Archive for July 2009
That famous Egg of Plymouth Rock,
Laid by a fowl of noble stock,
Was hatched, about that time o’clock,
They stepped ashore —
The pastor and his little flock
The Mayflower bore.
A sample egg, a pattern food,
Un Œuf, that as a feast is good,
A grand egg-sample set: fain would
Get eagles’ eggs, too, if they could,
— Abraham Coles, The Microcosm and Other Poems (1881)
With a Pair of Spectacles
The glass set in gold
May soon break from its hold,
But the gold no such accident fears;
And so our frail senses
Are like these brittle lenses,
But the heart keeps the same all the years.
— Nathaniel Langdon Frothingham, Metrical Pieces, Translated and Original (1855)
I found this while looking into the Frothingham poem on Berlin; it comes from Metrical Pieces, Translated and Original, which carries a lovely dedication: “To the Friends of My life and of Its Lighter Studies.” Among the translations are poems by Propertius, Martial, Manzoni, Goethe, and Schiller. There is also a large number of poems by Friedrich Rückert, best known for his lyrics to Mahler’s Kindertotenlieder. Emerson chose one of the Goethe versions for Parnassus.
“With a Pair of Spectacles” relates to the translations, sort of. It’s one of ten (or eleven; I’m not sure about the last) grouped under the heading “Xenia,” which Frothingham introduces with the following prose note:
This Greek word has found its way into the English Dictionary. It meant originally the presents that were made by a host to his departing guests; but afterwards through various transitive meanings, came to denote gifts in general. Epigrammatic inscriptions for articles thus bestowed form a department, though a very humble one, of Latin literature. The word has been adopted by the French and Germans; the former using it most in the sense of new-year’s gifts.
I was attracted to this because it offers some context, I think, for Emily Dickinson’s practice of pinning notes to flowers and cakes.
Also noteworthy in Metrical Pieces: a poem on “The McLean Asylum, Somerville” (where Plath, Lowell, and Sexton all had stays), and a hymn for the fiftieth anniversary of the Boston Female Asylum. The latter includes these quatrains:
It does not loose, but hold;
It says not, Go — but, Come;
And pens the feeblest in its fold,
And builds the orphan’s home.
O thanks for fifty years
Of woman’s pity shown!
For all it saved of Misery’s tears,
And Ruin’s heavier moan!
I also liked the opening quatrain of “To a Sigh”:
I am not ill, I am not grieved,
Pain has not wrung, nor hope deceived;
Why, then, thou sad, unmeaning guest,
Disturb the comforts of my breast?
“This is then the story how the Lenin Song was created, out of the song expropriated from the narodniks, with the common effort of composers, authors, text writers, journalists, and the whole society singing it independently of their conviction. Its microhistory also illustrates how each one contributed, in the measure of their forces, to the creation and maintenance of the regime.”
I’m gathering up Yiddish lint, mostly from my father’s library, but here in the meantime is a wonderful example of musical genealogy; it includes a discussion of David Edelstadt‘s “In Kamf” (“In Struggle”), written in 1889, about seven years after Edelstadt came to the U.S. in the wake of the Kiev pogrom. The poem was composed to the tune of an old worker’s song, putting it in a lineage that extends back to the Russian theme of Beethoven’s Razumovsky string quartets, and forward to Ernst Busch, Shostakovich, and the Hungarian “Lenin-Dal” (“Lenin Song”) of Ernő Rossa and Miklós Szabó. The genealogy (traced out by Poemas del río Wang) is illustrated with recordings — “In Kamf” is represented by a Klezmatics recording from 1994 — and a fine assortment of photographs of Lenin and Lenin kitsch. I borrowed the shoeshine photo because of its resonance with Edelstadt’s story: according to the bio note in Jewish-American Literature, he first came into contact with Russian revolutionaries in his brother’s shoe factory in Kiev; it was probably from them that he learned the tune used for “In Kamf.” In the U.S. he became an anarchist; Emma Goldman described him as “a spiritual petrel whose songs of revolt were beloved by every Yiddish-speaking radical,” “In Kamf” being the best known of those songs.
