Mountain Dreams – Brief Poems by Francis Harvey

Francis Harvey (13 April 1925 – 7 November 2014) was an Irish poet born in Belmore Street, Enniskillen in 1925. His Catholic mother eloped with his Protestant father Hamilton Harvey, who died when the young Frank Harvey was only six. His mother was from Ballyshannon in Donegal and she moved back there. Frank stayed on and completed his secondary education in Enniskillen. He went to University College, Dublin, where he studied medicine for a year. As his family needed him to be working, he went into the bank, which took him around Ireland, but mostly he was stationed in Donegal. 

His first poem, about potato-digging, was published when he was 16, in the Weekly Independent. Subsequently he published several short stories and had a number of his plays produced on stage and radio. His prize-winning play, Farewell to Every White Cascade, was broadcast on RTÉ in the 1960s and thereafter on the BBC and numerous radio stations around the world. He describes his introduction to writing: What made a writer of me really was I became a member of the library in the town I was born, in Enniskillen, the Carnegie Library, and I discovered Dickens and I discovered Thackeray. I discovered D.H. Lawrence and umpteen others. I began to read.

In the mid-1970s he left fiction and playwriting behind him and concentrated on poetry. His first collection, In the Light on the Stones, was published by Gallery Press in 1978. The following year he took early retirement from the Bank of Ireland where he was an assistant manager. Gallery Press also published his next collection, The Rainmakers (1988) while Dedalus published his four subsequent collections, The Boa Island Janus (1996), Making Space (2001) , Collected Poems (2007) and Donegal Haiku (2013).

His poem, Heron, won the 1989 Guardian and World Wildlife Fund poetry competition when Ted Hughes was judge. His work has also featured in publications such as The Spectator and The Irish Times. In the 1970s he won The Irish Times/Yeats Summer School prize. In 1990 he won a Peterloo Poets Prize and was a prizewinner in the Cardiff International Poetry Competition. 

 Francis Harvey died on 7th November 2014 at the age of 89.

DONEGAL HAIKU

Irish haiku, as I argue in my Dangerous Pavements post, with some assistance from Anatoly Kudryavitsky, editor of Shamrock Haiku Journal, is a distinctive form of haiku. While some poets, such as Seamus Heaney and Michael Longley, have used the form fitfully, others, such as Paul Muldoon, have, in a ludic, almost ludicrous fashion, moulded it to their own playful applications. And then there is the sense of place. Many of the practitioners have composed haiku sequences devoted to particularly Irish locales: these include Michael Hartnett with his Inchicore Haiku, (Raven Arts Press, 1985); Pat Boran with his  Waveforms: Bull Island Haiku (Dedalus Press, 2015); and, of course, Francis Harvey. In his case this involves a heightened awareness of the flora and fauna of his native Donegal. There are, as can be seen in the poems below, sheep, dogs, cuckoos, blackbirds, crows, butterflies, flowers, mountains, strands, lakes and Mount Errigal, all as peculiarly Irish and as peculiarly local as the wind and the rain mentioned in the concluding haiku below.

Donegal Haiku is a collection of 122 haikus opening and closing with a single haiku on single pages while the rest of the book features three haikus arranged on each of sixty page spreads. The cover, designed and photographed by Francis Harvey’s daughter, Esther, depicts Mount Errigal in Donegal with an upturned image of Mount Fuji in Japan reflected in the water. (See image right.) The congruence between the Irish landscape and the Japanese form is explicitly acknowledged in the first haiku below.

Fellow Donegal poet Moya Cannon, in her introduction to his Collected Poems, describes Harvey as a “Bashō-like figure”. But there are distinct differences. While Bashō travelled widely and wrote of his travels, Harvey remained rooted to Donegal and its landscape. I love the landscape of Donegal …landscape does something for me. It turns me on…I’m more at home in the middle of a bog than I would be in the middle of a city … And I love looking at the shape of the land and the contours, sometimes the lovely sensuous contours that land has, like a human body …. a haunch or a breast …. I love that, and I like the roughnesses in the landscape in Donegal too … I need roughness, I need wildness. While there is some humour in Bashō’s work, the type of mordant humour found in the haiku of Francis Harvey reminds me more of the work of Kobayashi Issa. And there are, to the best of my knowledge, no frogs, Bashō-like or otherwise, in his poetry. Moya Canon is on surer ground when she compares his poems, rightly in my opinion, with the work of Scottish poet Norman MacCaig and Welsh poet R. S. Thomas.

IRISH POETS ON FRANCIS HARVEY

Brendan Kennelly: There is throughout a concern for craft and conciseness. The poems are, on the whole, lucid and warmhearted. There is an admirable variety of technique and theme. Above all there is the sense that the poet is content to explore his own world in all its limitation and potential. It is this note of quiet, unruffled integrity that makes the poetry of Francis Harvey such a pleasant reading experience.

Eamon Grennan: The poems of Francis Harvey lodge us deep inside a rural (south Donegal) landscape, the overlapping emotional and physical maps of which Harvey knows with startling, at times corrosive, intimacy. In the rinsed light of his minute observations a world is brought to vivid life, animated by compassion, understanding, and a tough grace of observation.

Moya Cannon: Francis Harvey has done for Donegal and, by extension, for the west of Ireland, what Norman McCaig (sic) did for Scotland and what R. S. Thomas did for Wales. He has accorded the landscapes of South Donegal and the people who have lived in them a dignity which has been stripped away as much, almost, by tourism as by earlier forms of invasion. This he has achieved with a naturalist’s passion for precision and with an utter lack of sentimentality …. Francis Harvey’s work combines the passion for precision of a naturalist and the yearning for grace of a poet, except for the fact that a passion for precision, for naming, is also part of the bedrock of poetry. In [his] poems there is a vivid sense of how we are all moving, “free but tethered, through time’s inexorable weathers.”

Nessa O’Mahony: The poetry book that I got greatest pleasure from in 2007 was the Collected Poems of Francis Harvey. Harvey is the ultimate landscape artist of Irish poetry; to read his poetry is to get a sense of a man growing up and becoming assimilated into nature, in particular the nature of West Donegal where he lives. The poems are full of precise, loving but utterly unsentimental description of this harsh country in which one manages to survive rather than thrive. Harvey has an uncanny ability to empathise with his subjects and to show that innate beauty and misery are intertwined in the solitary lives he depicts.

Brief Poems by Francis Harvey

Sleeping, I think of 
Errigal and Mount Fuji,
The shape of my dreams.

***

A butterfly sways
on a pink dunghill flower.
The beauty of roots.

***

Who prays at the graves
of the unbaptised children?
A sheep on its knees.

***

Something on my mind
and on the mountain I climb.
The weight of two clouds.

***

Not a breath of wind.
The vanity of clouds
in the lake’s mirror.

***

Woodhill. The cuckoo
calls and, more than the wind,
is holding its breath.

***

What did he taste when
he kissed the island girl’s lips?
The sweetness of salt.

***

Tell me who waits for
the lightening to strike more than
once in the same place.

***

Not a breath of wind.
The vanity of clouds
in the lake’s mirror.

***

The bluebells blossom.
A blackbird sings in the grove.
Swallows and poems.

***

You planted a tree.
I wrote a poem. What more
could anyone do?

***

Myself and two crows
by a frozen lake, silent.
Who will break the ice?

***

Myself and my dog
skirt a mountain to avoid
a man and his dog.

***

I watched him that day
take his last walk on the strand.
The tide was ebbing.

***

He was so obsessed
with death he began sending
mass cards to himself.

***

Five crows in a tree.
The wind ruffles their feathers.
The leaves of my book.

***

Snow on the mountain.
Crowsfeet and your first white hair.
The end of autumn.

***

The wind and the rain.
The wind and the rain again
and again. Ireland.

***

These brief poems are from Donegal Haiku published by Dedalus Press (2013). The cover design (and the colour image used on this page) are by the daughter of Francis Harvey, Esther.

LINKS

The Dedalus Press page for Donegal Haiku

The Dedalus Press page for Collected Poems

Kathleen McCracken reviews The Boa Island Janus (Dedalus Press, 1996) for  The Poetry Ireland Review

Macdara Woods reviews Making Space: New and Selected Poems (Dedalus Press, 2001) for The Poetry Ireland Review

Hugh McFadden reviews Collected Poems (Dedalus Press, 2001) for Books Ireland

Tom Hubbard reviews Collected Poems (Dedalus Press, 2007) for The Poetry Ireland Review

Donna L. Potts reviews Donegal Haiku (Dedalus Press, 2013) for New Hibernia Review

This Landscape’s Fierce Embrace: The Poetry of Francis Harvey, Edited by Donna L. Potts

An article on Francis Harvey in The Irish Times

A radio documentary commissioned by RTÉ lyric fm’s The Lyric Feature (first broadcast in 2014)

Australian Broadcasting Corporation documentary on Francis Harvey

The cover design of Donegal Haiku , published by Dedalus Press (2013), and the colour image used on this page, are both by the daughter of Francis Harvey, Esther.

Footy and Film – Brief Poems by Damian Balassone

Damian Balassone was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1972, the child of an Italian migrant family who had settled in the  working class suburb of Collingwood.  He graduated from Deakin University in 1994 and has worked variously as an itinerant fruit picker, a bean counter, and as a teacher.  His poems have appeared in a variety of Australian and international publications.  His first book Chime (Ginninderra Press, 2013, later reissued on Kindle) is a collection of song lyrics, ballads and narrative poems that span the width and breadth of the Australian continent.

Since the publication of Chime he has suffered from severe hearing loss, tinnitus and hyperacusis (hypersensitivity to everyday sounds) with obvious consequences to his headspace – hence, a propensity to focus on shorter works of poetry.  In doing so, he swapped the panoramic Australian landscape for what he calls pithy takes on popular culture, corporate duplicity and political wankery.  These short poems and epigrams later came to the attention of the acclaimed Australian poet Les Murray, who published a stack of them and described Balassone as a ‘virtuoso’.

During this period, Balassone released Strange Game in a Strange Land (Wilkinson Publishing, 2019), a collection of short, playful rhymes about the great and glorious game of Australian Rules Football.  Unexpectedly, the book met with some success in his homeland, acquiring national radio and television exposure, and selling several thousand copies.

His third book Love is a Weird Cat is forthcoming.  This collection contains more than 100 short poems and epigrams that have been published in venues such as The New York Times, The Australian, The Spectator, The Canberra Times, Light, Abridged, Cordite, Quadrant, First Things, Shot Glass Journal, Eureka Street, Arena, The American Bystander, Asses of Parnassus, Snakeskin, Better Than Starbucks, New Verse News, Daily Drunk Magazine, News Weekly and Lighten Up.  In addition to the epigrams, the book also includes many short prose-poems that combine arresting imagery with emotional impact.  

Damian Balassone’s poems have appeared in more than 100 publications, most notably in The New York Times, The Australian, The Canberra Times and The Spectator.

He now lives in Warrandyte, Victoria, an outer suburb of Melbourne.

FOOTY – POETRY AND AUSTRALIAN RULES FOOTBALL

Australian Rules Football (also called Aussie Rules, or footy) is a contact sport played between two teams on an oval field.  Goals are worth six points and the primary methods of moving the oval ball are by kicking, handballing and running with the ball.  The game features frequent physical contests, spectacular marking (i.e. catching the ball from a kick), fast movement and high scoring.  The sport has the highest spectator attendance and television viewership of all sports in Australia, while the Australian Football League (AFL) is the nation’s wealthiest sporting body.  The AFL Grand Final, held annually at the Melbourne Cricket Ground (MCG), is the second-highest-attended club championship event in the world (just behind cricket’s Indian Premier League).

Damian Balassone’s father became a regular follower of Collingwood Football Club. The young Damian attended footy matches as a boy in the 1980’s, often sitting on his father’s shoulders in the outer of Victoria Park as he began to follow enthusiastically, recognising a hero of sorts in a player named after the Marvel Comics character The Hulk. (He discusses his love of football in an interview with Barbie Robinson.) His second collection, Strange Game in a Strange Land, subtitled A Poetic Celebration of Australian Rules Football is a poetic response to Australian Rules Football in all its glorious incarnations, from the tip of Tasmania to the Tiwi Islands, from the opening bounce of the season through to the seagulls descending onto the G at the conclusion of the Big Dance in a quirky collection of quatrains and couplets.

Brief Poems by Damian Balassone

FOOTY POEMS

My Nonna

When I started playing Aussie Rules,
my nonna’s face turned red.
I asked her what the problem was,
and this is what she said:
‘An oval ball, an oval ground,
for men with oval heads.’

***

Retrieving the Footy from the Tree

I climb the neighbour’s back veranda
and shake their precious jacaranda
until I hear the thrilling sound
of leather landing on the ground.

***

The Half-Back Flankers

We strive to run the lines until 
the opposition breaks.
Imagination is the name 
we give to our mistakes.

