Throwback Thursday

Book Review: “Far Bright Star” by Robert Olmsted

Far Bright Star“If you only read the books that everyone else is reading, you can only think what everyone else is thinking.” ~Haruki Murakami

There are books you read because of their plot and there are others you read for their tone and style. Far Bright Star by Robert Olmsted is the latter. Like All the Pretty Horses, by Cormac Macarthy, it is a story of beauty and violence and horses and Mexico. And like All the Pretty Horses (and Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry)it is a novel that proves that the Western, when handled by great writers, still has great promise and great possibilities.

I had started Far Bright Star awhile back. But for a variety of reasons, the timing was not right. This week I started it again. The experience this time was magical.

For those who need a plot review in their book reviews, I am inserting here the plot summary from Amazon.com.

The year is 1916. The enemy, Pancho Villa, is elusive. Terrain is unforgiving. Through the mountains and across the long dry stretches of Mexico, Napoleon Childs, an aging cavalryman, leads an expedition of inexperienced horse soldiers on seemingly fruitless searches. Though he is seasoned at such missions, things go terribly wrong, and his patrol is suddenly at the mercy of an enemy intent on their destruction. After witnessing the demise of his troops, Napoleon is left by his captors to die in the desert.

Through him we enter the conflicted mind of a warrior as he tries to survive against all odds, as he seeks to make sense of a lifetime of senseless wars and to reckon with the reasons a man would choose a life on the battlefield. Olmstead, an award-winning writer, has created a tightly wound novel that is as moving as it is terrifying. (cf. Amazon.com)

But it is not the plot that matters in Far Bright Star. It is the tone created by some of the most admirable prose I have come across … since All the Pretty Horses and Blood Meridian. Prose that shimmers and shines like a far, bright star:

Thus far the summer of 1916 had been a siege of wrathy wind and heated air. Dust and light. Sand and light. Wind and light.

* * * * *

The night was desolate, piercingly cold and made thin and transparent and he could see the stars and the stars behind the stars.

* * * * *

It was an immense dark night on earth and he felt have been washed up on a high shore of the world. Whatever dim veil fallen across the heavens was lifted and again there were infinite stars spangling the blue night. The stars were faint and flickered gently as if alive.

* * * * *

On nights like this he would stop the horse and lay back and look at the stars…. It is so like humans to think there is more out there than there is here. They are greedy for the water to be more and for the land to be more and even greedy of the sky to be more.

 

Tuning Out

"Rathlin Island Cross" (photo by m.a.h. hinton)

“Rathlin Island Cross” (photo by m.a.h. hinton)

The disaster that is Donald Trump continues to suck the life out of most news cycles. And since news of the buffoon and his dangerous cronies only serves to aggravate and irritate me, I made a vow Sunday to take time off from listening to the news.

For the next week (at least), I will not be reading The New York Times, Salon, Politico, my Twitter feed, nor will I be going to CNN’s website, or FoxNews, or MSNBC, or Buzzfeed….

Instead, I will be:

  • Listening to music (Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, Hank Jones, Red Garland)
  • Continuing my slooooow “progress” through Ulysseses (I have until Bloomsday to finish)
  • Reading Paul Sabatier’s wonderful biography of St. Francis, The Road to Assisi
  • Starting a jigsaw puzzle (maybe)
  • And, of course, writing

That is it.

A new Lenten discipline. A letting go.

I’ll let you know how it goes.

O! and wish me luck. I think I am going to need it.

 

Throwback Thursday

On Latinates, Hypocrisies, and “Textual Duplexity”

stone and chipsAs I have said on a numerous occasions, I have been surprised to discover that the thing I have come to enjoy most about this experiment I call MontanaWriter has been when someone I do not personally know has been moved in some way by something I have written to contact me. Whether they like what I have written or dislike it does not matter. What excites me is to think that a stranger has taken the time to read and respond. A writer needs an audience after all.

