What Year is it? Thirty-nine and a Half

The lines from Dan Pagis‘s poem “Europe, Late” seem too close to the mark at the moment. That “it could” is calling out. Here’s the full poem:

Violins float in the sky,
and a straw hat. I beg your pardon,
what year is it?
Thirty-nine and a half, still awfully early,
you can turn off the radio.
I would like to introduce you to:
the sea breeze, the life of the party,
terribly mischievous,
whirling in a bell-skirt, slapping down
the worried newspapers: tango! tango!
And the park hums to itself:
I kiss your dainty hand, madame,
your hand as soft and elegant
as a white suede glove. You’ll see, madame,
that everything will be all right,
just heavenly–you wait and see.
No, it could never happen here,
don’t worry so–you’ll see–it could

An August Day for Poetry

My friend Bob Grunst has a new book of poems out.   He sent me a copy weeks and weeks ago, and I have yet to thank him, and to congratulate him on his latest publication. Bob knows more about flora and fauna than anyone I have come across. Lately, he has been traveling to points far and wide — South America and India. He lives and teaches in Minnesota, and I recommend his work to you, and if you ever have the chance to hear him read his poems or to meet him, you will find him to be a gentle and magnanimous person.  Not that long ago, Bob praised the work of Robert Hass, and today in a bookstore I saw a new collection of essays by Hass, What Light Can Do. My guess is that Bob would recommend the Hass book to all of us. Supporting poets seems a most worthy cause.

Tranströmer Acknowledged

A dedicated poet, Robert Grunst, told me years ago to read Tranströmer, meaning, among other things, that those who know poetry know Tranströmer, and have known for some time. Odd then to happen upon people making claims that Tranströmer is an unknown, and that the Nobel Prize announcement constitutes a shock.  The only response to such people is: read the poetry. It makes the case for itself, even in translation.

In the middle of life, death comes
to take your measurements. The visit
is forgotten and life goes on. But the suit
is being sewn on the sly.

Mark Doty over at Slate

This is not breaking news, but since I did not know it until this week, it was news for me.  Mark Doty has been participating in a lively discussion about poetry over at Slate.  That is cheering.

What causes chagrin on this topic is that Texas is losing Mr. Doty.  If you follow his blog (see the links section of this site), Mr. Doty charts his move eastward and northward.  For those of you who are his new neighbors, we Texans expect you to treat Mr. Doty well.