***

All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

HOLLYWOOD POEMS

Hollywood Hair Cycle

I once had hair like Moses,
but now my mop is thinner.
I once was Charlton Heston,
but now I am Yul Brynner.

***

Airbrushed

The biopic refused to show
the mole of Marilyn Monroe.

***

At a Restaurant in Berlin, 1936

You asked the famous leader
to autograph your napkin.
You thought that he was Hitler.
He signed it ‘Charlie Chaplin’.

***

Antipodean Romeo

As stars light up the jacaranda,
he’s climbing up the back veranda.

***

Greta Garbo

Because you’ve been dehumanised by fame
you wanna go where no one knows your name.

***

These “Hollywood Poems” first appeared in the magazine Eureka Street.
All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

HEBREW COUPLETS

The Fall of Nebuchadnezzar

He once was king of Babylon…but now
he’s drenched in dew and frolics like a cow.

***

David and Bathsheba

He watched her bathe.
‘She’s mine,’ said Dave.

***

Jacob’s Lament


‘The problem with my brother Esau:
his friggin’ mood is like a seesaw.’

***

Samson On Delilah


‘Delilah took me by the hand
and led me to the Promised Land.
With just a wiggle of her hips,
she triggered my apocalypse.’

***

Advice from Jonah


‘If God is calling and you bail,
you might end up inside a whale.’

***

Garden of Eden


A multitude of monsters will be on the loose
if man and woman work out how to reproduce.

***

These “Hebrew Couplets” first appeared in the magazine The Footy Almanac.
All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

From THE ASSES OF PARNASSUS

Lord Byron on Twitter

I awoke one morning
and found myself cancelled.

***

The iMirror

To google
yourself
is the gravest of errors,
your screen is
replaced
by the mirror of terrors.

***

The Gambler

The gambler knows that if he somehow wins
it covers up a multitude of sins.

***

On Grandma’s 107th Birthday

I wonder if she’ll ever meet
her maker in the sky.
This lady just keeps keeping on.
She’s lost the will to die.

***

Carnival of Colours

At the carnival of colours
(though they’re trying not to show it)
all the poets want to be singers
and the singers want to be poets. 

***

These poems were first published on The Asses of Parnassus blog.
All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

From LIGHT POETRY

The Housewife’s Dream

Each day she craves
a different sin.
Today she dreamt
that she was in

The House of Mirth
in no apparel
with Colin Firth
and Colin Farrell.

***

Defrocked

I once abstained from sin,
but now I’ve had my fill.
I once was Benny Hinn,
but now I’m Benny Hill.

***

Papal Nation

Italians are a people of integrity
who celebrate a celibate celebrity.

***

Phrases

The phrase ‘white men can’t dance’ is harsh but fair
…unless of course your name is Fred Astaire.

***

The Christian Suitor


‘The sacred Song of Songs
the Abrahamic Cupid –
decrees that you and I
should shag each other stupid.’

***

These poems were first published on the Light Poetry site.
All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

From LOVE IS A WEIRD CAT

Final year assembly

The children gather in the gym
to hear the last goodbye,
and through the skylight high above
they glimpse the summer sky.

***

Blind boy dreaming

A clique of corporate men
prepare to raid the earth again.

Despite their schemes,
the blind boy of the village dreams.

***

Love is a Weird Cat

Love is a weird cat
that sneaks up on you
when you’re lying on the couch
and brushes its soft fur
against your cold cheek,
before disappearing without a trace.

***

Cleopatra

She’s put an end to all my grand endeavours
and now my dreams are mummified forever.

***

Our Marriage Soundtrack

I think of our marriage quite often.
I think of the music as well.
It started with ‘Stairway to Heaven’
and ended with ‘Highway to Hell’.

***

Bathroom Wars

While stationed on the toilet seat of life, 
I’m told to get a move on by my wife.

***

The Old Preacher Retires

I leave the pulpit
with nothing left to prove.
I once moved mountains,
but now I cannot move.

***

The Bureaucrat

He served the republic with utter distinction.
His days in the office were memorable ones:
he covered the monsters with insect repellent
and shot the mosquitos with elephant guns. 

***

The Importance of Religion

Those who loathe religion 
are slow to contemplate 
that Lennon met McCartney 
at the church fête.

***

These poems are from Damian Balassone’s forthcoming collection, Love is a Weird Cat.
All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

LINKS

Chime

Strange Game in a Strange Land

Love is a Weird Cat

The Twitter (X) account of Damian Balassone

Damian Balassone’s website

Five longer poems by Damian Balassone on the Footy Almanac site

Links to poems and articles by Damian Balassone on the Muck Rack website

Barbie Robinson talks to Damian Balassone about Strange Game in a Strange Land for Living Arts Canberra

Children’s poetry video of Damian Balassone reading his poem “The Sportsman or the Scientist?”

All poems © Damian Balassone. Reprinted by permission of the author.

Dial Tone- Brief Poems by Peter Vertacnik

Peter Vertacnik was born in Saginaw, Michigan. He holds degrees in creative writing and English from The University of Florida, Texas Tech University and Penn State University. His poetry, translations, and criticism have appeared in 32 Poems, Bad Lilies, The Cortland Review, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, The Hopkins Review, Literary Matters, The New Criterion, Phoebe, Plume, The Spectator (World), THINK, and Water~Stone Review. He was a finalist for the Donald Justice Poetry Prize in 2021.

His debut poetry collection, The Nature of Things Fragile, (Criterion Books, 2024) was the winner of the twenty-third New Criterion Poetry Prize, judged by George Bradley, Roger Kimball and Adam Kirsch. Established in 2000, the New Criterion Poetry Prize is awarded each year to a book-length manuscript of poems that pay close attention to form. The poems in this collection depict a world fraught with vulnerability and loss. Utilizing a wide range of  traditional and inventive poetic forms, including sonnets, villanelles, triolets, a sestina, epigrams, blank verse, and word-count, he confronts the illnesses and deaths of loved ones, the memories of old houses and towns left behind, and the vanishing of once-ubiquitous household items. It is a book of elegies, but also one of celebration.

He now lives in Jacksonville, Florida, where he works as an English instructor at the local Episcopal School, a co-educational college-preparatory school.

FORGOTTEN GOOD POEMS

Peter Vertacnik has curated Forgotten Good Poems on the Twitter (X) platform for many years. Calling it Just good poems the world seems to have forgotten (and should read) he has managed to introduce followers of the site to a very wide variety of poems that have, through time, slipped under the radar of many poetry readers. It has been a cosmopolitan selection, accompanied by clear images of individual poems by writers from a variety of backgrounds. He has done much to reignite an interest in poets who he feels, and I mostly agree with him, deserve a wider audience.

These poets come from a variety of backgrounds. There are American poets whose audience deserves to be wider, such as Fred Chappell, N. Scott Momaday and William H. Dickey. Canadian poets featured include Steven Heighton, Gwendolyn MacEwen and Charles Bruce. Irish poets Tom Duddy, John Hewitt and Gerard Fanning share a space with English poets Vernon Scannell, E. J. Scovell and Lawrence Sail. There are poets from Scotland (Maurice Lindsay) and Wales (Paul Henry and R. S. Thomas) as well as Australian poets (David Malouf and James McAuley) and the Jamaican poet Anthony McNeill.

An anthology winnowed from these selections would make an enticing collection.

ASSES OF PARNASSUS

All of the poems below first appeared in the Asses of Parnassus, a Tumblr-based blog devoted to short poems and edited by Canadian poet, Brooke Clark whose own collection of poems Ubanities (Fitzhenry & Whiteside, 2020) also contains many brief poems. These are poems, as Reader’s Guide below puts it, in the tradition of Martial, Herrick, Nims, Cope, Cunningham, a tradition that merges formal exactitude with concision and wit. The work of Martial, Herrick and Cunningham is featured in distinct posts on this site. The humorous and irreverent approach of the Asses of Parnassus site is illustrated with the Tumblr avatar (see image right), a detail of an etching – originally entitled Hasta su abuelo (And so was his grandfather) – from Los caprichos (The Caprices), a set of prints created by the Spanish artist Francisco Goya in 1797–1798. The poems chosen reflect, in a contemporary manner, Goya’s condemnation of the universal follies and foibles of the Spanish society in which he lived.

The Asses of Parnassus not only features a multitude of translations (in rhyme) from Greek and Latin authors, in particular plenty of rude, witty and scurrilous barbs from Martial and Catullus, but also promotes the work of many of the finest practitioners of the art of the epigram today, writers as diverse as Jerome Betts, Robin Helweg-Larsen, Bruce Bennett, David and Daniel Galef, Damian Balassone, Susan McLean, Alexandra Oliver and, of course, Peter Vertacnik.

Brief Poems by Peter Vertacnik

Conscience

Though you don’t hear me with your ears,
I speak as lucidly as mirrors.
My voice maintains a constant call,
Which most obey, but never all.

***

Concerning Pedestals

Our would-be leaders shift and whisper, nervous,
As their dead forebears topple in the street:
“Surely we’ve done nothing to deserve this.
Everyone’s free to grovel at our feet.”

***

Reader’s Guide

Some lines illuminate, dissect, or slam
(See Martial, Herrick, Nims, Cope, Cunningham).
Each forged for you—old, middle-aged, and younger—
In sharp, recurrent verse. Like pangs of hunger.

***

Standardized

Numb hours of teaching to the test,
And hours more of silent filling,
Filling of bubbles. A bored unrest
Of minds, compliant though not willing.

Seasonal Change

Each autumn now feels warmer,
And our maple’s leaves less bright
On the branch that scrapes the dormer,
Keeping me up at night.

***

Hyperopia

Youth’s hard to see, until we’ve seen it through.
Only old eyes can recognize what’s new.

***

“Why Are We Doing This?”

for my students

Each day you’ll grasp a little more,
Something you haven’t seen before.
And as new skills and knowledge link,
You’ll learn not what but how to think.

***

Accolade

What is the most sought poet’s prize?
That what you scan now with your eyes
Tomorrow you may memorize.

***

Dial Tone

Seems strange to miss this barren baritone
Once known to all, and by all overthrown;
To miss, whenever I pick up my phone
And make a call, the barely noticed drone
That spoke of reaching out, of being alone.

Final Illness

The medicines have ceased to make him stronger;
He takes them to stay weak a little longer.

***

Malpractice

“Of course one must be cleansed of mortal sin
In order to receive the Eucharist.”
Yet what humane physician would insist
Only the healed ingest his medicine?

***

Nomenclature

Though names may alter—graveyards, cemeteries,
Memorial parks—the function never varies.

***

Patient

He wasn’t dead; nor was he tougher.
What hadn’t killed him made him suffer.

***

American Medicine

Another pill: devised to heal,
Or coddle those afraid to feel?

***

All poems © Peter Vertacnik. Reprinted by permission of the author.
All poems first published on the Asses of Parnassus blog.

LINKS

The Peter Vertacnik website.

The Twitter (X) account of Peter Vertacnik.

Forgotten Good Poems.

The Asses of Parnassus blog.

Peter Vertacnik wins the twenty-third New Criterion Poetry Prize.

The Amazon page for The Nature of Things Fragile.

The Encounter Books page for The Nature of Things Fragile.

All poems © Peter Vertacnik. Reprinted by permission of the author.
All poems first published on the Asses of Parnassus blog.

Dog Tags – Brief Poems by R. L. Barth

R.L. Barth was born June 7, 1947 and grew up in Erlanger, Kentucky.  He can trace a long line of military history in his family and that tradition of service spurred him to enlist in the U.S. Marine Corps. An early relative of his served in the Union Army after arriving in the U.S. from Germany, and other relatives served in WWI, WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Barth enlisted in the Marine Corps in 1966 and served through 1969. During his tour of duty in Vietnam he was an assistant patrol leader and then patrol leader in the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion.  He was educated at Northern Kentucky State College and at Stanford University. For more than twenty years (1981-2004) he operated his own small poetry press, while writing, sometime teaching, and working as a bookseller. He has twice been a visiting poet at the University of California, Santa Barbara.  Among his poetry collections are Looking for Peace (1985), A Soldier’s Time (1988), Deeply Dug In (2003), and No Turning Back: The Battle of Dien Bien Phu (2016). Learning War: Selected Vietnam War Poems, (2021) is published through Broadstone Books in Frankfort, Kentucky. He has also edited The Selected Poems of Yvor Winters (1999), The Selected Poems of Janet Lewis (2000), and The Selected Letters of Yvor Winters (2000).

He lives in northern Kentucky with his wife, Susan.

Poetry and the Vietnam War

R. L. Barth is a Marine Corps veteran of the Vietnam War from Kentucky, and the war is nearly his exclusive subject, as these titles suggest: Deeply Dug In, Forced-Marching to the Styx: Vietnam War Poems, Small Arms Fire, Looking for Peace. Another collection, A Soldier’s Time, takes its title from a letter written by Dr. Johnson and quoted by Boswell in his Life: A soldier’s time is passed in distress and danger, or in idleness and corruption. During his time in Vietnam, Barth wasn’t writing poetry or keeping detailed journals of his experiences. Except for the odd letter home, he didn’t write while in combat. 