Recently I received an email from a reader who had stumbled upon MontanaWriter and my review of Wallace Stevens’ poem “Sigmund Freud Discovers the Sea Shell.” The gist of the email was that for all my talk about eliminating latinates from poetry I was “guilty” (her word) of using quite a number in both my poetry and in my poetry reviews.

She was particularly bothered by a term I “made up” (again, her words) in the Stevens’ review, textual duplexity. She said she googled the term and found only one other place it has ever been used, an article on Kierkegaard. “You insist that language needs to have shared meanings, yet you are apparently one of only two persons in the whole world to even pretend to know what ‘textual duplexity’ means. Are you using it ironically or hypocritically.”

My one word answer to that question would be: both. My three word response to the whole email would be: “guilty as charged.”

Duplex, according to online dictionaries has a number of meanings including:

  1. having two principal elements or partsdouble, two-fold
  2. A house divided into two living units or residences, usually having separate entrances
  3. allowing telecommunication in opposite directions simultaneously

The term textual duplexity is rooted in all the meanings of “duplex.” Language, indeed all human interaction, is always at least two-fold and is, by definition, always simultaneous two-way communication.

Words carry multiple meanings. Another (admittedly more poetical) way to say this is: many meanings “inhabit the house” of a single word.  In a poem, these houses – duplexes actually… dwellings of multiple meanings – form streets, and blocks, and neighborhoods, and communities of meanings. These meanings simultaneously interconnect with one another and with the writer and the reader of any poem… any work of art. The term textual duplexity then, seems to me to describe the process as well as any term I could come up with.

I sent an email back to the reader, explaining how I had come up with the term and thanking her for reading what I had read so carefully. I also let her know that I am quite open to any and all other terms or metaphors that could better describe how I imagine poetry to function.

I will keep the readers of MontanaWriter posted when, and if, I find a better term or metaphor. In the meantime, I am going to live with the hypocrisy of my latinates and continue to use the term “textual duplexity.”

Throwback Thursday: “Cornhuskers” by Carl Sandburg

Poetry Review: “Cornhuskers” by Carl Sandburg

Sandburg-197x300Walt Whitman’s 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass is the most spiritual work ever created by an American writer. Reading it remains the single greatest pleasure that any reader of American Literature can ever have.

Carl Sandburg more than any other American poet is Whitman’s spiritual heir. In vision and scope he shares the same transcendent  perspective, the same sense of the sacredness of land and people. The only true comparisons for the kind of vision that Whitman and Sandburg bring to their poetry is to the writers of the Psalms and of the Book of the Prophet Isaiah.

The 1855 edition of Leaves of Grass is not merely a book of poetry… or even a book of poetry that forever changed the way poetry is thought about and written… it is sacred literature. I am beginning to think that the same can be said for some of Sandburg’s poems. They come as close to sacred literature as anything written since Whitman.

Today’s poem is admittedly a long poem… but by necessity it must be. It is the poem of one who can see a bit with the mind of God. I promise you that it is worth your time in the same way that Whitman is worth your time… in the same way that reading the Psalms and Isaiah are worth your time.

Enjoy!

I. Prairie

I was born on the prairie and the milk of its wheat, the red of its clover, the eyes of its women, gave me a song and a slogan.

Here the water went down, the icebergs slid with gravel, the gaps and the valleys hissed, and the black loam came, and the yellow sandy loam.
Here between the sheds of the Rocky Mountains and the Appalachians, here now a morning star fixes a fire sign over the timber claims and cow pastures, the corn belt, the cotton belt, the cattle ranches.
Here the gray geese go five hundred miles and back with a wind under their wings honking the cry for a new home.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.

The prairie sings to me in the forenoon and I know in the night I rest easy in the prairie arms, on the prairie heart.. . .
After the sunburn of the day
handling a pitchfork at a hayrack,
after the eggs and biscuit and coffee,
the pearl-gray haystacks
in the gloaming
are cool prayers
to the harvest hands.

In the city among the walls the overland passenger train is choked and the pistons hiss and the wheels curse.
On the prairie the overland flits on phantom wheels and the sky and the soil between them muffle the pistons and cheer the wheels.. . .
I am here when the cities are gone.
I am here before the cities come.
I nourished the lonely men on horses.
I will keep the laughing men who ride iron.
I am dust of men.

