‘Selected Poems’ By Bernard O’Donoghue


6f403dc9bef7d3cf2a89108927edeb22I finished the Selected Poems by Bernard O’Donoghue. Actually, I finished it something like a week ago, but life and work and stuff has kept me from writing about it. And now that I’m finally writing about it, I don’t have it in front of me, so I won’t be quoting from it. But, trust me. It’s good.

He writes about a life he left behind (according to his talk at the Folger). It’s mostly about a taciturn and unromanticized rural Ireland. Or, actually, it is romanticized. He actually has a poem about watching the great John Wayne movie, The Quiet One, which takes place in rural Ireland. I’m not a John Wayne fan, but I love this movie. Anyway, that movie romanticizes rural Ireland. Sometimes, O’Donoghue romanticizes it by explicitly unromanticizing it. The romance of gritty, poverty-inspired DIY and old fashioned sod busters.

The writing is dense on the page, too. Thick, dense stanzas, with lines being medium long (but not going beyond the available length, so it has to drop down like Whitman or Ginsberg) and mostly the same length, creating a sort of visual square, many times. There is a good deal of mid-sentence enjambment and sentences ending in the middle of a line, but he doesn’t break up the steady meter and it reads smoothly.

I want to right more, but I’m pressed for time.

His work isn’t easy to find, but worth seeking out. So, read it, okay? That’s all.

Which Briefcase Are You?


The New Inquiry  has this great quiz: which briefcase are you?

You answer some questions and it identifies you as a movie briefcase, full of money or… whatever.

I got the mysterious nuclear briefcase from the awesome and brutal film noir, Kiss Me Deadly. We are totally happy with that identification.

You’re “the great whatsit,” a mysterious case that exudes such confidence that everyone around you thinks you’re incredibly valuable, even worth killing over. A small valise, sure, but you’re hot to the touch, which means you’re not full of money, but you’ve got to be worth a lot of it, right? Nope. Turns out your personality is radioactive: you’re so thoroughly the opposite of charming that when you get opened you immediately kill everyone around you. Don’t worry though, it’s not you, it’s history. You’re just a sloppy metaphor for Cold War nuclear anxiety.


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Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look. He thinks too much. Such men are dangerous.

Weekend Reading – Don’t Feed The Poet


Poet. Fascist. Teacher. Crazy dude. Maybe.

I only knew him as Flann. I had no idea it was pseudonym, until now.

What would the Futurists think of this future?

Brains! Brains! Brains!

For theology, read poetry.

Jeremiad, Or, Steve Jobs was A Shill For Consumerism


1378579728I bought George Moore’s Confessions of a Young Man at the Lantern, thinking that it was by G.E. Moore. Not so. But this Moore is a lively, if inconsistent writer. At something over a quarter of the way through, after Moore has abandoned painting for lack of talent and determined to take up poetry, he writes about Mallarmé.

Moore had been educating himself in French poetry, starting with Victor Hugo and working his way up to contemporary French poets (contemporary, in this case, meaning the 1870s) in a process of (somewhat) calculated autodidacticism.

He writes about ‘Mallarmé’s Tuesday evening, a few friends sitting round the hearth, the lamp on the table.’

I kept reading for another half dozen sentences before pulling up short and going back to that sentence and finally comprehending that he had been attending weekly literary salons at the home of Stéphane Mallarmé. My mind was blown by the reality of what I have missed by being born too late.

And yes, it is different now. It’s worse.

Our cultural heroes and leaders are not writers and poets and dramatists, nor essayists and philosophers, but libertarian technophiles who see the latest app as part of an inexorable process that magically culminates in the alleviation of suffering or hunger or some other global ill. The whole shebang is a self deluded shell games, like the South Park underwear gnomes, they convinced that they have embarked on the first step of a messianic journey that leads inexorably, inexplicably – magically! – to some greater end.

At the same time, we have not yet completely thrown off our adulation of pirating financiers nor the revelation of the fast descent into madness, pain, and suicide of Lord only knows how many former college and NFL players much diminished our fawning love athletes playing dangerous games of brute force.

I’m not claiming that Baudelaire’s debaucheries are to be emulated nor Shelley’s private (as opposed to public) morals modeled, but for fuck’s sake, can we stop calling Steve Jobs a great man? He was a megalomaniacal marketer. For fuck’s sake, people! I have an iPhone, but the building of a fief-like cult of consumption within a consumer addled culture has not broadened our minds, lifted our souls, nor made the world an appreciably better place. Indeed, it can be argued that Steve Jobs most lasting legacy will the impact of a spate of Chinese suicides on the families they left behind.

So… for fuck’s sake, people, shape up!

I know it’s hard, because it’s all so seductive. I used to work for a couple of tech forward firms, including a semi-early adopter of using emails to ‘activate’ activists and, later, a company that managed text messages for nonprofits and political campaigns. I wrote texts and copy for smartphone apps and social media and told their clients how these new strategies that I developed, these new technologies that I was selling would change everything! The people who signed my checks, they absolutely believed it. And, in some small, meaningless, tactical way, they were right, but in a larger, more important way, they were dead wrong and all the world’s souls will ultimately suffer for not seeing it.

 

A Letter From Byron Written April 22, 1822, Remarking On The ‘Heavy Blow’ Of The Death Of Allegra, His Daughter


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Happy 450th Birthday, Shakespeare!


First folio on display in the Exhibition Hall

Mid-Week Staff Meeting – Do We Still Have To Ask?


You’re darn right it matters!

We are still not over Adrienne Rich.

The first time, I got Elizabeth Bishop and the second time, Robert Lowell, which is rather cool, on account of their long (most epistolary) relationship. Suggests that maybe I’ll have a long relationship with myself. Not sure I’m off to a good start though. Whatever. Piss off.

Celebrating National Poetry Month in the schools.

Ask a poet.

Diversity


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