Arriving in Vietnam in 1968, Barth recalls the blistering heat and the bold stench. But there was beauty too: After the heat and the stench there was the beauty of the landscape – all these shades of green. He has described his work there:  I was Recon, which basically meant we would take a team of eight or ten people into the jungle, the mountains, and run Recon, then run back – just a cycle … As a result, I knew the jungle very well, and certainly knew what the mountains were like.

Barth has said that his poetry has two audiences: those who served in Vietnam, or some other combat arena, and those who haven’t served. I have always tried to write in such a way that the first audience would say, ‘Yes, he got that right; that’s how it was,’ … For the second audience, I hope that, even though they can never understand to the degree that a veteran can, they can get some sense of the experience, that something can resonate on a human level.

Asked why he has written about war almost exclusively for more than forty-five years, Barth said: To understand combat. And, I suppose, Vietnam.

Poetry after the War

When he returned from Vietnam, Barth attended Northern Kentucky State College (NKSC) in Covington – what is now Northern Kentucky University in Highland Heights. At that time, in 1969, much of the school’s student body was made up of secretaries, recent high school graduates and veterans of the G.I. Bill. I had the G.I. Bill and thought, ‘Why not college?’

It was there that Barth was introduced to a writer whose work would greatly impact his own. As an undergraduate, I started writing dreadful poems – free verse pieces of dreck. Junior year, I took literary criticism from Tom Zaniello. One of the textbooks was called, In Defense of Reason, by Yvor Winters. I was immediately taken.

As a result of his interest in the work of Yvor Winters, Barth was inspired to part ways with free verse and began writing formally. I’m reading Winters, thinking about the poetry I really like, thinking, ‘Why didn’t I see this before?’ I started writing the way I write now. After earning his undergraduate degree, Barth was selected as a Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University, where Winters had taught until 1966. 

While in Stanford he met Helen Pinkerton, a poet and essayist, and the wife of Wesley Trimpi, who taught in Stanford’s English Department. Trimpi was an expert in English Renaissance lyric poetry and classical literature. Barth and Pinkerton lunched together and exchanged poems. He also came to know Winters’ widow, the poet and novelist, Janet Lewis, who asked him to edit Winters’ selected poems and letters as well as her own poems. It was a major production getting the letters – they were all over the country … And Winters himself had made a big point to ask people he wrote to destroy the letters. This correspondence included letters sent to leading names in literature, among them Marianne Moore, Louise Bogan, and Allen Tate. In 1999, with Barth as editor, The Selected Poems of Yvor Winters was published, followed by The Selected Poems of Janet Lewis, and The Selected Letters of Yvor Winters, in 2000.

After finishing up at Stanford in 1979, Barth returned to Kentucky and established his own poetry press, but after 20 years he decided he had spent too much time on other people’s poems instead of his own. Once he focused on his own work, Barth published numerous poetry collections that include, Looking for Peace (1985), A Soldier’s Time (1988), Deeply Dug In (2003), and No Turning Back: The Battle of Dien Bien Phu (2016). 

Helen Pinkerton has praised his war poetry: His collections contain some of the finest poems ever written in English on the direct experience of modern war.  X. J. Kennedy has also praised his work: Barth’s best lines have a classical ring to them: it is as though Lucretius or Martial had been reincarnated in the uniform of the U. S. Marines. And Timothy Steele had this to say: R. L. Barth has done for the Vietnam war what Owen, Blunden and Sassoon did for World War I. He has borne moving and memorable witness to the tragedies of the conflict, and has done so in poems whose conscientious and clear-sighted craft does full justice to the seriousness of his subject.

Brief Poems by R. L. Barth

Small Arms Fire

Why not adjust? Forget this? Let it be? 
Because it’s truth. Because it’s history. 

***

One Way to Carry the Dead

A huge shell thundered; he was vaporized
And, close friends breathing near, internalized.

***

Epitaph

Tell them quite simply that we died
Thirsty, betrayed, and terrified.

***

War Debt

Survive or die, war holds one truth:
Marine, you will not have a youth.

***

Initial Confusion

A sergeant barked, “Your ass is Uncle’s!” though
It wasn’t clear if he meant Sam or Ho.”

***

Saigon: 16 VI. 1963

In chaos, judgement took on form and name:
The lotus flared; more men burned in your just flame.

***

Saigon: 30 IV. 1975

We lie here, trampled in the rout,
There was no razor’s edge, no doubt.

***

De Bello

The troops deploy. Above, the stars
Wheel over mankind’s little wars.
If there’s a deity, it’s Mars.

***

Epitaph for a Patrol Leader

The medals did not signify—
No more than his suntan—
Nor the promotions; simply say,
“He never lost a man.”

***

Movie Stars

Bob Hope, John Wayne, and Martha Raye
Were dupes who knew no other way;
Jane Fonda, too, whose Hanoi hitch
Epitomized protester kitsch.

***

Ambush

For thirteen months, death was familiar.
We knew its methods and the odds. Thus, war.
And yet, I never once saw dying eyes
That were not stunned or shattered by surprise.

***

Snowfall in Vietnam

Leaflets fill the sky.

(More monostich poems by R. L. Barth are available on the Slates – One Line Poems page.)

LINKS

Text of A soldier’s time : Vietnam war poems on the Internet Archive.

A preview of Deeply Dug In on Google Books.

The Scienter Books page on No Turning Back: The Battle of Dien Bien Phu.

The Broadstone Books page on Learning War: Selected Vietnam War Poems.

Patrick Kurp introduces some monostich poems.

Patrick Kurp on a poetry reading by R. L. Barth.

Francis Fike reviews No Turning Back: The Battle of Dien Bien Phu for Reformed Journal.

A review by Vicki Prichard of Learning War: Selected Vietnam War Poems in the Northern Kentucky Tribune.

A review by Clive Wilmer of Learning War: Selected Vietnam War Poems in the TLS.

A review by Bill McCloud of Learning War: Selected Vietnam War Poems in Books in Review published by Vietnam Veterans of America.

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Goldfish Ponds – Brief Poems by Carol Snow

Carol Snow was born on Oct 18, 1949.

Her collections include Position Paper (Counterpath Press, 2016), Placed: Karesanui Poems (Counterpath Press, 2008), The Seventy Prepositions (University of California Press, 2004), For (University of California Press, 2000) and Artist and Model (Atlantic Monthly Press, 1990), winner of both the Poetry Center Book Award and the Joseph Henry Jackson Award in Literature. Artist and Model was also selected by Robert Hass for the National Poetry Series. Billy Collins included her brief poem “Tour” (see below) in his 2003 anthology, Poetry 180.

Carol Snow’s award-winning poetry has been admired by many. When she published her first volume of poetry, Artist and Model, in 1989, poet Michael Palmer praised the complex music [Snow] forms from our simplest words and noted that she reflects on the struggle toward–and limits of–representation itself. . . . Artist and Model is a first book of singular poetic intelligence and attention. Her poetry has been celebrated as work of difficult beauty and brilliant, funny, subtle by Robert Hass who also said Her originality is to be puzzled—as artists should be—by the obvious. She is cunning, subtle, and she can write. She has been called delicate, and masterful by Cole Swenson. She has been praised for being ever restless, ever re-framing the frame of reference by the Boston Review. She has, according to Jorie Graham, been teaching us how brutally self-transforming a verbal action can be when undertaken in good faith and according to Fanny Howe she has a new and mesmerizing way of looking at things. Fanny Howe also describes Snow’s work as post-traumatic—half-seen, half-remembered, half-named—the event more than half gone…. Reviewing For on Amazon, John Isles writes: The language is tentative, edged with the cold stare of Experimental poetry, though it is a passionately lived and felt incarnation of the poet’s spiritual quest.

In 2002, she taught at the University of California–Berkeley as the Roberta Holloway poet-in-residence.

She lives in San Francisco, California.

Brief Poems by Carol Snow

WHAT COMFORT?

***

For K.

Then Kathy—”Is that mine?”—ran out to the crying in the yard.

***

Be Brief

“—necessitated, you know, by his impairments—”

***

At the Beach

But kept “—then threw back the shell.”

***

Elegy

And now that I can no longer…—no longer have to—visit him…

***

Breath As

tidal—ardor…fervor…horror…as moon…—

***

After

the — post- — after: “the readiness is all”

William Shakespeare, Hamlet, act 5, scene 2

***

POEM

Not thought, exactly: a refrain 
of thought.

***

Family

Not just S. but all of us, wanting
and exchanging wanting—“the strong force”—

***

In

the stones: their qualities in relation — ō — I mean to say — occurs;
like shock, occurs — is located

***

There was a moment

of blessing, calm.
Though it was a pause, a hiatus.

***

By the Pond: Reading

by the pond, the immediate –
breath – and then the text, and then the pond.

***

By the Pond: Quiet Breaths

in a still place. “Each next”
taking up a little of the spill.

***

By the Pond: Watching the goldfish

(why?)—the body passive,
small eye movements (as though in a dream)

***

Against

wouldn’t just anyone stiffen? — pressed — what must
   be a muzzle — instead of no — no

***

And another

“massacres of the innocents.”

And that there is a form
even for that.

***

But

built a skeleton of twigs — in such as this — constellation — animation
     technique: electrodes/sensors
strategically placed on the face, body — * — …of the matter

***

TOUR

Near a shrine in Japan he’d swept the path
and then placed camellia blossoms there.

Or—we had no way of knowing—he’d swept the path
between fallen camellias.

LINKS

Wikipedia page on Carol Snow

Carol Snow on the Creative Work Fund site

Carol Snow reading

Some poems on the Electronic Poetry Review site

Some poems on the All Poetry site

Brenda Hillman discusses the poem “News Of” by Carol Snow

Some extracts from The Seventy Prepositions: Poems

Poets.Org page on Carol Snow

Black Silk – Brief Poems by Sonia Sanchez

6soniaSonia Sanchez was born in Birmingham, Alabama, on September 9, 1934 to Wilson L. Driver and Lena Jones Driver.  A year later her mother died in childbirth, so Sonia spent several years with relatives, particularly her paternal grandmother who, having interested her in poetry, died when Sonia was six years old and already beginning to write. For some years she was reared by family relatives and friends. In 1943, she moved to Harlem in New York City to live with her father, a school teacher, her sister, and her stepmother, her father’s third wife. She married Albert Sanchez, a Puerto Rican immigrant. Although this first marriage, which produced a daughter names Anita, did not last, Sonia Sanchez would retain his surname as her professional name. She was also married for two years to Etheridge Knight and had twin sons named Morani Neusi and Mungu Neusi. Although they divorced after two years, the theme of motherhood became a key theme in her poetry. 

She studied political science at Hunter College in Harlem and earned her BA degree there in 1955. Subsequently she pursued postgraduate work at New York University and studied poetry with Louise Bogan. She taught 5th Grade at the Downtown Community School in New York until 1967 and later lectured at many colleges across the United States. She helped to establish the discipline of Black Studies at university level and, in 1966, introduced Black Study courses in San Francisco State University. In 1977 she began working in Temple University in Philadelphia and became the first Presidential Fellow there. She remained teaching there until her retirement in 1999. She became Philadelphia’s first Poet Laureate and served in that position from 2012 to 2014. She has written over a dozen books of poetry, as well as short stories, critical essays, plays, and children’s books.

Sonia Sanchez has won many awards for her literary and political work. In 1969, she was awarded the P.E.N. Writing Award. She won the National Academy and Arts Award and the  National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship Award in 1978–79. She received the 1999 Langston Hughes Poetry Award, the 2001 Robert Frost Medal, the 2004 Harper Lee Award, and the 2006 National Visionary Leadership Award. In 2009, she received the Robert Creeley Award, from the Robert Creeley Foundation. She won the Wallace Stevens Award, in 2018, given by the Academy of American Poets, for proven mastery in the art of poetry. In October 2021, she was awarded the 28th annual Dorothy and Lillian Gish Prize “in recognition of her ongoing achievements in inspiring change through the power of the word.” In 2022, she was awarded the Edward MacDowell Medal by The MacDowell Colony for outstanding contributions to American culture.

She lives in Philadelphia.

black silk

THE POETRY OF SONIA SANCHEZ

Sonia Sanchez is the author of more than twenty collections of poetry. She has also produced numerous plays, written many books for children and edited anthologies of black writing. Her first collection of poems, Homecoming (1969), reflects a blues influence in form and content as it describes the struggle of defining black identity in the United States. Her second book, We a BaddDDD People (1970), makes use of urban black vernacular, experimental punctuation and a revolutionary spelling which owes much, she admits, to the influence of Langston Hughes and Sterling Brown. Further collections develop and expand on these formal, social and thematic concerns. I write to tell the truth about the black condition as I see it. Therefore, I write to offer a black woman’s view of the world …I decided along with a number of other Black poets to tell the truth in poetry by using the language, dialect, idioms, of the folks we believed our audience to be.  