The running water babbled to the deer, the cottontail, the gopher.
You came in wagons, making streets and schools,
Kin of the ax and rifle, kin of the plow and horse,
Singing Yankee Doodle, Old Dan Tucker, Turkey in the Straw,
You in the coonskin cap at a log house door hearing a lone wolf howl,
You at a sod house door reading the blizzards and chinooks let loose from Medicine Hat,
I am dust of your dust, as I am brother and mother
To the copper faces, the worker in flint and clay,
The singing women and their sons a thousand years ago
Marching single file the timber and the plain.

I hold the dust of these amid changing stars.
I last while old wars are fought, while peace broods mother-like,
While new wars arise and the fresh killings of young men.
I fed the boys who went to France in great dark days.
Appomattox is a beautiful word to me and so is Valley Forge and the Marne and Verdun,
I who have seen the red births and the red deaths
Of sons and daughters, I take peace or war, I say nothing and wait.

Have you seen a red sunset drip over one of my cornfields, the shore of night stars, the wave lines of dawn up a wheat valley?
Have you heard my threshing crews yelling in the chaff of a strawpile and the running wheat of the wagonboards, my cornhuskers, my harvest hands hauling crops, singing dreams of women, worlds, horizons?. . .
Rivers cut a path on flat lands.
The mountains stand up.
The salt oceans press in
And push on the coast lines.
The sun, the wind, bring rain
And I know what the rainbow writes across the east or west in a half-circle:
A love-letter pledge to come again.. . .
Towns on the Soo Line,
Towns on the Big Muddy,
Laugh at each other for cubs
And tease as children.

Omaha and Kansas City, Minneapolis and St. Paul, sisters in a house together, throwing slang, growing up.
Towns in the Ozarks, Dakota wheat towns, Wichita, Peoria, Buffalo, sisters throwing slang, growing up.. . .
Out of prairie-brown grass crossed with a streamer of wigwam smoke—out of a smoke pillar, a blue promise—out of wild ducks woven in greens and purples—
Here I saw a city rise and say to the peoples round world: Listen, I am strong, I know what I want.
Out of log houses and stumps—canoes stripped from tree-sides—flatboats coaxed with an ax from the timber claims—in the years when the red and the white men met—the houses and streets rose.

A thousand red men cried and went away to new places for corn and women: a million white men came and put up skyscrapers, threw out rails and wires, feelers to the salt sea: now the smokestacks bite the skyline with stub teeth.

In an early year the call of a wild duck woven in greens and purples: now the riveter’s chatter, the police patrol, the song-whistle of the steamboat.

To a man across a thousand years I offer a handshake.
I say to him: Brother, make the story short, for the stretch of a thousand years is short.. . .
What brothers these in the dark?
What eaves of skyscrapers against a smoke moon?
These chimneys shaking on the lumber shanties
When the coal boats plow by on the river—
The hunched shoulders of the grain elevators—
The flame sprockets of the sheet steel mills
And the men in the rolling mills with their shirts off
Playing their flesh arms against the twisting wrists of steel:
what brothers these
in the dark
of a thousand years?. . .
A headlight searches a snowstorm.
A funnel of white light shoots from over the pilot of the Pioneer Limited crossing Wisconsin.

In the morning hours, in the dawn,
The sun puts out the stars of the sky
And the headlight of the Limited train.

The fireman waves his hand to a country school teacher on a bobsled.
A boy, yellow hair, red scarf and mittens, on the bobsled, in his lunch box a pork chop sandwich and a V of gooseberry pie.

