Introduction: Bishop’s Century: Her Poems and Art

The Worcester Review XXXII, 2011

by Edward R. Cronin

Centennial celebrations are valuable times for scholars and others interested in important writers. Conferences are arranged, the canon is re-examined, and new research is revealed. Certainly, to paraphrase Dr. Johnson—who was speaking of course of a quite different situation—centennials  “concentrate the mind wonderfully.” In the year 2006, Worcester celebrated the centennial of Stanley Kunitz, who live to see his 100^th year. Last year, 2010, was the centennial year of Charles Olson, and this year 2011, is the centennial of Elizabeth Bishop. (A poet more unlike Charles Olson can scarcely be imagined.) During the 2011 year the life and work of Elizabeth Bishop has been celebrated by a series of readings, panels, and concerts, organized by the Worcester County Poetry Association. And, of course, the Association published this special Elizabeth Bishop issue of the Worcester Review.  The essays in this issue are intended to increase our understanding of the kind of poet she aspired to be.

We all wish she had written more poetry. Elizabeth Bishop: The Complete Poems, 1927-1979, published by Farrar, Straus, and Giroux, has few more than 100 poems in it. (Some work, mainly fragments, have been gleaned from Bishop’s literary archives but this now published material add little to her well-established standing.) Bishop’s publishers often had to deal with her perfectionism; she was often reluctant to see work in print until it had undergone many revisions. The poem “The Moose,” for example, that is discussed in  several of the following essays, took over twenty years to complete. Because “The Moose” is mentioned by a number of commentators, it may useful to use it as an exemplar of Bishop’s poetry in general.

Bishop has said that the qualities that she admires most in poetry are “accuracy, spontaneity, and mystery.” Let’s measure “The Moose” by these qualities. It may seem odd to call a poem that did not see print until many years after its conception “spontaneous” but to most readers it does seem such because of its seeming fidelity to immediate experience. Never mind that the gender of the moose had changed from its first mention in a  prose account  of a real experience Bishop had had as a young woman during a visit to her Nova Scotia relatives; the poem conveys both the poet’s sense impressions as she seems to receive them and her thoughts as they happen. Of course, “The Moose” is one of many poems that support the view of Thomas O’ Grady that Bishop may be termed a “Maritime” poet. What about “mystery?” The sudden confrontation of the bus passengers has a spiritual quality—paradoxical in a poem so grounded in physical reality (“accuracy”) and “otherworldliness,” to use essayist Robert Cording,s term, is a quality of many of Bishop’s poems. And finally, the importance of form to this mainstream poet. Bishop would agree with Frost’s famous statement that writing free verse is “like playing tennis without a net.” Underlying “The Moose” is a very tight net indeed and Renee Curry in her article had brought to light the intricate versification behind “The Moose.”

Other essays in this collection examine a number of other poems, of course. The piece by Wells, for example, looks at the power of Bishop’s metaphorical language in “The Bight.”An essay on Darwin and Bishop by Leslie Wooten may seem to be an odd pairing, but it is good to know that Bishop’s favorite prose writers were Hemingway, Chekhov, and Darwin. All three are masters of the telling detail, as is Bishop herself.

I have called Elizabeth Bishop a “mainstream” poet and it may seem as this is a category so large as to be useless. But throughout her life Bishop deftly stepped around any more specific designation. She accepted advice from her early mentor Marianne More, for example, but never imitated her, and her own reticence about her personal life—as well as her internalized definition of the nature of poetry—led her to reject out of hand the “confessional” poetry of her close friend Robert Lowell. Above all, she never wanted to be called a “feminist” or a “woman” poet and refused to be anthologized as such. Elizabeth Bishop was an American poet and the nine essays in this collection, and the brief poems written as tribute, all provide insights into the work.

from The Introduction to Chris Gilbert feature section, TWR, Vol XXXIII, 2012

by Eugene McCarthy

“I ripen and am the living resolve that sweetens in the vase of death, and am the seed that leads deeper down into the play of melody.” (TWR, XXVII, 2006, 64)

Chris Gilbert is no stranger to The Worcester Review. His poems have appeared in 1974, 1976, and 1988.  In 1996 James Zeigler printed his interview with Chris—Zeigler was at the time an undergraduate at Butler University (Indianapolis).  In 2006 TWR published a set of eight of Chris’s new poems with a brief commentary in the special issue “Following Kunitz,” on six nationally known, Worcester area poets; six of those poems appear in the MS, Chris Gilbert: An Improvisation.

It was quite natural then for the Review to devote the special section this year to Chris’s work.  Our intention was to frame the treatment of his work in three parts: Chris in Worcester; his own poetry; and his place in the African American poetic tradition.  The contributions to this issue have fallen neatly into these three areas.

This special issue of TWR was initially intended to coincide with the publication by Graywolf Press of Chris’s draft manuscript, Chris Gilbert: An Improvisation, together with a reprint of his award winning Across the Mutual Landscape (1983). The MS volume was edited by Fran Quinn and Mary Fell, both of whom provide commentary for this issue on their editorial work.  The Graywolf edition will not be out this year, but we decided to dedicate this issue to his work just the same, and all contributors had access to the manuscript poems.