Her later works, such as I’ve Been a Woman (1978), Homegirls and Handgrenades (1985), and Under a Soprano Sky (1987), reflect on themes of love, community, and empowerment. In her collection  Does Your House Have Lions? (1997) she experiments with the epic form in an an emotional depiction of her late brother’s gay sexuality and his deadly struggle with AIDS. Told in the voice of a sister, a brother, a father, a mother and various ancestors, it is a story of family estrangement and reconciliation related in a unique manner. In contrast Like the Singing Coming Off of Drums (published the following year) uses haiku, tanka and sensual blues to create love poems of a searing intensity. A further collection Morning Haiku (2010) combines concision and expansiveness in a typically vibrant fashion.

Her Collected Poems (2021), moving from her earliest work through to the present day, contains her favourite work in all forms of verse, from haiku to excerpts from book-length narratives.

black silk

HAIKU – TANKA – SONKU

While Sonia Sanchez has a well-deserved reputation for her work in many literary forms, including many types of poetry, it is her work in the briefest forms that interest me the most. She has described her own initiation into the  world of Japanese poetry in the introduction to her 2010 collection Morning Haiku From the moment i found a flowered book high up on a shelf at the 8th Street Bookshop in New York City, a book that announced Japanese haiku; from the moment i opened that book, and read the first haiku, i slid down onto the floor and cried and was changed. i had found me. She offers an interesting comparison between these forms and the blues writing of a tough form disguised in beauty and insight which offers no solutions, only a pronouncement, a formal declaration—an acceptance of pain, humor, beauty and non-beauty, death and rebirth, surprise and life.

Other Americans have co-opted these Japanese forms and given them an American slant. I am thinking of Amy Lowell, Adelaide Crapsey, Richard Wright, Jack Kerouac and Cid Corman. However Sonia Sanchez is, to my mind, unique in her approach to these tight forms. David Williams has praised her political approach, The haiku in her hands is the ultimate in activist poetry, as abrupt and as final as a fist. I prefer to celebrate the erotic charge she injects into her brief poems. Although she is not included in my  selection of erotic haiku on this site, in truth I could have offered 50 of her poems to replace those I included on the Nipples page. It is in these poems she is at her best. Not only is she a skilled practitioner of the haiku and the tanka forms, but she has managed to create her own distinctive form, the sonku, a poetic form she developed to inspire her students to create their own forms. (The sonku consists of a four-line poem written as 4-3-4-3 or 6-3-6-3.)

I hope you enjoy her work as much as I do.

black silk

Brief Poems by Sonia Sanchez

HAIKU

there are things sadder
than you and i. some people
do not even touch

***

o i was wide and
open unto him and he
moved in me like rain

***

i bring you
pine trees and laughter
for your journey

***

what is done is done
what is not done is not done
let it go…like the wind.

***

I have caught fire from
Your mouth now you want me to
Swallow the ocean.

***

you ask me to run
naked in the streets with you
i am holding your pulse.

***

I am who I am.
Nothing hidden just black silk
Above two knees.

black silk

[blues haiku]

my face is a scarred
reminder of your easy
comings and goings

***

[Blues Haiku 1]

all this talk bout love
girl. where you been all your life?
ain’t no man can love

***

Blues Haiku

let me be yo wil
derness let me be yo wind
blowing you all day.

***

Haiku (for you)

love between us is
speech and breath. Loving you is
a long river running.

***

(written from Peking)

let me wear the day
well so when it reaches you
you will enjoy it.

black silk

the I in you the
you in me colliding in
one drop of semen

***

just the two of us
suspended in each other
like red morning rain 

***

You too slippery
For me. Can’t hold you long or
Hard. Not enough nites.

***

O this day like an
orange peeled against the sky
murmurs me and you.

***

i count the morning
stars the air so sweet i turn
riverdark with sound

***

Derelict with eyes
I settle in a quiet
Carnival of waves

***

we are sudden stars
you and i exploding in
our blue black skins

***

in your wet season
i painted violets and
drank their deep channels.

***

c’mon man hold me
touch me before time love me
from behind your eyes.

black silk

TANKA

i kneel down like a
collector of jewels before
you. i am singing
one long necklace of love my
mouth a sapphire of grapes.

***

I don’t know the rules anymore
I don’t  know if you say this or not.
I wake up in the nite
tasting you on my breath.

***

[South African tanka]

the necklace i bring
you is a different one my
love it burns our
history in your flesh it
smells behind the ear of God

***

men who watch in the
night see me coming and yell
the leper comes the
leper comes who will feed her
she without friend or lover.

***

autumn. a bonfire
of leaves. morning peels us toward
pomegranate festivals.
and in the evening i bring
you soup cooled by my laughter.

***

c’mon man ride me
beyond smiles teeth corpuscles
come into my bloodstream
abandon yourself to smell let
us be a call to prayer.

***

i have taken five
baths ten showers six shampoos
and stll i smell her
scent oozing from the quiet
peeling of our lives

***

black silk

SONKU

to worship
until i
become stone
to love
until i
become bone.

***

what i want
from you can
you give? what
i give to
you do you
want? hey? hey?

***

my eyes look
and i don’t
see me i
turn around
to find you

***

i hear the
sound of love
you unstring
like purple beads
over my breasts

***

i feel your
mouth on my
thighs immac
ulate tongue

black silk

LINKS

General

The Sonia Sanchez website

Biographical

The Wikipedia page on Sonia Sanchez

The Encyclopaedia Britannica page on Sonia Sanchez

The History Makers brief biography

Poems

Some relatively recent poems are available on the Poets.org site

Some poems are available on the Poetry Foundation site

Some poems are available on the Poem Hunter site

https://www.poemhunter.com/sonia-sanchez/poems/page-2/

Some poems are available on the Best Poems site

Some poems are available on the Bay Art site

Some poems in PDF format with an author’s introduction

Some brief poems are available on the Terebess site.

Video

Sonia Sanchez reads her poem “9 Haiku (For Freedom’s Sisters)”

Sonia Sanchez: The Power of the Word – Love Haiku

Sonia Sanchez reads 10 haikus for Max Roach

Sonia Sanchez answers five questions on education from Stony Brook University

Sonia Sanchez and Alexs Pate discuss what a Haiku is

Interviews

Haiku Mind: An Interview with Sonia Sanchez

Apiary Magazine: an Interview with Sonia Sanchez

Boston Review: an Interview with Sonia Sanchez

About Sonia Sanchez

Sonia Sanchez’s Haiku by Becky Thomson

Sonia Sanchez’s ‘magic/now’: Black History, Haiku and Healing

6sonia

Li Po’s Quiet Night Thought

1LiPoLi Po (李白), also known as Li Bai, is generally believed to have been born in 701, in Suyab  (present-day Kyrgyzstan) where his family had prospered in business at the frontier. According to legend,  while Li Po’s mother was pregnant with him, she had a dream of a great white star falling from heaven. This seems to have contributed to the idea of his being a banished immortal (one of his nicknames). Later, the family, after a decision by his father, Li Ke (李客), moved to Jiangyou (江油), near modern Chengdu, in Sichuan, when the young boy was about five years old. During his lifetime, he had many names—Li Taibai, Green Lotus Scholar, Li Twelve, the last one  a familial term of endearment, due to his being twelfth among his brothers and male cousins on the paternal side. As a young man he read widely in Confucian classics and astrological and metaphysical tomes  but disdained to take the literacy exam. Reading extensively was part of the family literary tradition. Before he was ten he had begun to compose poetry.

The young Li also engaged in other activities, such as taming wild birds, fencing, riding, hunting, traveling and aiding the poor or oppressed by means of both money and arms. Eventually, the young Li seems to have become quite skilled in swordsmanship: When I was fifteen, I was fond of sword play, and with that art I challenged quite a few great men. Before he was twenty, Li had fought and killed several opponents, apparently for reasons of chivalry, in accordance with the knight-errant tradition of dueling. In 720, he was interviewed by Governor Su Ting, who considered him a genius. Though he expressed the wish to become an official, he never took the civil service examination that would have made him a ranking officer. Instead, when he was eighteen or nineteen, he went into seclusion with a Daoist recluse, studied the Daoist religion, and, at twenty-three, began touring China.

In his mid-twenties, about 725, Li left Sichuan beginning his days of wandering. Soon after that he married the granddaughter of a retired prime minister, Xü Yushi, and lived with his wife’s family in Anlu (present-day Hubei province). As he wrote to a friend, The land of Chu has seven swamps. I went to look at them. But at His Excellency Xü’s house, I was offered the hand of his granddaughter and lingered there during the frosts of three autumns. He had already begun to write poems, some of which he showed to various officials in the vain hope of becoming employed as a secretary. He seems to have abandoned Miss Xü, who was impatient at his lack of promotion. During the first year of his wandering, he met celebrities and gave away much of his wealth to needy friends. He is known to have married four times. After that first marriage ended, he married, in 744, for the second time,  another poet, surnamed Zong (宗), with whom he both had children and exchanges of poems, including many expressions of love for her and their children. His wife was a granddaughter of Zong Chuke  an important government official during the Tang dynasty. He also married a Miss Lin and a Miss Lu. He was, also, reputably fond of going about with the dancing-girls of Zhaoyang and Jinling.

By perhaps 740, he moved to Rencheng city in Shandong province. It was at that time that he became one of the group members known as the “Six Idlers of the Bamboo Brook,” an informal group of like-minded individuals dedicated to literature and wine, and reputedly constantly drunk. He continued his wandering, eventually making friends with a famous Daoist priest, Wu Yun. In 742, Wu Yun was summoned by the Emperor to attend the imperial court, where his praise of Li led Emperor Xuan-zong to summon Li Po to the court in Chang’an and offer him a position at the Imperial Academy where he was employed as a translator, as he knew at least one non-Chinese language. The emperor gave him a post at the Hanlin Academy that served to provide scholarly expertise and poetry for the imperial court.  He continued to enjoy drinking to excess. One day, the emperor had a sudden impulse and wanted Li Po to write a song expressive of his blue mood. When Li Po obeyed the summons, he was so drunk that courtiers were obliged to dab his face with water. When in a short while he came to his senses a little bit, he seized a brush and, without any visible efforts, wrote a composition of flawless gracefulness. However, he was not universally popular and came under attack from envious noblemen in the court and so the emperor, reluctantly, but politely, and with large gifts of gold and silver, sent Li Po away from the royal court to resume his simple previous life.

The influence of alcohol in his poetry is explored in a brief article in The Guardian by Ben Myers : Here is a poet whose “technique” involved climbing a mountain, getting wasted, then writing down his thoughts. The work he produced during such jollies was highly meditative, though only in the same way the drunk in the corner of your local pub is meditative, while his ability to convey the skull-crushing, fear-inducing effect of hangovers is second to none… Much of his work is imbued with that sense of warmth and oneness that comes after the first few glasses, as well as that maudlin regret that comes with the next few.

After leaving the court, Li Po formally became a Taoist, making a home in Shandong, but wandering extensively for the next ten years, writing poems. At about this time, around the autumn of 744, he met Du Fu, with whom he shared social concerns, and the two poets became good friends. They shared a single room and conducted various activities together, such as traveling, hunting, wine, and poetry. In 756, Li Po became unofficial poet laureate and staff adviser to the military expedition of Prince Lin of Yong, Emperor Ming-Huang’s 16th son who was named to share the imperial power as a general after the old emperor had abdicated. The prince was soon accused of intending to establish an independent kingdom and was executed. Li Po escaped, but was later captured, imprisoned and sentenced to death. In the summer of 758 he was banished to Yelang; before he arrived there, he benefited from a general amnesty. He had only gotten as far as Wushan when the good news of his pardon caught up with him in 759. 

When Li received the news of his pardon, he returned down the river to continue his wandering lifestyle while still engaging in the pleasures of food, wine, good company, and writing poetry. Eventually, in 762, Li’s relative Li Yangbing became magistrate of Dangtu, and Li Po went to stay with him there. He volunteered to serve on the general staff of the Chinese commander Li Guangbi. However, at age 61, Li Po became critically ill and his health would not allow him to fulfill this plan. There is a long and fanciful tradition regarding his death that he drowned after falling from his boat one day while drunk, as he tried to embrace the reflection of the moon in the Yangtze River. However, the truth appears to be that he died in a relative’s house, having contracted his last illness as the result of falling into the water while drunk. The actual cause appears to have been natural enough, although perhaps exacerbated by his hard-living lifestyle. Some claimed that his death was the result of mercury poisoning due to alcohol consumption. Others claimed that he died of chronic thoracic suppuration—pus penetrating his chest and lungs. These include the poet Pi Rixiu (838–83) in his poem Seven Loves: He was brought down by rotted ribs, / Which sent his drunken soul to the other world. Although there is no way to verify this claim, it has credibility – such a chest problem could have been caused by abuse of alcohol. In his final years, Li Po’s drinking and poverty would have aggravated his pulmonary condition. Nevertheless, whatever the truth, the legend surrounding his death has a place in Chinese culture and continues to be propagated  to this day

In January 764, the newly enthroned emperor Daizong issued a decree summoning Li Bai to serve as a counselor at court. It was a post without actual power, in spite of its high-sounding title. When the news reached Dangtu County, where Li Po was supposed to be living, local officials were thrown into confusion and could not find him. Soon it was discovered that he had died more than a year before. Of what cause and on what day, no one could tell. So we can say only that Li Po, despite his renown, passed away in 762 without notice. For hundreds of years, some people even maintained that he had never died at all, claiming to encounter him now and then. In truth,  the exact date and cause of his death remains clouded in uncertainty. 

