First Look at the cover of General Discharge

The galley proof arrives tomorrow. In the meantime, here is a look at the cover.

The new book, "General Discharge," continues apace. I have the first proofs, and I have begun looking through them, making sure things look as they should. At first glance, it looks to be in good shape.

I expect the book to be out near the end of March.

Some Poems Worth Your Time: Lessons of the War--Henry Reed

Some Poems Worth Your Time: Lessons of the War--Henry Reed

If you recognize Henry Reed, it is likely for "The Naming of Parts." But this is just one of six in a poem sequence called "Lessons of the War." Still, it's a good place to start.

Here is a link to the six-poem sequence. Do yourself a favor and read at least the first sequence (the aforementioned "The Naming of Parts").

"The Naming of Parts" is an exchange between a British sergeant and the speaker--though the speaker's words are likely only thought, rather than spoken. Reed gets the sergeant's overly officious and slightly clueless diction just right, so that we share (and delight) in the speaker's recognition that the sergeant doesn't quite understand everything he is trying to teach. And meanwhile, the speaker reveals his ambivalence toward the service he has been called to give, which invites others to identify with him--by "others," I mean "others not in uniform."

But the wonderful thing for me about this poem is that it appeals to people IN uniform. I found it and fell in love with it as an army officer.

In "The Naming of Parts," it's clear the recruit-speaker is not completely committed to the military way of life. But when you read the rest of the poems in the sequence, you see his sympathy for the cause emerge from time to time. In that way,  the poems resemble Herman Wouk's "The Caine Mutiny," where Captain Queeg has clearly come unhinged--and yet we can't dismiss him entirely, because he was there to serve his country when no one else was.

The poem has always been a favorite of mine--part laughing at those who I imagine I know better than, part laughing at myself, part seeing the nobility even in the imperfect execution of service.

By the way, I have decided on a phrase from one of the other poems in this sequence ("Unarmed Combat") for the epigraph to my book "General Discharge."

Some Poems Worth Your Time: The Cool Web--Robert Graves

Some Poems Worth Your Time: The Cool Web--Robert Graves

Robert Graves may be best known to contemporary readers for his "I, Claudius" novels (I, Claudius, and Claudius the God)--not because they have actually read them, but because they were made into a well-known BBC miniseries. And some may actually know him for his World War I memoir, Goodbye to All That--again, not because they have read it, but because Joan Didion appropriated the title of Graves's memoir for her seminal essay/memoir about 1960s New York from her collection Slouching Towards Bethlehem (the title lifted from the Yeats poem. Didion only appropriated from the best!).

But Graves was also a poet, and if he had only written this one poem, his name--as well as this poem--would be worth committing to memory.

Here is a link to the poem.

Many people who read this poem try to excuse the first line "Children are dumb," likely because it seems like a cruel thing to say. They explain that Graves means "mute" not "stupid." I'm not so sure. I think we need to allow for both when we read this. The poem is shocking throughout, so why not allow that it is shocking from the first line? Besides, it's not as if Graves would have been unaware of the dual meaning. It's been part of the English language longer than there has been an English language ("dumb" meant "stupid in Old High German and the German languages that followed) and it was in common use in the "stupid" sense by the late 18th or early 19th century--a century or two before Graves's poem.

The poem is about what we gain and what we lose when we put language between us and our experience. Children learn how to do this as they grow up. When they are young, they don't have the words--are "dumb"--to describe beauty, or fear, or war. But they also don't know--are ignorant as to how--are "dumb" in the other sense.

Our language allows us to describe these things, but at a loss. Nothing is as magnificent, or as terrifying, once we put it into words. And so we lose something in gaining speech.

What I love about the poem is that it isn't nostalgic for some lost childhood. Sure, we lose the direct access to our experience once we water it down with language. But the poem suggests that it's a matter of survival. As Jack Nicholson's character says in A Few Good Men, "You can't handle the truth!!" And so we can't. It would drive us mad to confront life without a filter, without the distance language provides us. So pick your poison: life by the drop and die young; or live a more tedious, but longer and more cultivated existence.

