{"id":20824,"date":"2018-12-21T09:25:53","date_gmt":"2018-12-21T14:25:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=20824"},"modified":"2018-12-21T09:25:53","modified_gmt":"2018-12-21T14:25:53","slug":"in-praise-of-the-awful-but-mostly-of-awe","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2018\/12\/in-praise-of-the-awful-but-mostly-of-awe\/","title":{"rendered":"In Praise of the Awful, But Mostly of Awe"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"Image:<\/a><\/p>\n

[Image: “Self-Portrait with 12 Bags of Trash,” by Anne-Katrin Spiess. The artist explains<\/a>: “I noticed litter lining both sides of a very scenic stretch of desert Highway 191 in Utah. I decided to ‘Adopt a Highway’ and cleaned the stretch between mile markers 176 and 177. I photographed each object I picked up, and sorted my findings by category to create ‘Self Portrait With 12 Bags of Trash.'”]<\/em><\/p>\n

From whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

On Bitching<\/strong>
\nafter Catullus<\/a><\/em><\/p>\n

Listen, Hilarius, you’ve got to snap out of it.
\nI know you’re in your fifties now,
\nbut don’t let yourself give in to bitterness.
\nSure, when you were younger the muse
\nused to visit more often, sprawling across your lap
\nand whispering in your ear, but at least
\nshe treats you now and then to an idea
\nor plants a stanza in your head as you’re waking up.
\nAnd stop bitching about editors
\nwho keep publishing each other’s poems
\nin Pretension Quarterly<\/em> or The Moribund Review<\/em>.
\nTry not to let it bother you so much.
\nWhy waste your energy enumerating
\nall the petty injustices that have gone on
\nsince ancient times and are bound to continue
\nfor centuries to come? And there’s no point
\nin envying the poets who swagger into rooms,
\ncharging every molecule with their need
\nto be important. So, let them be important.
\nAnd if, sometimes, you feel as if you
\nhardly exist, well, as a great poet once said,
\nbe secret and exult . . . instead of sulking.
\nBelieve me, I agree with you, it’s too bad
\nthings sometimes work the way they do,
\nbut it’s exasperating to listen to you
\nafter you’ve had a few too many cups of wine
\nrailing against the zealously self-promoting
\npostmodern obfuscators, the hip ironists revved up
\non their own cleverness, the tedious fundamentalists
\nof rhyme and meter, or the one you call
\nthe formalist narcissist Stalinist surrealist.
\nNot bad, Hilarius, but you need to get over it.
\nYou didn’t want power, remember?
\nYou wanted to write poems. So, write them.
\nAnd the next time some self-satisfied preener
\nwins a prize, don’t dwell on it, but remind yourself
\nof all the poems that didn’t get away, the poems
\nof your friends and how they’ve borne you up
\nand spurred you on with a better envy,
\nand remember the friends themselves, laboring
\nalone at their desks, mostly under the radar
\n(unlike the “famous poets” you call the oxymorons),
\nand giving you what literary life you have
\nwhich if not dazzling is at least genuine –
\nand thank the gods to the end of your days
\nfor the time they’ve granted you to spend
\non making poems, even if they come to nothing.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Jeffrey Harrison [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n

Tides and storms, the patterns of seasons and migrations, the quality of the soil and the air – all of these continue to influence and are influenced by us; they remind us of the intricate web from which we cannot disentangle ourselves, try as we might. Also, some of us are still lucky enough to live in places where we are awakened by birdsong in the morning, where at night we can see the Milky Way spilled across the sky. These things are part of our daily human experiences. As such, these phenomena —like anything else—can take on particular meaning, both original and universal.<\/p>\n

Such meaning depends on authenticity, which often depends on engagement. This is the case whether we are talking about authenticity between people and people or between people and nature. We must be attentive; we must give our senses over to the other.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Hannah Fries [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n

Nine Ways of Looking at the Moon<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n
i.<\/td>\nWhere the heart of the sky would be<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nwe find the mother of all bones.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nThere is some meat on her yet\u2014<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nThis is what the wolves know.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
ii.<\/td>\nNo man is as gentle as the sky.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nSo white, that boutonniere pinned<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nto the lapel of his most formal suit.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
iii.<\/td>\nWhile there is but one tooth<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nthere is much laughter to be had.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
iv.<\/td>\nThe throat of a toad bulges as it fills with song.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
v.<\/td>\nWhite fox curled up in a mound of soot.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nIt is only the hounds that dream of the chase.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
vi.<\/td>\nFat pearl on the dark tongue of a clam.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
vii.<\/td>\nGod has misplaced his glass eye.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nBut there it is\u2014ghosting the sky.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
viii.<\/td>\nThe lamb looks smallest on the altar.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
ix.<\/td>\nAll birds go to worship inside a cathedral<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n
<\/td>\nwhite and round as the belly of a greater bird.<\/td>\n<\/tr>\n<\/tbody>\n<\/table>\n<\/blockquote>\n

(Cecilia Llompart [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n

…and:<\/p>\n

Instructions for Not Becoming a Werewolf<\/strong><\/p>\n

You feel it first
\nas an itch in the teeth, a gnarl
\nof nerves coiled too tight.
\nSome taut aperture sliding open
\nbetween the heart and gut.
\nPrecautions must be taken.<\/p>\n

Do not enjoy too much
\nthe quick grey jolt of hare, the split-crate thrill
\nof punctured appleskin.
\nHigh lonely places, wind,
\nthe supple creak
\nof oiled leather. Woods<\/p>\n

are of course best avoided.
\nCopses, spinneys, anywhere,
\nin fact, where the strong-sweet bulk of horse chestnut
\ncrowds too close, where you can raise
\nthe wet note of fresh-churned earth
\nby digging in the nails. Rivers<\/p>\n

are not to be trusted. They know too much.
\nThey nuzzle the base of cliffs and snout
\nat kitchen doors. They learn
\nfrom the granite of the hills, the pulp
\nof slick black roots and lovely braids
\nunwinding in the weeds. The moon<\/p>\n

may be looked at in moderation.
\nBut don’t let it give you any ideas.<\/p>\n

Fill your house with mirrors. Watch the clock.
\nSpeak often. Do not feel
\nyou are safe in the city: there’s another
\nunder this one. Stop your ears
\nto curlews, vixens, hounds, they’ve tales to tell<\/p>\n

if you’ve the ears. And you’ve no idea
\nwhat it is to have ears like mine.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

(Abigail Parry [source<\/em><\/a>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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