 

Li Bai Memorial Hall

In 1962, to commemorate the 1200th anniversary of the death of famous Chinese poet, Li Po (also known as Li Bai) the Li Bai Memorial Hall (right) was built at his birthplace, Zhongba Town of northern Jiangyou County in Sichuan Province. It was completed in 1981 and opened to the public in October 1982. The memorial, built in the style of the classic garden of the Tang Dynasty,  has collected Li Po’s works in 80 different editions printed in the Yuan (1271-1368), Ming (1368-1644) and Qing (1644-1911) dynasties, 700 volumes in total.  Li Po lived in Jiangyou for 24 years during the Tang Dynasty (AD 618-907).

 

3moon copy

Quiet Night Thought

Quiet Night Thought is one of the most famous Chinese poems taught regularly in Chinese and Taiwanese schools. This brief poem  has a similar iconic status in Chinese literature as Sappho’s fragment on the moon and the Pleiades has in Greek literature or Basho’s frog haiku in Japanese literature. The brief poem was written by Li Po on September 15th in the 14th year of Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang Dynasty (726) in Yangzhou Hostel, when he was 26 years old. Reputedly the hostel was not in good condition: it had poor ventilation, the rooms were cold and, it has been suggested, the water sprinkled on the ground condensed quickly into frost. According to some scholars, the poem was written at the time of the Mid-Autumn Festival in which family reunions are very important. That could have added to the sense of homesickness in the poem.

In traditional Chinese, the poem reads:

床前明月光
疑是地上霜
舉頭望明月
低頭思故鄉

In simplified Chinese, it reads:

床前明月光
疑是地上霜
举头望明月
低头思故乡

And in Pinyin Chinese, it reads:

Chuáng qián míngyuè guāng
Yí shì dìshang shuāng
Jǔtóu wàng míngyuè
Dītóu sī gùxiāng

A literal translation might read

Moonlight before my bed
Perhaps frost on the ground.
Lift my head and see the moon
Lower my head and I miss my home.

An even more literal translation, courtesy of Ravi Kopra, reads

Bed before bright moon shine
Think be ground on frost
Raise head view bright moon
Lower head think home

The poem is structured as a single quatrain (4 lines) in five-character regulated verse in a form called Shi (), which although it merely means “poetry” in Chinese, in English it means, more specifically, poetry modeled after works in the Old Chinese, Confucian style. Shi poems are generally quatrains, as in Quiet Night Thought, with a line length of four to seven characters and, usually, a rhyme scheme ABAB. In this case the poem is structured as a single quatrain in five-character regulated verse with a simple AABA rhyme scheme. It is short and direct, as Shi poems are, and is not merely personal but also evocative of all those who are away from home through their obligations. Quiet Night Thought is considered unusual among Li Po’s poems for its vagueness and its lack of personal details. 

According to Delaine Rogers, in her essay Spring Dawns and Quiet Night Thoughts,  this brief poem embodies the concept of

filial piety: Li Bai, as the narrator, fulfills his duty toward the Emperor by serving his government post, and fulfills his duties toward his ancestors by thinking of and missing his hometown, lamenting the fact that he cannot reunite with his family for the Mid-Autumn Festival. This festival, Zhong Qiu Jie, which takes place on the fifteenth day of the first lunar month, is celebrated by eating the popular, traditional mooncakes and is associated with family reunions. Others have discounted the connection with the Mid-Autumn Festival. The association with drinking is harder to discount. Many paintings of Li Po, such as that on the right,  depict him in a flowing white robe and beard, raising a glass of wine to the moon.

Quiet Night Thought is unusual among Li Po’s poems for its vagueness. The details of the moon and of his surroundings, with the lack of personal details, makes this poem easily relatable. The moon referred to here is most likely the mid-autumn moon, given the time of year. The poem also embodies the concept of filial piety: Li Po, as narrator, fulfills his duty toward the Emperor by serving his government post, and fulfills his duties toward his ancestors by thinking of and missing his hometown, lamenting the fact that he cannot reunite with his family. 

Li Po, as explained in the biographical note above, was also a regular drinker. He celebrated drunkenness and the potency of wine, and wrote many of his poems while inebriated. It has been suggested that he  wrote Quiet Night Thought drunk. Author Jingxiong Wu states while some may have drunk more wine than Li, no-one has written more poems about wine.

Sri Lankin writer Isuru Thambawita offers a detailed analysis of the poem. Going through the first line of this poem, what springs to our minds is the fact that the poet can directly cast a glance at the moon. Firstly, he sees the moon which has brought and refreshed the memories of his beloved ones and the village. Secondly, comes a comparison between the frost and the moonbeams. The poet through his imagination has captured the night scenery in a mesmerising manner. The dew on the gossamer scattered throughout the garden has been compared by the poet to moonbeams. On the other hand, it can be said that Li Bai has been fascinated by this morning view. Next comes the third line which portrays that the poet’s memory and feelings get triggered by the moon. Obviously the moon, as you are aware, has been used by the poets to portray nuances of feelings and ideas such as love, loneliness, hatred, sorrow, misery and happiness. Going back to the fourth line of the poem, it is clear that he closes his eyes hiding nostalgic feelings in his heart.

 

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Translating the poem

Like many, I first encountered the poetry of Li Po when I read Ezra Pound‘s celebrated poem, The River-Merchant’s Wife: A Letter which is subtitled after Li Po. It is his translation or reinterpretation of a classic Li Po poem which Pound first published in his 1915 collection Cathay which contains versions of Chinese poems composed from the notebooks of Ernest Fenollosa, a scholar of Chinese literature. It is one of eleven poems in the collection based on poems by Li Po, called Rihaku in Cathay. Although Pound was largely responsible for the eminence of Li Po’s work in contemporary literature and although he translated or adapted widely from the Chinese, there is no evidence that he translated Quiet Night Thought.

Arthur Waley, the renowned English orientalist and sinologist who achieved much acclaim for his translations of Chinese poetry, also translated many of Li Po’s poems, particularly in his collection A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems (1918). But again, there is no evidence that he translated Quiet Night Thought.

Amy Lowell, who had a distinctly frosty relationship with Pound through their fractious collaboration in the Imagist (or Imagiste) movement was one of the first Western writers to translate Li Po’s poem. (See below.) Whether it does justice to the original, I am unqualified to say but it stands as an interesting brief poem on its own merits. Since her translation, there have been numerous others who have added to the store of translations of this iconic poem. Of the versions included, I enjoy that of Zhao Zhentao for its compression, that of Vikram Seth for its balance and that of Aaron Poochigian for its alliteration, its rhymes and its colloquial zest. Inspired by the rhythms and rhymes of Robert Frost’s Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, I offer my own tribute to Li Po’s poem as the last translation below.

Should you wish to translate the poem or to select a favourite translation, you might fill  in the comment box below this post. 

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English Translations

床前明月光
疑是地上霜
舉頭望明月
低頭思故

***

Thoughts in a tranquil night

Athwart the bed
I watch the moonbeams cast a trail
So bright, so cold, so frail.
That for a space it gleams
Like hoar-frost on the margin of my dreams.
I raise my head, —
The splendid moon I see:
Then droop my head,
And sink to dreams of thee —
My Fatherland, of thee!

Launcelot Alfred Cranmer-Byng

***

Night Thoughts 

In front of my bed the moonlight is very bright,
I wonder if that can be frost on the floor?
I lift up my head and look at the full moon, the dazzling moon.
I drop my head, and think of the home of old days.

 Amy Lowell

***

Quiet Night Thoughts

Before my bed there is bright moonlight
So that it seems like frost on the ground;
Lifting my head I watch the bright moon,
Lowering my head I dream that I’m home.

Arthur Cooper

***

Thoughts in Night Quiet

Seeing moonlight here on my bed
and thinking it’s frost on the ground,

I look up, gaze at the mountain moon,
then back, dreaming of my old home.

David Hinton

***

Thoughts On a Quiet Night 

Moon-glitter
at the foot of my bedroll
seems on waking
to be feathers of frost.

I raise my head to gaze
at the glittering moon itself
then sink back
longing for home.

Stanton Hager

***

Thoughts in the Silent Night

Beside my bed a pool of light—
Is it hoarfrost on the ground?
I lift my eyes and see the moon,
I lower my face and think of home.

Yang Xianyi and Dai Naidie

***

Still Night Thoughts

Moonlight in front of my bed —
I took it for frost on the ground!
I lift my eyes to watch the mountain moon,
lower them and dream of home.

Burton Watson

***

In the Quiet Night

The floor before my bed is bright:
Moonlight — like hoarfrost — in my room.
I lift my head and watch the moon.
I drop my head and think of home.

Vikram Seth

***

On a Quiet Night

I saw the moonlight before my couch,
And wondered if it were not the frost on the ground.
I raised my head and looked out on the mountain moon;
I bowed my head and thought of my far-off home.

Shigeyoshi Obata

***

Quiet night thoughts

The moon light
Shining in front of my bed
More like the frost on the grass
On raising my head
I can glance at the moonlight
On lowering my head
I remember my home village
Nostalgic feelings

Isuru Thambawita

***

A Quiet Night Thought

Moonlight before my bed
Perhaps frost on the ground.
Lift my head and see the moon
Lower my head and pine for home.

 
 

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Quiet Night Thought
 
I see bright moonlight
on the floor by my bed

 

It looks like fresh
frost on the ground

I lift my head
and see the moon

I lower my head
missing my home

How I wish I
am there soon!

 
Ravi Kopra
 
***
 
Thoughts on a Still Night
 
My bed is flooded with moon light tonight
I wonder if the frost has crept in
I raise my head and see the shining moon
I lie back in bed missing my hometown.
 
Ravi Kopra
 
***
 
Silent Night Thoughts
 
Bright moon shines beside the bed
Like frost on soil
I raise my head and watch the moon
I lower my head and think of home.
 
Max Gladstone
 
***
 
In the Quiet Night
 
So bright a gleam on the foot of my bed —
Could there have been a frost already?
Lifting myself to look, I found that it was moonlight.
Sinking back again, I thought suddenly of home.
 
Witter Bynner
 
***
 
Night Thoughts
 
Before my bed, the moon shines bright;
Be it frost aground? I suppose it might.
I lift my head, the moon to behold, then
Lower it, musing: I’m homesick tonight.
 
Andrew W.F. Wong
 
***
 
A Quiet Night Thoughts
 
The moonbeam lies in front of my seat;
I doubt it can thaw the frosted ground before the dawn.
Holding up, I look into the cool moon hung over my head;
With head bowed, I deep in thoughts of my remote kinsmen.
 
Alexander Goldstein
 
***
 

 Quiet Night Thoughts

A pool of moonlight on my bed in this late hour
like a blanket of frost on the world.

I lift my eyes to a bright mountain moon.
Remembering my home, I bow.

Sam Hamill

***

Quiet Night Thought

Mid-Autumn Festival Poem

Moonlight in front of the bed,
Perhaps frost on the ground.
I look up at the bright moon
I look down and think of my hometown.

Lisa Yannucci

***

Quiet Night Thought

There, past the footboard, gleaming in the gloom,
is moonlight, right? Or frost that’s formed too soon.
I lift my head and recognize the moon.
I settle back and reminisce of home.

Aaron Poochigian

***

Thoughts on a Quiet Night

Before my bed the bright moon shines its light,
Perhaps the frost now covers all the ground;
I lift my head to see the shining moon,
I bow my head to see my native town.

Frank Watson

***

Night Thoughts

The moonlight falls by my bed.
I wonder if there’s frost on the ground.
I raise my head to look at the moon,
then ease down, thinking of home.

Arthur Sze

***

Quiet Night Think

Before my bed, the moon is shining bright,
I think that it is frost upon the ground.
I raise my head and look at the bright moon,
I lower my head and think of home.

