Milton and The New Yorker

check out the newest new yorker (but do verify the time stamp!) for jonathan rosen's formal--that is, formulaic, by new yorker specifications--reappraisal of the blind man's bardson, john milton (here's a link). by formulaic, i mean it starts with the broad cartoon strokes of his biography ('Sometime in 1638, John Milton visited Galileo Galilei in Florence...like those comic-book specials in which Superman meets Batman'), does a critical rundown of the latest milton books, and then does a decent job of expanding on the encyclopaedic basics, before the workmanlike job of a conclusion (remember what your high school teachers taught you about good conclusions applying what we've learned to our world today?) by tying milton to september 11th.

'In America, where God and the Devil live alongside Western rationalism, Milton seems right at home. After the attacks of September 11th, it was possible to find Milton invoked to remind us of the nature of absolute evil—his Satan really is a model terrorist, who, having abandoned hope of a happy home, devotes his energy to destroying the lives of others—and at the same time quoted to uphold the rights of individuals whose distasteful views might be curtailed during a time of war.'

not to call rosen unoriginal, since he is talking about the trend of invoking milton to comment upon our 'post-9/11 world' (we haven't had a phrase like that since WWII, anyway...), but not being as concerned with originality as some might assume, i thought i should add my voice to the fray, seeing as a poem i wrote a couple years back does exactly what rosen claims people were doing. it's called 'the invention of a barbarous age (a miltonic ode to that september),' and it proves him right (what i call 'truth by coincidence').

just a couple notes, to take us back to paradise lost. 'the invention of a barbarous age' is rhyme, according to milton's introduction 'Rime being no necessary Adjunct or true Ornament of Poem or good Verse, in longer Works especially, but the Invention of a barbarous Age, to set off wretched matter and lame Meeter.' i should add that milton, barbarian that he was, was quite fond of rhyme, and sometimes of the most facile kind--a random example from the first part of 'the passion' reveals these almost laughable bouts-rimes: 'mirth ring birth sing wing light night/song wo long so undergo plight wight. one more thing, if you remember anything at all about a book, it should usually be the first sentence, so...

Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav'nly Muse...

not a whole sentence, true, but still enough to recognize the inversion (not 'sing of' but 'of sing'), which i borrowed for my first lines as well. but enough...
.
.
.

the invention of a barbarous age (a miltonic ode to that september)

of the hollow places

inside the clenched teeth—balled fist

of the black-eyed pearl

of rainbow flung on raped bliss

sing a song to loose the soul

the tower with its gaping hole

the sky brought to its knees

and the birds sent chirping

his pained melodies

are with us still—dull medicine

and we are sometimes tired, bitter

when the day ends

only waiting for dreams

to undo a few stupid memories

that repeat themselves again, anyway

i love you, but have forgotten why

have suffocated pearl and tongue

with silence—

but falling in your darkled arms remember

a sometime eve and later morn

Sonnet Errant

i have a little boy coming in june, and for the last eight months i've been writing to him in sonnets, terza rimas, formal invenziones, and cetera. the anxious joy of metamorphosis--knowing i'm going to be a father--is an enervating, refreshing program.

but one of the fortunate, appurtenant consequences has been the new chapbook i put together at home, nursery rhymes. at a handy and rereadable 9 pages, i hope i can sell out the edition of fifty to friends and well-wishers, with the stipulation that all proceeds are going to little jackson james' college fund.

as the youngest of five children, i couldn't depend on my parents to pay for my college, despite their full support, and so i'm accutely aware of the opportunities i want for my own son.

anyway, the a final poem (sillier than the rest) that didn't quite make it into the book, that i still wanted to release out into space, has been published at eyegoneblack.com. [update (july 3rd, 2008)] and the first poem i wrote after he was born was only a half a sonnet:
.
.
.
'half a sonnet after jackson's first storm'

what is it ever convinced me to divorce the sky?
two weeks old, my child is still learning the slow
painful art of alienations everytime he cries

he tries to focus, failing a hundred times
as the rain comes down, pounded by winds
like ribbons of warm glassine, like brine

the world caught us by surprise

Boris Ryzhii, New Translations

russian poet boris ryzhii hanged himself in 2001 in ekaterinburg, at the age of 26, leaving behind a wife and son. despite being spurned and panned in moscow and st. petersburg as a thoroughly provincial poet, and despite his reputation as a manic substance abuser with untenable political aberrations, he was invited to the rotterdam international poetry festival, received the anti-booker prize, and was posthumously awarded the severnaya palmira (the northern palmyra), and has since seen (or, rather, did not hang around to see) his work thrust into the contemporary canon of russian literature.

his poetry wavers uncertainly between silver lyricism and swaggering crapulence while subtly accumulating the numbing force of modern life. his answer to the post-soviet sickness seems anaesthetic at worst, and bacchic at best, and is pathetic in the most meaningful way.

suicides in russian poetry (tsvetaeva, esenin, mayakovsky) are as legendary as america's (lowell, plath, berryman, crane), and yet ryzhii's end seems most like the distinctly american (that is, clinical) archetype--fashioned out of fiery depression, rather than the surrender to impossibly oppressive political forces. this is, of course, mostly a matter of persona and perception, but who can know what tragedies might have been avoided by justice?

despite his established presence in russian letters, political currents have left him impotent to reach america. the russian avant-garde, of which he was decidedly not a part, are highly active in the publishing world, and transfer their reputations through connections in st. petersburg and moscow and émigré circles through europe and america. he never had the chance to promote himself in the new 'viral' e-environment or collaborate on the american scene, and now the work of promotion is left to potentially find its way into the hands of strangers.

fortunately, i was able to publish what i believe is the first american translation of his poetry in circumference, the translation journal out of columbia university. the poem, 'autumn,' is forthcoming in the fall and i encourage everyone to pick up a copy of the new issue when it comes out. [update: autumn was published in vol. 7 of circumference; and i recently discovered that graywolf's new european poets, also published in 08, has a translation of ryzhii's poem 'cinema.']

what follows are a few of my unpublished translations.

j.h. stotts
.
.
.
'absolution'

give the poor drunk something
for his morning fix

who are you, anyway?

rambler and loafer

hustler, dip

the girls who’ve been around the block
a couple times now

may like your scar, how

you forget to shave

but you’re still a snot-face kid

don’t let him embarrass himself
by making the cross

not like you need forgiveness

you’re giving just because—

not for your sins or his

you’ve seen what all that love him whom
shit gets

give out of loneliness, out of spite

as insult to Him

with whom we settle all our debts

.

.

.

i don’t need anything

leave the table and home

that, and in the autumn

the tree outside the window

i don’t need a thing—

the sorb tree in the window

stays and, well,

the glass of wine on the table

i don’t need shit

besides some cigarettes

and for my neighbor to play

a little vertinsky in the morning

fuck, let him mumble about the roses

through the wall—

i’m simple as a dollar on a dirty bar

you’re better, more complicated

but, really, just the table and house

the pain in my shoulder, the sorb-apples

a memory of what was

and, all in all, that kinda thing

.

.

.

'for vasya'

on the very margins of my memory

and on his only leg

in a stolen sheepskin coat stands

vasilii konchev—no, gonchev, with a g!

he lost his prosthetic on a bender

and a good boot to boot

now he’s drinking beer from the liter bottle

as if it was his only chance for...

but i reach out—

hey, i think you’re good vasya, hand it over

i’m convinced we’re living in circles

never dying

and all that’s left—all that’s left’s

to wait, and hold my breath

for him to finish his drink and wipe the smile

on his sleeve

and that’s when my life repeats itself