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Jim Hogg Male, 58, United Kingdom (1/12/2014 4:27:00 AM)

Two tributes from Clive James. Both as replies. A Perfect Market sets out his views on much modern poetry and its exponents, skilled and otherwise. The Later Yeats is more than just a celebration of his work. There is the usual CJ analysis and contextual stuff. The need for " music" in poetic language is an obvious linking theme.

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  • Rookie - 785 Points Lamont Palmer (1/12/2014 6:08:00 PM) Post reply
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    There needs to be music in poetry?What kind of ridiculous idea is that? :) -LP

  • Rookie Jim Hogg (1/12/2014 6:26:00 AM) Post reply

    Oops. Both are poems.Should have made that clear.

  • Rookie Jim Hogg (1/12/2014 4:30:00 AM) Post reply

    Clive James

    The Later Yeats

    Where he sought symbols, we, for him, must seek
    A metaphor, lest mere praise should fall short
    Of how the poems of his last years set
    Our standards for the speech that brings the real
    To integrated order dearly bought,
    Catching the way complexity would speak
    If it had one voice. This, he makes us feel,
    Is where all deeper meanings are well met,
    Contained in a majestic vessel made
    Out of the sea it sails on, yet so strong
    We never, watching it our whole lives long,
    Doubt its solidity. All else may fade,
    But this stands out as if it had been sent
    To prove it can have no equivalent.

    Even his first things were wind-driven boats.
    A coracle would have its speed enhanced
    By some queen elf who stood with gauze shift spread,
    Materialising from the twilight mist.
    Slim dhows, as his romantic urge advanced,
    Sliced through the East. A little navy floats
    In his early pages. Sleek sloops joined the list
    When more substantial things asked to be said.
    His wild-swan racing schooners heeled and ran
    Cargo from Athens, Bethlehem and Rome,
    Or the body of an Irish airman home
    Across the gale. The full soul of a man
    Was on display: sound craft of trim outline
    Criss-crossed the billows. All of his design,

    These would have been enough to make him great:
    The caravelles that reached Byzantium
    Alone proved him unmatched. Then, at the heart
    Of this flotilla, as if light were haze,
    Something appeared to strike the viewer dumb:
    A huge three-decker fighting ship of state.
    Acres of air caught in her tiered arrays
    Of raw silk, she made clear, in every part,
    All of her million parts were cleanly wrought
    To fit together with no need of nails.
    From gun-decks upward to top-gallant sails
    She was one artefact, a cloud drawn taut
    By force, so far beyond its builder’s mind
    It felt for him, and saw where he was blind.

    Tea-clipper-tall but at the waterline
    Three times the width, she had the looks to quell
    Resistance instantly by show of might:
    Empires would knuckle under. Ireland
    Itself would kneel to see her breast the swell
    With such bulk. But develop and refine
    This image as we may, and as we planned –
    Down to the shining brass, sheets chalky white,
    Glazed lanterns, mullioned windows, oaken rails –
    It will not serve the turn without a sense
    Of brute strength tempered by benevolence.
    The monarch reigns supreme because her sails,
    From cinquecento chapel walls low down
    On up through salon panels to her crown

    Of screens, woodcuts and painted fans, are all
    Unchallenged masterpieces. Her curved hull
    Was moulded by the cave walls of Lascaux
    And stamped with its motifs. But what we hear,
    Not what we see, confirms the miracle
    And makes the metaphor. We’re held in thrall
    By music. Music lush, music austere,
    All music ever heart-felt, holds the flow
    Of splendour in one place. Not thought alone –
    Thought least of all, because it was his fate
    To grow more infantile as it grew late –
    Could build this thing, nor was it cut and sewn
    Or hewn solely by touch, or sealed by skill.
    A feat of the self-sacrificing will,

    The peaceful man of war is here to prove
    Any attempt to emulate her air
    Of grandeur invites ridicule, unless
    We, too, pour everything into the task
    Of building something that will still be there
    When we are gone. And that means all we love
    And more, as Yeats knew when he wore a mask
    To quell the self, thinking its pettiness
    Could be faced down. It can’t, but it can be
    Tapped and diverted to an empty space
    Where something permanent can take its place,
    Shaped for the voyage to eternity
    Out of our tears of weakness at the way
    The thing we mean means more than we can say.