What becomes apparent from the contributions to this section is that reading Chris’s verse makes one think, move, imagine, respond in fresh ways—the most distinct evidence of the power of his imagination to bring us “in it.”  Many wrote poems, honoring the man and his works; others felt that improvisation was the only way in. Those who took the more customary critical stance brought a freshness that seems inevitable for a Gilbert reader.

In the opening poem, Janet Shainheit declares many of the themes here, Chris’s character, his poems, his passions, the jazz music of his voice.  Fran Quinn slipped effortlessly into a metaphorical vein, talking about The Box of his manuscripts (though there are in fact several boxes) as he reminisces about Chris, seeking in the multiple versions to find Chris the man and poet. Mary Fell also, while searching those boxes for the “final intention” of many-versioned poems, recalls the emotional effort of revisiting and discovering the man and his work.

In her reminiscent and memorial poem, Catherine Reed finds Chris’s place is as much in Worcester poetry as in her own life of verse. Mary Bonina too feels him come to life again in her world and in the world of Worcester poetry, the history of which she explores so fully and warmly.

In his “improv” Terrance Hayes quotes “Chris Gilbert: An Improvisation” (in the MS of that name), as his personal memory fuses with the basic elements of elegy.   Ed Pavlić calls his examination an “into,” seeking in that “modern dance for voice” Chris’s “overflowing fullness of an experience,” a true characterization of his verse.  Yusef Komunyakaa’s fine and richly allusive poem blends memory and memorial.

Like many contributors, Jonathan Blake hears in poems of Across the Mutual Landscape the distinct, cadenced Gilbert voice—and overhears Etheridge Knight and Wole Soyinka.  In his interview of 1996, James Zeigler quoted Chris on his passion for jazz. Zeigler here continues to hear that jazz in the context of cultural history, imbedded in its political/social environment.

While some writers touch on Chris in the African American tradition, Anthony Walton opens for us in rich detail the ways Chris’s verse “spools and accumulates into a complex meditation on the poet’s world view” as a member of “the ‘emergent,’ post-black arts generation.”

It will come as no surprise that many of these authors select the same poems as keys to Gilbert’s poetic. Yet, each seeing new features in the same “play of melody” means that his “overflowing fullness of an experience” continues to enrich us.

The fact that Chris continually composed and revised and developed—an  inconvenient practice for his editors—means that he had an emerging whole vision. His earliest poems were not lost, but stored, reconstituted, and incorporated into that larger plan.  Poems composed for the Denise Levertov workshop in Worcester, l975*, reveal a great deal about his genius. (All members of that workshop, it is worth saying, have become well-published poets. All of them.)

The poem Mary Fell mentions, “And the Children of the King Don’t Sing,” was composed for that workshop, and neatly typed at the bottom: “poem written 5 years after a memorial service for Martin Luther King in Hill Auditorium at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.” It was published in TWR (1975, lower case title; “carried by” changed to “tacked against.”) In l974 he had published three poems in TWR, two “willie” poems, and “jazz haiku    hyannis mass.   may 73,” perhaps influenced by Etheridge Knight’s interest in haiku, or the thousands that Richard Wright composed late in life.

One of Levertov’s assignments was for her students to make a poem based a group of pictographs—which she had invented on the spot—images allegedly “found at a dig” and not deciphered yet.  The assignment was, as Fran Quinn related to me, to “translate” these objects, try to decipher a meaning even though there was, allegedly, no set way to “read” them.

What I take to be Chris’s first effort is a two-part narrative:

From the ‘pictograph’ exercise:

1

In our village, though we were poor
we had the fire’s life, the peace
of the lotus pool
But the overlord,
brilliant in his riches,
demanded our labor,
took away our harvest.
At last we took up arms.
To win the battle against him
was like scaling the steepest, highest mountain.
But together we did it.
In comradeship we returned to our fields,
Replanted then in the light rain
when the moon was propitious

2

The village on fire! No lotus pool
can quench it.
Now—poverty,
No more full bowls.
The sun beat down on us
like  a cruel overlord.
Instead of our harvest sickles
we must take up our swords
and become bandits in the mountains
or else beggars,
out in the desolate rains of autumn,
sleeping under the moon month in, month out.

Such a straight narrative must have seemed unsatisfactory to Gilbert, for he then wrote what is titled in pencil “hieroglyphic” (“C Gilbert” is penciled at the end):

there is always change
the sun transforms
a bit of grain into luscious harvest days
and the tiny fire of our village is later
a brilliance of budding lotus in a pool

no wonder that the rain must fall,
the moon rushes toward the mountain
and our hands are seeking unity
with the power of the tools

One can see the traces of images from the original in this entirely re-imagined poem. The theme remains, but all is condensed, narrative abandoned.  The Africa-ness of the original is lessened but remains as do African references throughout his poetry: “The seeing is enclosed the way the world is enclosed within the lid of the African god’s eye.” (“The Plum,” TWR, XXVII, 64; revised in Chris Gilbert: An Improvisation into “My skin is the dark lid covering the note of an African’s eye….”)

