Rita Dove

2 posts

Salad Days for Poetry: They’ve Arrived

poetry

As Shakespeare would say (and did in Act I, Scene 5, of his 1606 play, Antony & Cleopatra) these are “salad days” for poetry.

No, he didn’t mention the poetry part, just the salad days part, through the mouth of the beautiful Cleopatra reminiscing about her foolish, younger (read: greener) days.

Over time the foolish part has fallen off the salad, leaving the younger part, so “salad days” (the green of youth, which we have a tendency to worship) now indicate a good thing.

The New York Times Magazine, a Sunday staple in this house, is an example of salad days for poetry, but it’s not the only evidence to be seen. The poetry renaissance is partly due to political events in the U.S. Political poetry, once frowned upon, is very much in style these days. And the voices of minority poets have flourished in recent years thanks to the oppressive policies of the very vanilla and very wealthy powers-that-be.

But back to the Times Magazine. For over three years now they’ve been publishing poetry. One poem a week. Formerly curated by Terrance Hayes, Natasha Tretheway, and Matthew Zapruder, the honor is now Rita Dove’s, who recently assumed the title of “Poetry Editor.”

It’s viewable on-line in the Magazine section. Check it out Sundays. This week’s entry, about a couple in the Puerto Rican countryside, reads like a side of salad. It’s written by the very cooly named poet Blas Falconer. I leave the dressing to you:

 

“A man and a woman touched”
by Blas Falconer

at night under stairs,
pinball machines ringing, and,
Sundays, he drove her to

the springs of Coamo, the chapel of
San Germán. Had she ever known
happiness? The road
littered with mangos seemed

to go on
forever. She thought,
The people can’t eat

them fast enough,
as if she were not
one of those people.

 

Ah, love and sadness. And mangos. And salad days growing exactly where you want them—in as many broad circulation periodicals as possible.

T. G. I. M., people. Greens are good for you. And all of us. Even very vanilla and very wealthy powers-that-be, if only they’d partake.

 

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There’s still time before Christmas! Give a little salad to a language lover you know!

Riddle Me This

poetry poetry in the news reading poetry

riddle

Good news: Poetry continues to work its way back into everyday media. Or every weekend media, anyway, as evidenced by the New York Times Magazine, a Sunday insert that includes a poem selected by Rita Dove each week.

Yesterday, the magazine included an Elizabeth Spires poem. I’m going to hold back on the title to see if you can guess what it’s about. Game? Good. Here we go:

 

A shirt I was born in.
I wear it. Or it wears me.
White, of course.

A loose fit.
Growing as I grow
but slowly going dull.

It must be washed
once, twice, three times,
then hung to dry.

There, can you see it?
Hanging high
on the hill.

Waving its arms
in the wind. Beckoning.
Sun shining through.

 

I don’t know about you, but as I read it yesterday, I thought it sounded like a poem for children. One of those puzzle poems. One of those here-are-the-clues, now-see-if-you-can-guess-what-I-am deals. Sold at Personifications R Us. Aisle 6. Bottom shelf (where wee ones can see riddles rolling among the dust bunnies). Where teachers buy poems without titles and put students on the hunt.

If you haven’t guessed already, it’s about your immortal (thinking the best here) soul and carries the title “Picture of a Soul.”

Nice, but nicer still is the quote Dove alludes to in the short introduction. It’s a Wallace Stevens bit I’d never heard before: “the poet is the priest of the invisible.”

I wonder if someone has stolen that for a book title yet. Or is it too cheeky? Priest of the Invisible: Poems. I’ll check with Dewey, then Decimal, and get back to  you.

Until then, Happy Indigenous Peoples Day!