Matted in my head, as in the filter of a drying machine.
Emma Lazarus, who wrote the most famous of all American sonnets, “The New Colossus,” made translations from Petrarch. So too did Thomas Wentworth Higginson, who domesticated the Italian form by inscribing it in an American landscape. In “Sunshine and Petrarch,” written for Atlantic Monthly in 1867, he describes a little cove set above a steep bank of buttercups and grass, then comments:
If Petrarch still knows and feels the consummate beauty of these earthly things, it may seem to him some repayment for the sorrows of a lifetime that one reader, after all this lapse of years, should choose his sonnets to match this grass, these blossoms, and the soft lapse of these blue waves. Yet any longer or more continuous poem would be out of place to-day. I fancy that this narrow cove prescribes the proper limits of a sonnet; and when I count the lines of ripple within yonder projecting wall, there proves to be room for just fourteen. Nature meets our whims with such little fitnesses. The words which build these delicate structures are as soft and fine and close-textured as the sands upon this tiny beach, and their monotone, if such it be, is the monotone of the neighboring ocean.
A beautiful tranquility. But sonnets are not tranquil by nature, if only because they are often occasioned by powerful emotions. Here are the last ten lines of one of the Lazarus translations; they enact as it were an argument within the sonnet against the placidity sonnets are said to exemplify:
This life is like a field of flowering thyme,
Amidst the herbs and grass the serpent lives;
If aught unto the sight brief pleasure gives,
‘Tis but to snare the soul with treacherous lime.
So, wouldst thou keep thy spirit free from cloud,
A tranquil habit to thy latest day,
Follow the few, and not the vulgar crowd.
Yet mayest thou urge, “Brother, the very way
Thou showest us, wherefrom thy footsteps proud
(And never more than now) so oft did stray.”
Petrarch’s straying footsteps work very well as a figure for free verse, and free-verse sonnets are the ones I know best from my own era — Ted Berrigan’s being the best known (though I have a special fondness for those of John Clarke). The prototype is Walt Whitman’s “Death-Sonnet for Custer,” published in the New York Daily Tribune on July 10th, 1876. Here is a reproduction of the manuscript, held by the New York Public Library:
The Walt Whitman archive reproduces the newspaper printing and gives a transcript here.
To a Lady
Who Had Offered Him a Wreath
Laurel is a sacred leaf
And forbidden to be worn
Lest Apollo, flushed with scorn,
Shoot the rhymester for a thief.
Yet if any human grief
Be half uttered in a song
The dark laurel will belong
To all poets that have writ.
Let your heart but mend my wit
And my crown is not wrong.
— George Santayana
The half-uttered grief is unrequited love; yet by asking his Lady to mend his wit, not his heart, the poet is blending gallantry with ambition. Or ambition with gallantry, since he accepts the laurel on behalf of all poets, not just himself. Or rather, is willing to accept it — if that is what his Lady dictates.
The poem records an act of renunciation, bittersweet in all its implications. Records and revisits: according to William G. Holzberger, editor of Santayana’s Complete Poems, the dedicatee is Nancy Toy, “the attractive young wife of Harvard theology professor Crawford H. Toy when Santayana, as a young philosophy instructor and poet, made her acquaintance in the early 1890s.” The poem was written sometime before the end of the decade, but only published in the 1950s, after Santayana’s death. The manuscript is owned by Washington University (catalog entry here).
Neglected record of a mind neglected,
Unto what “lets and stops” art thou subjected!
The day with all its toils and occupations,
The night with its reflections and sensations,
The future, and the present, and the past, —
All I remember, feel, and hope at last,
All shapes of joy and sorrow, as they pass, —
Find but a dusty image in this glass.
— Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, October 22, 1838
Posthumously published in Samuel Longfellow‘s 1886 biography of the poet and Volume III of the Poetical Works, in the latter case with three other notebook jottings gathered under the heading “Fragments.”