of Virginia before traveling to Paris, where became a part of Gertrude Stein's literary and artistic circle. Following her advice, he took his first trip to Tangiers in 1931 with his friend, composer Aaron Copeland.

In 1938 he married author and playwright Jane Auer (see: Jane Bowles). He moved to Tangiers permanently in 1947, with Auer following him there in 1948. There they became fixtures of the American and European expatriate scene, their visitors including Truman Capote, Tennessee Williams and Gore Vidal. Bowles continued to live in Tangiers after the death of his wife in 1973.

Bowles died of heart failure in Tangier on November 18, 1999. His ashes were interred near the graves of his parents and grandparents in Lakemont, New York.

Reviews

[Edita · Rating 5 out of 5]

But no one can know where he is until he knows where he has been.
[...]
And how do I know what you are to me?
Our theories are untested. You must not laugh.
We thought there were other ways.
Probably there are, but they are hidden
and we shall never find them.
[...]
There will be suffering, but you know how to coax it.
There will be memories, but they can be deflected.
[...]
We thought there were other ways.
The darkness would stay outside.
We are not it, we said. It is not in us.
[...]
There were many things I wanted to say to you
before you left. Now I shall not say them.
Though the light spills onto the balcony
making the same shadows in the same places,
only I can see it, only I can hear the wind
and it is much too loud.

The world seethes with words. Forgive me.
I love you, but I must not think of you.
That is the law. Not everyone obeys it.
Though time moves past and the air is never the same
I shall not change. That is the law, and it is right.
[…]
I am the wrong direction, the dead nerve-end, the unfinished scream.
One day my words may comfort you, as yours can never comfort me.

[Marie · Rating 3 out of 5]

wow that was dark

[mwpm · Rating 4 out of 5]

The ribbed glass chambers where we live
Our voluntary crystal shells
Who is there here to complain?
The white light of our flimsy prison
Where we all lie languidly on taupe matting
Hearing the scraping of dry fronds at the screen
Where no inspect flies nor scaly serpent moves
The satin coverlets on our beds
The rows of bottles with brittle stoppers
Our windows with tiny panes
Who is there to rebel?

- America, pg. 11

* * *

Will you allow me to lie in the grass?
The clouds will form a spread for me and I shall be all
Covereverthingwithleaves
Shall we be all
Couleuvrecouleuvrecometomeyaid
Agreensnakecameovertheairtome

- International Poem, pg. 17

* * *

Everything I do will be done
If the sun is hot
Everything I say shall be said
I saw her sitting there as though she owned the place
As though we were all paupers

- Stop That, pg. 20

* * *

i
Yet in no sleep
the silence of whose lids
shall move
the motion of whose heart
shall speak
whose quiet lips shall
no sound
know
Yet in no sleep
whose lips nor yet
not quiet eyes

ii
How in this garden
in the hysterical rain
whose plants wave their silence
in what sour wind
why whose torrents turn
what falling and whose
head moving wet
how what a crying out
in where which grasses lie
in where which grasses lie
ses lie

iii
But no a
slow unchanging
circle
shall a circle
shall a-
round this head be
falling where
no cricket dares to
chirp in
fields and hills
recede on two sides
in the
night

- Ballad, pg. 29-30

* * *

The head is where the cricket sings
The cheeks are what the teeth will bite
The lake is where the lover flings
The other in the dead of night
The lips are where the blood goes in
The eyes are what the fingers claw
Knowing now what might have been
Will the lips tell what the eyes saw?

- Love Song, pg. 61

* * *

Who said what when
Not what was meant
Where heard from how told
But far from why

There is a way to master silence
Control its curves, inhabit its dark corners
And listen to the hiss of time outside

(Not what is meant, and far away from why)

- Far From Why, pg. 72

[Rob · Rating 4 out of 5]

When I think of Paul Bowles I think of crisp, efficient, descriptive prose, often about Americans (or other Westerners) confronting cultures and situations they are ill-prepared to understand. His poetry shares some things in common with his prose--locales, mostly, seem to be in the "non-Christian" world. The poems mostly fall into the 1920s and early 30s. There is about a 30 year gap and then a few remarkable poems from the 70s. Some are disappointing: the language is full of "let"s and "shall"s and other words that don't seem to fall into the Modernist tradition Bowles was a part of. In context of his development as an artist, though, these are mostly written when he was still a teenager. Bottom line, it's a small investment of time that contains some gems.

from "Far From Why" (1977)

There is a way to master silence
Control its curves, inhabit its dark corners
And listen to the hiss of time outside

[Manny Torres · Rating 5 out of 5]

To have an understanding of Bowles' grand prouse, begin with these exquisite poems.

[Josh Sherman · Rating 2 out of 5]

There are a couple gems in here and nice turns of phrase, but that was it for me.

[Drew · Rating 3 out of 5]

If you find Mary Oliver’s collection interesting, then you should also check out Next To Nothing: Collected Poems: 1926-1977 by Paul Bowles. Bowles is one of my top three writers (along with Camus and Steinbeck). My favorite poem from his collected poems is Nights. It was written in 1977 and is transcribed below:

There have been times, what with this and that,
when the whisper of words was not enough.
On some shelf of memory lies a misplaced summer,
one not stored away for later savoring.
Surely it ended early, with unexpected fogs,
with the wind sliding past through unmeasured darkness.
No voice could be enough, what with this and that,
and the hours falling faster.