Gillian Sze

 

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In the Still of the Night

By the bed a puddle of bright moon-glow
like left over morning snow
My head raised, basking in the bright moon
Head bowed, thinking of the old hometown only I still know

Art Lu

***

Thoughts of a Quiet Night

Before the  bed, bright moonlight.
I took it for frost on the ground.
I raised my head to dream upon that moon,
then bowed my head, lost, in thoughts of home.

J. P.  Seaton

Quiet Night Thoughts

I wake and my bed is gleaming with moonlight

Frozen into the dazzling whiteness I look up
To the moon herself
And lie thinking of home

W. S. Merwin

***

Reflection in a Quiet Night

Moonlight spreads before my bed.
I wonder if it’s hoarfrost on the ground.
I raise my head to watch the moon
And lowering it, I think of home.

Ha Jin

***

Night Thoughts

Bright shines the Moon before my bed;
Methinks ’tis frost upon the earth.
I watch the Moon, then bend my head
And miss the hamlet of my birth.

Jarek Zawadski

***

Thoughts on a Quiet Night

Before my bed the light is so bright
it looks like a layer of frost
lifting my head I gaze at the moon
lying back down I think of home

Red Pine

***

Thoughts in the Silent Night

Moonlight shining through the window
Makes me wonder if there is frost on the ground
Looking up to see the moon
Looking down I miss my home town

Fercility Jiang

***

Thoughts in the silent night

Moonlight before my bed,
Could it be frost instead?
Head up, I watch the moon;
Head down, I think of home.

Zhao Zhentao

***

Quiet Night / after Li Po

Moonlight spills
across the bed,
outside the frost
is deepening.

I lie awake and
watch the changing
shadows, thinking
of the lonely earth.

John Haines

***

Night Thoughts

Moon
              Before the bed,

Or
Frost on the ground?

Lifting my head
I see the moon,

                        Looking down,
                        I remember home.

Wong May

***

Thoughts on a Still Night

The pale glow by my bed
I mistook for a frost
was the bright moon reminding me
of home comforts lost

Donal Clancy

***

Quiet Night Thoughts

Moonlight illuminates my bed
as frost brightens the ground.
Lifting my head, the moon allures.
Lowering my eyes, I long for home.

Michael R. Burch

***

A Quiet Night Thought

I watch from bed the moon’s light glow
And frost upon the floor like snow;
I raise my head, I see the moon.
I dream of home left years ago.

Conor Kelly

 

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LINKS

The Wikipedia page on Li Bia

The Wikipedia page on Quiet Night Thought

The Tang-period Poet Li Bai’s Legacy

Articles on Li Po on the First Known When Lost site

The poet and the poem are discussed by Delaine Rogers on the Spring Dawns and Quiet Night Thoughts post

Andrew W.F. Wong discusses the poem and his various efforts to translate it

Max Gladstone on translating the poem

On controversies surrounding the poem

The plastered poetic genius of Li Po by Ben Myers

An essay on the poem by Isuru Thambawita

 

1LiPo

Jaffa Cakes – Brief Poems by Nic Aubury

Nic Aubury was born in Watford in 1974 and grew up in the Midlands. He studied Latin, English Literature and French at secondary school and then read Classics at Oxford University. He worked for a few years in advertising before becoming a teacher of Latin and Greek. He had a chapbook, Small Talk, published by the now defunct Nasty Little Press in 2011, a book which was named by Sophie Hannah in the Sunday Express as one of her books of the year for 2011. His first full collection, Cold Soup, was also published by Nasty Little Press in 2013. Some of his poems were included in the Carcanet anthology New Poetries VI (2015) edited by Michael Schmidt and Helen Tookey. His poems also appeared in the Penguin anthology The Poetry of Sex (2014) edited by Sophie Hannah. His most recent collection Ignore It All and Hope It Goes Away: Poems forModern Life (2022) is published by David Fickling Books and is accompanied by illustrations from popular comic artist Moose Allain. The poem Decline and Fall was chosen as a Poem of the Week in the Guardian newspaper in 2015. He has performed his poetry at various festivals including Port Eliot, Latitude, the Cheltenham Poetry Festival and the Ledbury Poetry Festival. Recently he began producing a weekly four-line poem for the New European, a weekly, liberal, explicitly pro-EU political and cultural newspaper and website, formed in the wake of the Brexit referendum.

Nic Aubury lives in the English Midlands with his wife and three teenage sons.

ON THE BRIEF POEMS OF NIC AUBURY

I first came across the poetry of Nic Aubury in Sophie Hannah’s anthology The Poetry of Sex. His two poems included there (see the first two poems below) were among the briefest poems in the book, but they were also among the most incisive. I was intrigued, so I sought out more. I discovered he posted some of his brief poems on his Twitter account. Although they may owe their provenance to other more renowned light poets – my formative poetry experiences were (inspired by) two gifts from two different girlfriends: Serious Concerns by Wendy Cope and Candy is Dandy by Ogden Nash – they have an original, peculiarly English touch. Like Wendy Cope, he has an assured and ironic sense of social niceties. And like Ogden Nash, he has a wonderful sense of the peculiarities of language. (See, for example, Otherwise and Rhyme Nor Reason below). He has, also, an assured sense of the manner in which social media can effect and sometimes infect the language of communication and the language of poetry. Writing a weekly 4-line poem for the New European, he can compress as much into one brief witty sentence as other contributors cram into a lengthy article. Concision is all.

While he has written some longer poems, he is at his best when he is most compressed, often using formal conventions of poetry to undermine formal conventions of society. I am very interested in metre and form. I have found most success I think in seeking to exploit the comic tension between formality of structure and informality of language. I try to pare ideas and jokes down to their simplest, sparest expression, which is why I write so many short poems. Like a Jaffa Cake, a tasty morsel of orange jam on a sponge base covered in a hard chocolate shell, the poems of Nic Aubury have a tasty morsel of truth on a moral and social base in a hard shell of metrical, rhythmic and rhyming language. Whether a Jaffa Cake is a cake or a biscuit is debatable, subject to tax conditions. And whether the pieces I have posted below are poems or epigrams may be equally debatable. Whatever they are, however, they are as pithy, as palatable, and as pleasurable as a packet of Jaffa Cakes. Taste and see.

ILLUSTRATING THE POEMS – MOOSE ALLAIN

Alexander Allain, known professionally as Moose Allain, is a British illustrator who lives and works in Devon with his wife, Karen. He used to work in London as an architect specialising in urban regeneration until he moved from a traditional job to the seaside to make a living from his creativity. He and his wife run a thriving business based on Moose Allain’s world of playful, off-beat cartoons, crazy puns and reflections on what’s going on in his life and the world. Having once contributed to the UK’s successful Olympic bid and designed murals for a beauty salon in Mexico City, he has since created animations for the BBC, illustrated the Pointless quiz show book and had cartoons published in Private Eye and The Literary Review. He helped to co-produce the video for Lost Worker Bee, a song by the band Elbow. He has built his Twitter community to over 78 thousand followers and made it the core of his business. He has provided the illustrations, some of which are featured below, to Nic Aubury’s full length collection Ignore It All and Hope It Goes Away: Poems for Modern Life (2022) published by David Fickling Books. Describing his work, he says it’s about playing around with lines. They may be drawn lines or they may be written lines. The poet writes lines; the artist draws lines. In this book they reach a comic concordance.

Brief Poems by Nic Aubury

Casanever

To most men, the notion
of ‘romance and mystery’
means clearing the porn from
their internet history.

***

The Couple Upstairs

Their bed springs start to creak; 
their ardour has awoken. 
That’s twice at least this week; 
their telly must be broken.

***

The Level

We must have trust and honesty,
So look me squarely in the eye
And be completely straight with me, 
Unless it’s bad, in which case, lie.

Nic Aubury discusses his poem and the benefits of grudge-holding with Sophie Hannah. The transcript of their podcast is here.

***

Otherwise

The owl is not the wisest bird,
in spite of what you might have heard,
for, if he were, I think – don’t you? – 
he’d say ‘Too whoom’ and not ‘Too whoo’.

***

Rhyme Nor Reason

You can’t rhyme “plough” with “cough” or “rough”,
Or “thorough”, “through” or “though”;
Hough foreigners can learn this stough
I troughly wouldn’t knough.

***

Ode to Joy  

The pleasure of one’s own success 
could never quite transcend
that higher form of happiness:
the failure of a friend.

***

XXX
Written to mark the 30th anniversary of the World Wide Web

The sum of all the Posts and Tweets and Comments there have been
since nineteen eighty-nine has categorically dispelled
the notion that there might be some relationship between
the truth of our opinions and the zeal with which they’re held.

***

The Jaffa Cake Temperance Paradox

I’ve eaten far too many; I should stop. 
I’d have to stop if all of them were gone.
They’d all be gone if someone ate them up.
So probably I ought to carry on.

***

Honesty

By a low cottage wall that was bordered with phlox
On an old garden table with rickety legs
Was some produce for sale, and an honesty box,
So I posted a note: ‘I have stolen your eggs’.

***

Opinion Piece

We nowadays accept as true 
that, never mind its merit,
the fact we have a point of view
obliges us to share it.

***

Creation Theory

Whoever thought a baby’s head 
would fit through a vagina
Does not deserve the epithet 
‘intelligent designer’.

COUPLETS

Cold Calling

The poet never used his two-bar heater;
there wasn’t any money in the metre.

***

cogito ergo … hmm

I’m in a philosophic traffic jam:
I overthink, therefore I under-am.

***

midnight rumbler

If snacks aren’t meant for eating in the middle of the night,
then tell me why the fridge has got that helpful little light.

***

Thx & rgds

However important you are, or how stressed,
you’re never too busy for vowels, I’d suggest.

***

Emoticon

Semi-colon, right-hand bracket.
Smiley face? I’d like to smack it. 😉

***

Depending

The seventeen-to-twenty-fives
are grown-ups ’til the bill arrives

***

The Joneses

For middle-class people, contentment depends
On securing the envy of middle-class friends.

***

On Wooing

Correcting her grammar
Will rarely enamour.

HAIKU

doomsday haiku

our digital world 
will end in mutually 
assured distraction

***

0° haiku

The present is the
point at which liquid future
freezes into past.

***

Haiku for an ex

Every day since you
left, I have missed you – but my
aim is improving.

***

Granny’s Advice Haiku

If you haven’t got
Anything nice to say then
Post it on Twitter.

***

 doomsday haiku

our digital world 
will end in mutually 
assured distraction

***

 Country Gent Haiku

The meaning of some
Phrases is unaffected
By spoonerism.

***

 Equinox

Not what you get when
You cross a horse with a cow,
Disappointingly

***

Imitation haiku 

The sincerest form
Of flattery is, of course,
Your friends’ resentment.

***

Poets Haiku

If all the poets 
were laid out, end-to-end, it
wouldn’t matter much.

THE NEW EUROPEAN POEMS

Tomb Of The Keyboard Warrior

O, here lies here a hero of online debate!
He fearlessly made up his mind in a second 
and, quoting some facts that he’d heard from his mate,
he died on the hill of the stuff that he reckoned.

***

Post Mortem

When scientists compile the latest list
of species now extinct, their grim report
will surely mention something sadly missed
but quite died out, alas: the unshared thought.

***

Hot Or Not

When choosing an outfit, our offspring pay heed
to the stuff that they’ve seen on their Instagram feed,
to advice from their friends, to their own inhibitions,
but not to observable weather conditions.

***

The Hardest Word

The usual English way of saying “no”
is saying “yes”, not sleeping for the next
however long in fear you’ll have to go
then pulling out courageously by text.

***

Same Difference

Determined to avoid the fate of waking up dismayed
to find that we’ve become our dad or mum,
we make ourselves the people who our kids will be afraid
of waking up to find that they’ve become.

ILLUSTRATED POEMS (Illustrations by Moose Allain)

***

***

***

***

***

All poems © Nic Aubury. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Illustrations © Moose Allain. Reprinted by permission of the illustrator.

***

LINKS

Nic Aubury regularly posts his poems on his Twitter account

Reviews of Small Talk on Sphinx Review

Reactions to Cold Soup on Goodreads

Reactions to Ignore it All and Hope it Goes Away on Goodreads

Nic Aubury discusses one of his poems with Sophie Hannah

Ignore it All and Hope it all Goes Away on the David Fickling Books site

The website of artist, cartoonist and prolific tweeter Moose Allain

The Twitter site of Moose Allain

The New European

All poems © Nic Aubury. Reprinted by permission of the author.
Illustrations © Moose Allain. Reprinted by permission of the illustrator

Pebbles – Brief poems by Jane Hirshfield

hirshfield800x452Jane Hirshfield (born February 24, 1953) is an American poet, essayist, translator and a member of the American Academy of Arts & Sciences. Born on East 20th Street in New York City, she is the daughter of Robert L. Hirshfield (a clothing manufacturer) and his wife, Harriet, a secretary. She was writing in big block letters by the age of 8: When I grow up, I want to be a writer. Her first literary acquisition was a collection of haiku, initiating her life-long attraction to things Japanese:  The first book of any kind I ever bought for myself, at age eight, was a Peter Pauper Press book of translated Japanese haiku. After attending both public and private schools, she joined Princeton University’s first graduating class that included women. Shortly after graduating from Princeton with a bachelor’s degree in 1973, she had her first poem published in The Nation. She decided to follow a monastic lifestyle, during which time she knew she’d stop writing poetry. I had to be willing to walk away from poetry, perhaps forever, before I felt like I could do it at all.  She put aside her writing for nearly eight years, to study at the San Francisco Zen Center, including three years at Tassajara, living in deep wilderness without electricity.  I felt that I’d never make much of a poet if I didn’t know more than I knew at that time about what it means to be a human being. She received lay ordination in Soto Zen in 1979.