And there is the matter of the title. The poet says it is the "cool web of language winds us in." We are caught in its web like a spider's prey. And it is just a matter of time before language devours us. But this is a Hobson's choice (a choice without a choice): either we succumb to language or we go insane, which the poet compares to drowning--which is just another way of being swallowed up. (nb--language may water down raw experience, but Graves uses water to represent that raw experience. I don't know why.)

It's impossible for me--as it might be for you--to think of this poem's title without also thinking of E.B. White's Charlotte's Web--another memorable work about the web of language--and death. Just remember--Graves got there first!

Progress Report on the Book

Progress Report on the Book

I've now settled on a title for the book: "General Discharge." I'm happy with it. The term is military, of course, which signals the subject matter of the poetry. This collection of poems is about service in the military, the difficulties of veterans reintegrating into civilian life afterwards--and about the culture they serve. But the term also invokes other ideas, I hope--about discharge in general (and poetry as a kind of discharge). All that is to say I like it.

And the actual design work is now under way to bring it to publication. I've been communicating with the publisher (who is very open to my ideas and preferences, by the way. Fomite Press are wonderful people to work with, who have opinions, and who respect mine.)

It's been interesting to think about the size of the book, the kind of paper it's printed on, even the font used for the text.

I believe the book will be 6" by 9" (a reasonably large trade paperback) on cream paper (as opposed to stark white). And, pending a look at the proofs, with Garamond as the font. I looked at a number of fonts, and Garamond (or some minor variant) is the one I keep coming back to. "Yes," I say, "this looks like poetry."

The proposed cover is still in work, and I'm looking forward to seeing what they come up with.

When will it be done? Some time early next year. I have been telling myself April Fool's Day. It may be sooner than that. When I learn more, I will be sure to share.

Some Poems Worth Your Time: Musee des Beaux Arts--WH Auden

Some Poems Worth Your Time: Musee des Beaux Arts--WH Auden

I thought it might be fun to look at poems that have meant something to me in my reading, writing, and attempts to live. I'm not going to claim these are the greatest poems ever written. I'm saying that these poems mean a lot to me, and so I am pointing them out to you in hopes that you will find something there, too. Here is the first:

"Musee des Beaux Arts"--WH Auden

I love all things Auden, but this one in particular speaks important truth to me. It is a meditation on suffering, as seen through classical painting, using Breugel's painting "Landscape With the Fall of Icarus" as his example.

Here is a link to the poem, with the painting

Auden's poem explains the painting, but it expands it, to include old masters paintings in general--and, of course, suffering in general.

I think it's fair to say that the poem is also about art and the artist--including poetry and the poet (as all poetry ultimately is). It is the artist-poet's duty to call attention to those things that may be going on while the horse is busy scratching its behind on a tree. The artist is paying attention, and without the artist, we would all live poorer lives.

And then, it follows that we are all asked to be artist-poets and not farmers staring down at our feet and at the ground in front of us. Be a poet-farmer; see the world around you, and marvel at it!

By the way, I don't believe the poem is extolling Icarus. To me, it doesn't seem to suggest that we should fail spectacularly, though some see that as what an artist does. I see the poem as suggesting that there are spectacular things all around us--especially spectacular failures and the attendant suffering. And the real tragedy is that we ignore it all the time.

I suppose it's a preachy poem in that regard. Or at least it preaches to me: Pay attention! But it is so good that I don't mind being taught its lesson.

How to Make Sense of a Poem -- Including A Modest Example

How to Make Sense of a Poem -- Including A Modest Example

We are all readers of poetry—even the poets who wrote the poems in the first place. And we are all just doing our best to make sense of them.

When I write a poem, it is because I see something that I want to show to others. I don’t want to explain it exactly—just show it.

And that raises the first question you might ask about a poem: Why that thing and not something else? Why write a poem about that?

