The Blogora: The Rhetoric Society of America
rhetoric and poetic

 

polis is eyes


Submitted by Jim Aune on May 18, 2009 - 4:01pm


polis is eyes

and ends

There are no hierarchies, no infinite, no such many as mass, there are only
eyes in all heads
to be looked out of

--Charles Olson, Letter 6, Maximus Poems

 

Monday Morning, 4 a.m., Watching Kung Fu Panda with Daniel


Submitted by Jim Aune on March 2, 2009 - 7:23am


from James Merrill, "The Book of Ephraim"

And here was I, or what was left of me,
Feared and rejoiced in, chafed against, held cheap,
A strangeness that was us, and was not, had
All the same allowed for its description,
And so brought at least me these spells of odd,
Self-effacing balance. Better to stop
While we still can. Already I take up
Less emotional space than a snowdrop. . . .
Young chameleon, I used to
Ask how on earth one got sufficiently
Imbued with otherness. And now I see.

 

Auden on Politics


Submitted by Jim Aune on February 12, 2009 - 12:49am


And it is now that our two paths cross.
Both simultaneously recognize his Anti-type: that I am an Arcadian, that he is a Utopian. . . .
He would like to see me cleaning latrines: I would like to see him removed to some other planet.
Neither speaks. What experience could we possibly share? . . . .
. . .a rendezvous between two accomplices who, in spite of themselves, cannot resist meeting
to remind the other (do both, at bottom, desire truth?) of that half of their secret which he would most like to forget

 

And Thomas Hardy. . . .


Submitted by Jim Aune on December 31, 2008 - 1:17pm


The Darkling Thrush
by Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-gray,
And Winter's dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be
The Century's corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth

 

Rilke at Year's End


Submitted by Jim Aune on December 31, 2008 - 1:15pm


Archaic Torso of Apollo
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Stephen Mitchell

We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,

gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.

Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders

 

Auden on Christmas


Submitted by Jim Aune on December 25, 2008 - 12:02pm


Well, so that is that. Now we must dismantle the tree,
Putting the decorations back into their cardboard boxes --
Some have got broken -- and carrying them up to the attic.
The holly and the mistletoe must be taken down and burnt,
And the children got ready for school. There are enough
Left-overs to do, warmed-up, for the rest of the week --
Not that we have much appetite, having drunk such a lot,
Stayed up so late, attempted -- quite unsuccessfully --
To love all of our relatives, and in general
Grossly overestimated our powers. Once again

 

Looking Towards NCA in San Diego


Submitted by Jim Aune on November 16, 2008 - 12:10pm


(for Dana Cloud, in thanks for that conversation on Barry Brummett's porch, and for your general fortitude):

Marianne Moore's

"Nevertheless"

you've seen a strawberry
that's had a struggle; yet
was, where the fragments met,

a hedgehog or a star-
fish for the multitude
of seeds. What better food

than apple seeds - the fruit
within the fruit - locked in
like counter-curved twin

hazelnuts? Frost that kills
the little rubber-plant -
leaves of kok-sagyyz-stalks, can't

harm the roots; they still grow
in frozen ground. Once where
there was a prickley-pear -

 

Poem for the Week


Submitted by Jim Aune on November 11, 2008 - 2:28pm


from The Cure at Troy, by Seamus Heaney:

Human beings suffer,
they torture one another,
they get hurt and get hard.
No poem or play or song
can fully right a wrong
inflicted or endured.

The innocent in gaols
beat on their bars together.
A hunger-striker's father
stands in the graveyard dumb.
The police widow in veils
faints at the funeral home.

History says, Don't hope
on this side of the grave.
But then, once in a lifetime
the longed for tidal wave
of justice can rise up,
and hope and history rhyme.

So hope for a great sea-change
on the far side of revenge.

 

Imag-ination


Submitted by Jim Aune on April 19, 2008 - 6:15pm


". . .there is a blue peacock, blue and green and all the denser modulations of these colors, with gold and silver fans, which it turns to and fro as if to exhibit the brilliance of its mere presence and thereby to command. On the peacock's head, there is a diamond crown, like a coxcomb of darting light and darting fire.

 

Poem of the Week


Submitted by Jim Aune on April 11, 2008 - 5:21pm


September 1, 1939
by W. H. Auden

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,