In 1982, while she was working as a cook at Greens at Fort Mason in San Francisco, Alaya, her first collection of poems, was published. Six years later, her collection Of Gravity & Angels won the California Book Award. Her interest in Japanese poetry, reflected in that first purchase of a book of haiku,  guided her to translating Japanese women’s poetry. With Mariko Aratani, she published The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Skikibu (1988)  promoting the work of two female poets from ninth- and tenth-century Japan, a golden age for poetry, and the only one in which, Hirshfield says, women writers were the predominant geniuses. Since then, she’s authored numerous poetry collections and two collections of essays. Her fifth book, Given Sugar, Given Salt, was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award and her sixth collection, After, was shortlisted for the T.S. Eliot Prize (UK) and also named a ‘best book of 2006’ by numerous journals. Her eighth collection, The Beauty, was long-listed for the National Book Award and named a ‘best book of 2015’ by The San Francisco Chronicle. A recent collection Ledger (2020) is available online. A forthcoming new and selected poems, The Asking is due to be published in September, 2023. She has written two books of essays, Nine Gates: Entering the Mind of Poetry (1998) and Ten Windows: How Great Poems Transform the World (2017).

To support herself as a poet, she has evolved what she calls a “tripod” of vocations: teacher, reader, and editor. She has taught at the University of California, Berkeley, University of San Francisco, The Bennington Writing Seminars, and as the Elliston Visiting Poet at the University of Cincinnati.  She has also been a visiting poet at various universities and serves regularly on the staff of several writers’ conferences. Her readings, from Maine to California, have given her a second means of sustenance. Third, and not least, she has a distinguished record of translation and editing (see below).

Her honors include the Poetry Center Book Award, the Donald Hall-Jane Kenyon Prize in American Literature, the Bay Area Book Reviewers Award, Columbia University’s Translation Center Award, and the Commonwealth Club of California Poetry Medal, as well as fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the Rockefeller Foundation. In 2004, she was awarded the seventieth Academy Fellowship for distinguished poetic achievement by the Academy of American Poets. In 2019, she was elected to the American Academy of Arts & Sciences.

Jane Hirshfield moved to Marin County in 1979 to live at the Green Gulch Farm Zen Center in Muir Beach. Since 1982 she has lived in a small white cottage looking out on fruit trees and old roses in Mill Valley in Marin County, California,  from where she rides an Arabian trail horse in Mount Tamalpais State Park, doing Volunteer Mounted Patrol.  I can see Mount Tam from my bedroom window. She also belongs to a local book club whose members are mostly scientists.

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PEBBLES

In each of her recent collections there is a section of brief poems entitled Pebbles. Like Irish poet Dennis O’Driscoll who called the brief poems in every one of his collections, Breviary, Jane Hirshfield  uses the word “Pebbles” to describe what she says in an interview with Brian Bouldrey are not haiku, but … short, slightly intransigent poems that require some response in the mind of the reader before they are finished. These epigrammatic  poems take their title from Zbigniew Herbert’s poem Pebble, which ends, Pebbles cannot be tamed / to the end they will look at us / with a calm and very clear eye. Some, as you can see below, are deceptively simple, such as Humbling: An Assay which is comprised of only two words: Have teeth. Others, despite their brevity, are more intricate. Each is meant to be read as an individual, free-standing poem, but putting them in a series seemed more polite to the trees, rather than have 17 pages of a book with only a few lines on each. They are not, she argues, quite the same thing as an aphorism, a haiku, an epigram. They have their own flavor,  for me. That flavour may owe something to the study of Japanese haiku, but it also draws from a wider cultural and poetic tradition. Despite their concision and compression, they are often discursive, declarative and dramatic. They are often, betimes, humorous.

 

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TRANSLATIONS

Although best known for her translations (most with Mariko Aratani) of Japanese poetry, Jane Hirshfield has opened her poetry to many international influences. A series of poems in Ledger is inspired by the opening phrase of the famous death poem of the Roman emperor Hadrian. “Little Soul” he begins his poem and Jane Hirshfield begins her series of  seven poems with the same phrase. She has also provided her own translation of the celebrated Latin poem:

Little soul, drifting, gentle,
my body’s guest and companion,
what places do you now go to live in,
without color, unyielding, naked,
never again to share our old jokes.

Further translations of this poem are available on the Emperor Hadrian page.

Kobayashi Issa

At various stages and in different books, Jane Hirshfield has translated the haiku of Kobayashi Issa. Four of those translations are included below. They have obviously had a deep influence on her thinking. Referring to the first (On a branch / floating downriver / a cricket, singing) she has discussed the meaning it has for her: This is our situation. We are probably in peril. We’re on a branch in the middle of a river. It’s not a good place for a cricket to be, especially if there are some rapids ahead. And yet, what does the cricket do? It sings, because that is its nature, because that is what it has to offer, because it delights in this moment in the sun, because it is on a branch and not yet drowned. And so I feel like our entire lives are in, you know, that haiku, 17 syllables in the Japanese. And I have never forgotten that. Of the second (We wander / the roof of hell, / choosing blossoms) she has this to say: when I first encountered that haiku, I thought it was a portrait of a kind of bitterness; that, you know, here we are on the roof of hell, and what do we do? And my feeling about it has completely changed over the years, because I now feel, you know, every inch of ground on this Earth has seen unfathomable suffering, some of it human, some of it not human, but there is no inch of Earth which is not soaked in suffering. But there is also no inch of Earth which is not soaked in joy and in beauty and in radiance. The last two Issa poems below are incorporated, if that is the right word, in poems included in her collection, After.

Ono no Komachi 

Ono no Komachi was a Japanese poet of the early Heian period. She is considered one of the 36 Poetry Immortals of Japan. In addition to her fame as a poet, she was also known for her great beauty. Her name, Komachi, is often used to describe beauty in her native Japan. Jane Hirshfield has edited and co-translated, with Mariko Aratani, a selection of her work in The Ink Dark Moon: Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan (1990)In a brief video presentation, directed by Julie Hébert,  she introduces the work of this poet, born around 834 in Japan. She was the first person to write about Eros so directly in a culture in which there is almost no poetry with personal reference to your own body. It’s all done through metaphors of birds and blossoms … I think of Komachi as a proto-feminist figure… As a young woman I recognised in these five-line poems – I felt my own life, and my heart in her poems. I thought, this is my experience.

Izumi Shikibi 

Izumi Shikibu (c. 976-1030) was a mid-Heian period Japanese poet who was deeply religious yet also passionate. Although she spent time in Buddhist monasteries and once contemplated becoming a nun, she had many extramarital affairs during her lifetime and her allegedly scandalous lifestyle caused her to be disowned by her family.  She was “committed to a life of both religious consciousness and erotic intensity,”  Jane Hirshfield  tells us in the introduction to The Ink Dark Moon: Poems by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan.  While married to a Lord, she fell in love with the Empress’ son. A year after the Prince passed away, she had an affair with the Prince’s married brother.  This caused further scandal. The Prince’s wife left him. He and Shikibu lived together for five years until the Prince died from a contagious disease during an epidemic. According to the introduction, Izumi Shikibu went into a period of intense mourning “in which she wrote over 240 poems to her departed lover.” In another video presentation, this time on YouTube, Jane Hirshfield describes the immense effect the first Shikibu poem below (Although the wind …) had on her. She calls it a poem which truly did change my life… the poem changed my understanding of the place of the difficult in my life and in all of our lives …And so I understood why it might be preferable to live in a ruined house rather than a completely protected one. And that for me was life-changing.

Matsuo Bashō

The Heart of Haiku (2011) is a short book (29 pages) written as an Amazon Kindle single. In it Jane Hirshfield investigates the evolution of Matsuo Bashō’s writing and poetry. The e-book, which includes many of his haiku, translated with  Mariko Aratani,  takes the reader on a journey through the key points in Bashō’s life such as the death of his mother, his early literary achievements, renga and the culture of poetry in early Japan, his introduction to Zen, and his walking journey’s that spurred the creation of several travel journals.  Jane Hirshfield was unhappy with the title: my title was Seeing Through Words: Matsuo Basho, an Introduction. I think that tells you quite a lot about how I see this piece: I would never myself have made such a grand claim for it as The Heart of Haiku does. That initial essay is available on the Haiku Found site. Some of the translations included in that essay are reprinted below.

 

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Brief Poems by Jane Hirshfield

Pebbles

from After (2006)

After Degas

The woman who will soon2after
take a lover shaves her legs in the bath,
considering:
Would knowing or not knowing that she does this please him more ?

***

Maple

The lake scarlets
the same instant as the maple.
Let others try to say this is not passion.

***

Lemon

The grated lemon rind bitters the oil it steeps in.
A wanted flavor.
Like the moment in love when one lover knows
the other could do anything now wanted, yet does not.

***

Global Warming

When his ship first came to Australia,
Cook wrote, the natives
continued fishing, without looking up.
Unable, it seems, to fear what was too large to be comprehended.

 

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Pebbles

from Come, Thief (2011)

Like Moonlight Seen in a Well4comethief

Like moonlight seen in a well.

The one who sees it
blocks it.

***

Mountain and Mouse

Both move.
One only more slowly.

***

Night and Day

Who am I is the question of owls.
Crow says, Get up.

***

Memorial

When hearing went, you spoke more.
A kindness.

Now I must.

***

Opening the Hand Between Here and Here

On the dark road, only the weight of the rope.
Yet the horse is there.

 

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Pebbles

from The Beauty (2015)

A Hand Holds One Power5thebeauty

A hand holds one power
whose exercise requires the hand be empty.

***

I Know You Think I’ve Forgotten

but today
in rain

without coat without hat

***

Still Life

Loyalty of a book
to its place  on the shelf
in a still life.

Like that,
the old loves continue.

***

Human Measures

a woman in a distant language sings with great feeling
the composer’s penciled-in instructions to sing with great feeling.

 

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Pebbles

from Ledger (2020)

Like That Other-Hand Music

Like that other-hand 3ledger
music
written for one who has lost an arm in a war,
you, hope, may again become useful.

***

Retrospective

No photograph or painting can hold it—
the stillness of water 
just before it starts being ice.

***

Library Book with Many Precisely Turned-Down Corners

I unfold carefully the thoughts of one who has come before me,
the way a listening dog’s ears
may be seen lifting
to some sound beyond its person’s quite understanding.

***

Sixth Extinction

It took with it
the words that could have described it.

***

Obstacle

This body, still walking. 
The wind must go around it.

 

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Three Monostich Poems and a Textless Poem

Sentence

The body of a starving horse cannot forget the size it was born to.

***

Humbling: An Assay

Have teeth.

***

My Failure

I said of the view: “just some trees.”

***

My Silence

 

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Translations

from the Japanese of Kobayashi Issa

On a branch
floating downriver
a cricket, singing.

***

We wander
the roof of hell,
choosing blossoms

***

The world of dew
is a world of dew,
And yet.

***

Spider,
do not worry,
I keep house casually.

***

More translations of poems by Kobayashi Issa are available on the Issa page.

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Translations

from the Japanese of Ono no Komachi (translated with Mariko Arantani)

While watching
the long rains falling on this world
my heart, too, fades
with the unseen color
of the spring flowers.

***

The autumn night
is long only in name—
We’ve done no more
than gaze at each other
and it’s already dawn.

***

This body
grown fragile, floating,
a reed cut from its roots . . .
If a stream would ask me
to follow, I’d go, I think.

****

Did he appear
because I fell asleep
thinking of him?
If only I’d known I was dreaming,
I’d never have wakened.

***

When my desire
grows too fierce
I wear my bed clothes
inside out,
dark as the night’s rough husk.

More translations by Jane Hirshfield and Mariko Arantani are available on the Ono No Komachi page 

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Translations

from the Japanese of Izumi Shikibi (translated with Mariko Arantani)

Although the wind
blows terribly here,
the moonlight also leaks
between the roof planks
of this ruined house.

***

Come quickly—as soon as
these blossoms open,
they fall.
This world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers.

***

Even though
these pine trees
keep their original color,
everything green
is different in spring.

***

Seeing you is the thread
that ties me to this life—
If that knot
were cut this moment,
I’d have no regret.