And then, as you read each word, each phrase, each line, each sentence, keep asking why? Why that word? Why say it that way and not some other way?

Many people (perhaps even you) will object, saying it doesn’t matter why. What matters is what is. What the poet intended is irrelevant. I disagree—sort of. But I will save that discussion for later. 

In the meantime, here is an example. A while ago, I wrote a poem called “Lloyd’s Rocket.” The poem is a meditation on an abandoned gas station and all the optimism and aspirations it might have represented, from moon landings, to the Cold War, to a cross-country road trip. So—why did I call the poem “Lloyd’s Rocket?” Why not “The Abandoned Gas Station” or any number of other names? Was it because…

1)      There actually was a gas station called “Lloyd’s Rocket”?

2)      Lloyd is an old-fashioned sounding name, and it evokes a lost era?

3)      My middle name is Lloyd?

4)      Lloyd Bridges was a famous actor?

5)      Lloyd is a Welsh name meaning “gray”?

Let’s talk about them in order.

1)      In fact, there actually was a gas station called “Lloyd’s Rocket.” But while that is true, it’s not really an answer. It doesn’t explain why I would call the poem “Lloyd’s Rocket.” It doesn’t even explain why I included that detail in the poem in the first place. Why does it matter? Or, to set aside what I might have meant, what is the reader to make of such a name. “Because that’s what is was called” is actually the worst answer at all—except that, were it not for the name, I might not have noticed the abandoned filling station in the first place.

2)      Now we are getting somewhere. An abandoned gas station with the name of the proprietor—a name that has been falling out of favor since the start of World War I. That’s what I thought it evoked. And (as a bonus) it wasn’t “Lloyd’s Filling Station,” but “Lloyd’s Rocket.” That seemed intriguing. He owns a rocket? Nah. Just a gas station. But it’s kind of like a rocket (if you think about it in the way the poem tries to help you to).

3)      My middle name is Lloyd. But that’s not why I included it. And I didn’t write the poem about me. But there it is. And if the reader knew that my middle name was Lloyd, the reader might reasonably assume this mattered. I didn’t think it did when I wrote the poem. But I realized later that I might have responded to the sign differently—might have paused to look—because it was my name. So here is a case where I didn’t mean it when I wrote it. But I see it when I read it. And, I think, it is why I wrote this poem, and not someone with the middle name “David,” for example.

4)      This wasn’t a consideration at all and it doesn’t belong in any understanding of the poem. Except. Lloyd Bridges was born in 1913, a year before the name “Lloyd” peaked in popularity in the United States. So his name is evidence that this name really does belong to another era. (By the way, I got the name because it belonged to my grandfather, who was born in 1917.)

5)      Again, this was not a consideration in my writing the poem. But I suppose in the early 20^th century, Welsh names were popular, whether they meant “gray” or anything else, which is more support for the idea that “Lloyd” evokes another generation.

So there you have it. The title evokes another era, another generation (and its strange connection to a space-age contraption). And while Lloyd Bridges could be invoked as evidence that the name "Lloyd" is from another era, it would be unfair to say that the poem has anything to say about Lloyd Bridges. 

Now, when you read an entire poem, give the same amount of attention to all the other words, and you’re set. 

Some may be disappointed that I haven't said anything about meter, or sound (rhyme, assonance and such). But I think you could do worse than to ask the same question about those things: Why is this a sonnet and not some other form? Why does he call attention to this word by rhyming it with that one? And so on.

I said I would discuss intent--what the poet meant. But that is for another post. In the meantime, remember: Reading poetry is not magic. There is no secret decoder ring. It is an actual attempt to communicate (usually).

A poet-priest once said that priests and poets are much the same. Both of them hold something up to others and say, “Look! This is sacred.” I believe what he says--but you don’t have to. It’s enough that you grant that the thing in the poem is, at least, remarkable. After all, in writing a poem about it, I remarked on it, so it is, by definition—remarkable. And if the poet--and the poem--is any good, you should be able to understand why it matters, through the choices that appear throughout the poem.