    Worse than absurd, then –witless, in the end –
    To trace him through his visionary schemes
    And systems, or pay grave attention to
    Those last affairs, boosted by monkey glands,
    His patient wife scorned as a dotard’s dreams
    If more unreal. No scholarship can mend
    The error of not seeing all demands
    For human truth are vain. Few things are true
    About the life except the work. Yeats found
    His final glory when his jade and gold
    Were joined by rag and bones to sink and fold
    Into the flux of images and sound
    That formed a magic ship to win the war
    Against time, which is just a metaphor

    For the battle to make sense of growing old,
    And bless the ebb tide. It is outward bound,
    Fit for the launch of what we have to give
    The future, though that be a paltry thing.
    Our house is flooded and our books are drowned,
    The embers of our passion are stone cold,
    We count the minutes we have left to live,
    Yet even now it is of love we sing,
    And for a paragon we have the vast
    Swan-songs of Yeats that brought his depths to light.
    Among school children or on All Soul’s Night,
    Humble or proud, he saved the best for last
    And gave it to the waves – but no. There is
    No ship. Just words, and all of them are his.

    - Standpoint, October 2009

  • Rookie Jim Hogg (1/12/2014 4:28:00 AM) Post reply

    A Perfect Market

    Clive James

    Recite your lines aloud, Ronsard advised,
    Or, even better, sing them. Common speech
    Held all the rhythmic measures that he prized
    In poetry. He had much more to teach,
    But first he taught that. Several poets paid
    Him heed. The odd one even made the grade,
    Building a pretty castle on the beach.

    But on the whole it’s useless to point out
    That making the thing musical is part
    Of pinning down what you are on about.
    The voice leads to the craft, the craft to art:
    All this is patent to the gifted few
    Who know, before they can, what they must do
    To make the mind a spokesman for the heart.

    As for the million others, they are blessed:
    This is their age. Their slap-dash in demand
    From all who would take fright were thought expressed
    In ways that showed a hint of being planned,
    They may say anything, in any way.
    Why not?Why shouldn’t they?Why wouldn’t they?
    Nothing to study, nothing to understand.

    And yet it could be that their flight from rhyme
    And reason is a technically precise
    Response to the confusion of a time
    When nothing, said once, merits hearing twice.
    It isn’t that their deafness fails to match
    The chaos. It’s the only thing they catch.
    No form, no pattern. Just the rolling dice

    Of idle talk. Always a blight before,
    It finds a place today, fulfills a need:
    As those who cannot write increase the store
    Of verses fit for those who cannot read,
    For those who can do both the field is clear
    To meet and trade their wares, the only fear
    That mutual benefit might look like greed.

    It isn’t, though. It’s just the interchange
    Of showpiece and attention that has been
    There since the cave men took pains to arrange
    Pictures of deer and bison to be seen
    To best advantage in the flickering light.
    Our luck is to sell tickets on the night
    Only to those who might know what we mean,

    And they are drawn to us by love of sound.
    In the first instance, it is how we sing
    That brings them in. No mystery more profound
    Than how a melody soars from a string
    Of syllables, and yet this much we know:
    Ronsard was right to emphasise it so,
    Even in his day. Now, it’s everything:

    The language falls apart before our eyes,
    But what it once was echoes in our ears
    As poetry, whose gathered force defies
    Even the drift of our declining years.
    A single lilting line, a single turn
    Of phrase: these always proved, at last we learn,
    Life cries for joy though it must end in tears.

    - - Poetry (Chicago) , February 2010

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