***

In this world
Love has no color-
Yet how deeply my body
Is stained by yours.

***

The dewdrop
On a bamboo leaf
Stays longer
Than you, who vanish
At dawn.

***

I used up this body
Longing
For one who does not come.
A deep valley, now,
What once was my heart.

 

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Translations

from the Japanese of Matsuo Bashō (translated with Mariko Arantani)

dusk, bells quiet:3heart of haiku
fragrance rings
night-struck from flowers

***

Bitter ice shards
moisten
the mud-rat’s throat

***

the roadside blooming mallow:
eaten
by my horse

***

spring rain:
roof leak drizzling
through a hanging wasp’s nest

***

old pond:
frog leaps in
the sound of water

(More translations of this Bashō haiku are available on the Bashō Frog page.)

***

silence:
the cicada’s cry
soaks into stone

***

growing old:
eating seaweed,
teeth hitting sand

***

don’t copy me,
like the second half
of a cut melon!

***

on a journey, ill,
dreams scouring on
through exhausted fields

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 LINKS

Poetry

Ledger – The complete text

The Beauty – A selection of poems

Twelve Pebbles (from The Beauty)

A large selection of poems on the Poets.org site

A selection of poems and translations on the Poetry Foundation site

Biography

The Wikipedia Page on Jane Hirshfield

A Ploughshares profile of Jane Hirshfield

Essays

First two chapters of How Great Poems Transform the World

Seeing Through Words: Matsuo Basho – An Introduction

Interviews

Interviewed by Kaveh Akbar for Divedapper

Interviewed by Ilya Kaminsky for The Paris Review

Interviewed by Ilya Kaminsky and Katherine Towler for Agni

Interviewed by Krista Tippett for On Being

Interviewed by Mitzi Rapkin for the Lit Hub site

Interviewed by Jim Wood for Marin Magazine

Best American Poetry: A Conversation between Brian Bouldrey & Jane Hirshfield, Pt. 1

Best American Poetry: A Conversation between Brian Bouldrey & Jane Hirshfield, Pt. 2

Best American Poetry: A Conversation between Brian Bouldrey & Jane Hirshfield, Pt. 3

Interview from FROGPOND with Jane Hirshfield on The Heart of Haiku

Interview with Jane Clark and Barbara Vellacott for Beshara Magazine

hirshfield800x452

 

Silver Ribbons – Brief Poems by Joseph Campbell

Joseph Campbell (1879–1944) who also also wrote under his Gaelic name, Seosamh Mac Cathmhaoil, was born in Belfast to a Catholic Nationalist family from County Down. From his father, a Catholic Parnellite, he imbibed fervent nationalist politics, and from his mother, of mixed Catholic–Presbyterian stock, a strong interest in Gaelic culture. He was educated in Belfast and, after working for his father, he entered the teaching profession. He helped to set up the Ulster Literary Theatre in the early 1900s and contributed some plays that he wrote. He also wrote the words for musical airs including two famous Irish airs: My Lagan Love and Gartan Mother’s LullabyAdditionally, some of his poetry was picked up by musical composers such as Ivor Gurney and Arnold Bax who set them alongside a number of their own tunes. He visited Dublin in 1902 where he met a number of prominent members of the Nationalist movement while, at the same time, furthering his career in song writing and poetry. During this time he contributed poems regularly to Arthur Griffith’s United Irishman and Standish O’Grady’s All Ireland Review. 

Soon after the publication of his first volume of verse, The Garden of the Bees in 1904, he moved to Dublin and, failing to find regular work there, moved to London where he was involved in Irish literary activities while working as a teacher. As secretary of the Irish Literary Society of London, he often wore a kilt. While in London he seems to have met with the London-based Modernist Imagist poets circle of T. E. Hulme, F. S. Flint, and Ezra Pound. He also met Nancy Maude, the daughter of Col. Aubrey Maude of the Cameronian Highlanders, at a poetry reading and married her in May 1910, against the objections of her family. Shortly after, they moved to Dublin and then to a a forty-three-acre farm at Lackendarragh, Co. Wicklow. He became a friend of Patrick Pearse and joined the staff of Pearse’s school, St Enda’s, teaching Irish history. In 1911 he published his first volume of prose, Mearing Stones: Leaves from My Note-book on Tramp in Donegal, illustrated with his own drawings. A play he wrote, Judgement,  was performed at the Abbey Theatre in April 1912 and proved a critical and popular flop. Yeats justified the play’s failure by claiming that he had it performed solely for Campbell’s reputation’s sake. He makes an appearance as “Mountainy Mutton” in Gas from a Burner (1912) Jame Joyce’s verse diatribe, in the voice of his publisher, about the Irish literary scene at the time:

To show you for strictures I don’t care a button
I printed the poems of Mountainy Mutton
And a play he wrote (you’ve read it I’m sure)
Where they talk of “bastard”, “bugger” and “whore

The name “Mountainy Mutton” is a mocking reference to The Mountainy Singer, a collection of poems by Campbell published in 1909 by Maunsel & Co, the publishing company that renaged on its promise to publish Dubliners. It irked Joyce that the language in Judgement, a Campbell play published by Maunsel, was worse than that objected to in his collection of short stories.

Joseph Campbell was a founding member of the Irish Volunteers in Dublin in 1913. The Irish Citizen Army drilled on the lawn of his Wicklow house in 1915. He took part, as a supporter, in the Easter Rising of 1916, doing rescue work. The following year he published a translation from Irish of the short stories of Patrick Pearse, one of the executed leaders of the Rising. He became a Sinn Féin Councillor in Wicklow in 1921. In the Irish Civil War he was on the Republican side and was interned in 1922/3. He was rumoured to have sought internment to escape his unhappy marriage. (Irish writer Francis Stuart said: That fella went to prison during the Civil War deliberately in order to get away from his own wife. That’s neither patriotism nor poetry.) During a hunger strike by the prisoners to secure their release, Campbell went ten days without food. Released in December 1923, he was hardened and embittered, his religious faith shattered by the Catholic Church’s condemnations of the anti-treaty side. His marriage broke up in 1924, after he and his wife had affairs, and he emigrated to New York in 1925 where he lectured at Fordham University and worked in academic Irish studies, founding the university’s School of Irish Studies in 1928, which lasted four years. He was the editor of The Irish Review, a magazine of Irish expression.

Plaque on the Campbell home in Belfast

Campbell returned to Ireland in 1939, and lived as a semi-recluse at Lackandaragh in County Wicklow. He was embittered by what he saw as the betrayal of his ideals, railing against the national schools for producing appalling types – tittering, cigarette-smoking girls and uncouth boys. He wrote a long poem A Vision of Glendalough (1940), and made several programmes on literary, historical, and autobiographical topics for the Irish national broadcasting service, Radio Éireann. He proved to be an accomplished broadcaster with a rich, warm radio-friendly voice. He died alone at home from heart disease on the 5th June 1944, aged 64, and his body was discovered two days later by a neighbour. He is buried in Deansgrange cemetery.

JOSEPH CAMPBELL AND IMAGISM

I first came across the connection between Irish poet Joseph Campbell and the Imagist movement in London when I encountered a tweet from Frank Hudson who has written extensively on that connection. He is particularly enamoured by Night and I Traveling (see below) which he calls a poem which is remarkable not just for its tightly compressed and effecting scene, but for being published in 1909 so that it might be counted not just as the work of the first Irish poet to use free verse, but also as one of the earliest published examples of Imagism. It wasn’t until 1913 that F. S. Flint and Ezra Pound published their “A few Don’ts by an Imagiste”  and laid out the three famous Imagist suggestions/rules, but before that in London Flint, Pound, and T. E. Hulme had been working out how to radically strip back poetry to a fresh, precise, and direct essence in the months before Campbell published “Night, and I Traveling.” He has set the poem to music and has praised it above more celebrated Imagist poems calling it to my judgement as fine an early Imagist poem as the more famous and anthologized ones, arguably a more worthy example because of its empathetic attention to the isolated rural woman in a still-colonialized Irish hut in place of Pound’s  damp impressionistic leaf-faced Paris Metro riders published four years later.

Israeli poet Natan Zach, in an essay entitled, ‘Imagism and Vorticism (in Modernism: A Guide to European Literature 1890-1930 , ed. Malcolm Bradbury & James MacFarlane) celebrates another brief poem by Campbell – The Dawn Whiteness (see below): ‘Despite some arguments to the contrary, the continuity of Imagist work from [T. E.] Hulme’s circle to Pound’s school can be readily traced. Joseph Campbell’s “The Dawn Whiteness” illustrates the kind of Imagist poem coming from the former … Slight without being trivial, the poem’s concentration on the image echoes the Symbolist stress on essential form to the exclusion of all allegedly extra-poetic matter. Though mildly suggestive of mood or state of mind, it minimizes the poet’s personal involvement, and is not manifestly symbolic in the sense of standing in for anything distinct from its own delimited surface meaning. The poem strives for verbal economy, its lightness of touch recalling the Japanese Haiku.

The Imagist poets can be categorised in two ways. There were those, such as Richard Aldington and T. E. Hulme, whose best work is their poems in that genre. And there are those, like Ezra Pound. Amy Lowell and Adelaide Crapsey, for whom the Imagist poems are but a small part of a wider oeuvre. Joseph Campbell belongs to the latter category. Most of his work reflects the tropes of the Georgian poetry popular at the time with a touch of Celtic Twilight modes to add to the mixture. Even in many of the shorter poems below, the rhythms and the rhymes reflect contemporaneous trends. However, there are a few poems, the better poems, written in the curt free verse style best suited to Imagist poetry. Alongside the two poems mentioned above, there is On the Top-Stone and, my favourite Campbell poem, simply entitled Darkness and as evocative as the best Imagist poems. You may nominate your own favourite Joseph Campbell poem in the comment box below.

Brief Poems by Joseph Campbell

I SPIN MY GOLDEN WEB

I spin my golden web in the sun:
The cherries tremble, the light is done.
A sudden wind sweeps over the bay,
And carries my golden web away!

***

DARKNESS

Darkness.
I stop to watch a star shine in the boghole——
A star no longer, but a silver ribbon of light.
I look at it, and pass on.

***

TO A TOWN GIRL

Violet mystery,
Ringleted gold,
Whiteness of whiteness,
Wherefore so cold?
Silent you sit there—
Spirit and mould—
Darkening the dream
That must never be told!

***

SNOW

Hills that were dark
At sparing-time last night
Now in the dawn-ring
Glimmer cold and white.

***

TO THE GOLDEN EAGLE

Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue,
From this stormy rock
I send my love to you.

Take me for your lover,
Dark and fierce and true—
Wanderer of the mountain,
Winger of the blue!

***

THE DAWN WHITENESS

The dawn whiteness.
A bank of slate-grey cloud lying heavily over it.
The moon, like a hunted thing, dropping into the cloud.

***

NIGHT, AND I TRAVELLING

Night, and I travelling.
An open door by the wayside,
Throwing out a shaft of warm yellow light.
A whiff of peat-smoke;
A gleam of delf on the dresser within;
A woman’s voice crooning, as if to a child.
I pass on into the darkness.

***

ON THE TOP-STONE

On the top-stone.
A nipping wind blowing.
Winter dusk closing in from the south Ards.
The moon rising, white and fantastic, over the loch and the town below.
I take off my hat, salute her, and descend into the darkness.

***

THE CLOUDS GO BY AND BY

The clouds go by and by,
The heron sings in the blue—
And I lie dreaming, dreaming
Ever of you.

The stag on the hill is free,
And the wind is blowing sweet—
But I lie bound a prisoner
At your feet.

***

A SHEEPDOG BARKS ON THE MOUNTAIN

A sheepdog barks on the mountain,
The night is fallen cold;
The shepherd blinks at his fire,
The sheep are in the fold.

The moon comes white and quiet
Into the winter sky;
And nothing walks the valley
To-night but you and I.

***

DEAD OAKLEAVES EVERYWHERE

Dead oakleaves everywhere
Under my feet,
Filling the forest air
With odours sweet.

Acorns, three, four and five,
Falling apace.
Thank God I am alive
This day of grace!

***

LIKE A TUFT OF CEANABHAN

Like a tuft of ceanabhan
Blowing in the wind
Is my slender Aine Ban—
White and soft and kind.

Kind her heart is, but her clann’s
Cold as clay or stone.
Would that I had herds and lands
To take her for my own!

***

SIC TRANSIT

I lit my tallow
An hour ago,
And now it is burning
Dark and low.

The glimmer lengthens
And turns about,
Sinks in the sconce—
Then flickers out!

LINKS

Joseph Campbell biography on the Dictionary of Irish Biography site

Joseph Campbell biography on the My Poetic Side site

The Wikipedia page on Joseph Campbell

The Ricorso page on Joseph Campbell

Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin reviews a book on Joseph Campbell

Frank Hudson’s blog posts on Joseph Campbell

The Mountainy Singer (Complete Text)