The horses fathom a snow to their knees.
Snow hats are on the rolling prairie hills.
The Mississippi bluffs wear snow hats.. . .
Keep your hogs on changing corn and mashes of grain,
O farmerman.
Cram their insides till they waddle on short legs
Under the drums of bellies, hams of fat.
Kill your hogs with a knife slit under the ear.
Hack them with cleavers.
Hang them with hooks in the hind legs.. . .
A wagonload of radishes on a summer morning.
Sprinkles of dew on the crimson-purple balls.
The farmer on the seat dangles the reins on the rumps of dapple-gray horses.
The farmer’s daughter with a basket of eggs dreams of a new hat to wear to the county fair.. . .
On the left-and right-hand side of the road,
Marching corn—
I saw it knee high weeks ago—now it is head high—tassels of red silk creep at the ends of the ears.. . .
I am the prairie, mother of men, waiting.
They are mine, the threshing crews eating beefsteak, the farmboys driving steers to the railroad cattle pens.
They are mine, the crowds of people at a Fourth of July basket picnic, listening to a lawyer read the Declaration of Independence, watching the pinwheels and Roman candles at night, the young men and women two by two hunting the bypaths and kissing bridges.
They are mine, the horses looking over a fence in the frost of late October saying good-morning to the horses hauling wagons of rutabaga to market.
They are mine, the old zigzag rail fences, the new barb wire.. . .
The cornhuskers wear leather on their hands.
There is no let-up to the wind.
Blue bandannas are knotted at the ruddy chins.

Falltime and winter apples take on the smolder of the five-o’clock November sunset: falltime, leaves, bonfires, stubble, the old things go, and the earth is grizzled.
The land and the people hold memories, even among the anthills and the angleworms, among the toads and woodroaches—among gravestone writings rubbed out by the rain—they keep old things that never grow old.

The frost loosens corn husks.
The Sun, the rain, the wind
loosen corn husks.
The men and women are helpers.
They are all cornhuskers together.
I see them late in the western evening
in a smoke-red dust.. . .
The phantom of a yellow rooster flaunting a scarlet comb, on top of a dung pile crying hallelujah to the streaks of daylight,
The phantom of an old hunting dog nosing in the underbrush for muskrats, barking at a coon in a treetop at midnight, chewing a bone, chasing his tail round a corncrib,
The phantom of an old workhorse taking the steel point of a plow across a forty-acre field in spring, hitched to a harrow in summer, hitched to a wagon among cornshocks in fall,
These phantoms come into the talk and wonder of people on the front porch of a farmhouse late summer nights.
“The shapes that are gone are here,” said an old man with a cob pipe in his teeth one night in Kansas with a hot wind on the alfalfa.. . .
Look at six eggs
In a mockingbird’s nest.

Listen to six mockingbirds
Flinging follies of O-be-joyful
Over the marshes and uplands.

Look at songs
Hidden in eggs.. . .
When the morning sun is on the trumpet-vine blossoms, sing at the kitchen pans: Shout All Over God’s Heaven.
When the rain slants on the potato hills and the sun plays a silver shaft on the last shower, sing to the bush at the backyard fence: Mighty Lak a Rose.
When the icy sleet pounds on the storm windows and the house lifts to a great breath, sing for the outside hills: The Ole Sheep Done Know the Road, the Young Lambs Must Find the Way.. . .
Spring slips back with a girl face calling always: “Any new songs for me? Any new songs?”

O prairie girl, be lonely, singing, dreaming, waiting—your lover comes—your child comes—the years creep with toes of April rain on new-turned sod.
O prairie girl, whoever leaves you only crimson poppies to talk with, whoever puts a good-by kiss on your lips and never comes back—
There is a song deep as the falltime redhaws, long as the layer of black loam we go to, the shine of the morning star over the corn belt, the wave line of dawn up a wheat valley.. . .
O prairie mother, I am one of your boys.
I have loved the prairie as a man with a heart shot full of pain over love.
Here I know I will hanker after nothing so much as one more sunrise or a sky moon of fire doubled to a river moon of water.. . .
I speak of new cities and new people.
I tell you the past is a bucket of ashes.
I tell you yesterday is a wind gone down,
a sun dropped in the west.
I tell you there is nothing in the world
only an ocean of to-morrows,
a sky of to-morrows.

I am a brother of the cornhuskers who say
at sundown:
To-morrow is a day.