Another workshop poem, “and you see we learned,” is dedicated, at the end “to stevie wonder.”  It is the seed for “Time with Stevie Wonder in It” (AML, 14-15).  While he retains imagery and language, the poem is entirely reimagined with more on family, radio-and-music, locale, and of course on Stevie himself. Here is the original:

januaried movements
frozen, the ground covered;
your coal color gone years ago
and its environment         snuffed
so out of touch
how can you touch, hear, or
be alive,    how can anybody
packed in brief case history of social science
a problem
in the basement of white houses, tall mansions
of misunderstanding and perverse comforts,
where slick separations live
huddled against the wind
against the mind—
it is a crime.    you live
in casket framed huts so tight
against detroit’s streets
each brother a car parked in quick garages
that will go no where
each a foot of ice a metaphor
of the world
where things don’t move

but bein blind
you go to lansing to school
where the wind blows   blows
untutored and naked, uptight
you suck this column of cold air
till the lungs warm; the heart
fills, you force it back
thru harmoniked lips      hot
as equatorial fingertips
feelin our ears, bendin
notes around our heads

miles later, in my memory
of vibration on the radio streets
of lansing where i counted time
i see you,  now
crystal
innervisions

The “januaried movements” is retained as is the cold of Detroit and Lansing; the “casket framed huts so tight” becomes “neighborhoods stacked like boxes,” a similar image but reconsidered. Chris’s slangy idiom is already present.

These examples of revision suggest how Gilbert had a vision he sought to articulate, so that even early efforts were not practice pieces but parts toward the final whole. Thus he preserved old pieces and revised them into what we now have as his Improvisation, subtitled by him “(Music of the Striving That was There).”

We can see now how prescient Chris was of his work as poet.  He told James Zeigler (TWR, XVII, 1996),  “When I began writing, …I was really just writing out of the necessity to make a statement. …

“[My brother] listened to neo-boppish people like Stanley Turntine and Wes Montgomery, and neo-bop and bop is the jazz I identify with. …The collective improvisation fits well with the kind of poems I write. Sometimes they seem linear. For some of them, I didn’t mean for them to happen all at once.  …There is something at issue in the [bop] music and it’s critical. For poems, I like a sort of reflective, deliberate, laid back attitude but I like poems that have a critical issue, something at stake.”

Special thanks are due many people for making this Chris Gilbert issue come to print.  Rodger Martin, former editor of The Worcester Review, has been as always invaluable and wise, as is the enthusiasm of the new editor, Diane Mulligan.  In our early planning, Rodger, Fran Quinn, Mary Fell, John Hodgen were crucial advisors, as were many others whose works are featured here. Obviously none of the journal you hold in your hand could have happened without the contribution of all our authors; they brought dedication, thoughtful reflection, and carefully refined work that will be the grounding for further studies.

Barbara Morin, Chris’s widow, deserves particular credit here. She has been most responsive and generous in searching through Chris’s papers, enduring the emotional burden to provide photographs and correspondence.
It was an honor for me to be involved in this tribute to one who was not only our friend but one whose stature rises before us every day.

* Rodger Martin Papers (MS 27); Modern Poetry Collection. Keene State College [NH] Archives & Special Collections.  Copies of many workshop participants’ poems are kept here. There is also the letter of invitation from Mike True (Worcester Country Poetry Assn., Education Director) , May 23, l974, to the Levertov workshop.

Who Is Donald Baker?

Donald Baker                   credit: Wabash College

by: Rodger Martin (Excerpted from The Worcester Review XX)

As the twentieth century closes, the greater Worcester area has produced four poets who have received national renown during this period: Stanley Kunitz, Elizabeth Bishop, Charles Olson, and Frank O’Hara.

Often overlooked in this august company is another Worcester generated poet formed in the crucible of World War II, Donald Baker.  Since that war, Baker has published six volumes of poetry, been a Pulitzer Prize nominee, won a Pushcart Prize,  a National Endowment for the Arts Writing Fellowship, become the Milligan Professor of English and Poet in Residence at Wabash College in Indiana (where he also was awarded the McLain-McTurnan Award for Distinguished Teaching), and directed The New Writers Award program of the Great Lakes Colleges Association.  His poems have appeared in  The Atlantic Monthly, The Nation, Poetry, The Southern Poetry Review, Indiana Review, Saturday Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Prairie Schooner, Bitterroot, Tar River Poetry, New Letters, and many others.  Perhaps because much of his recognition comes from the Midwest, Worcester has been late to note his presence.  Editors at The Worcester Review noticed the quality of his work in 1992 when we published his first poem in the journal.  Since then, he has been a regular contributor to the journal.  In 1993 Stephen Tapscott chose his work as the winner of the Worcester County Poetry Association’s annual contest.  When he read at the Public Library for the WCPA annual meeting (also in 1993), those of us there recognized we had found another powerful Worcester voice.

In the pages that follow, three critics examine Baker’s poetry and its impact:  Bert Stern, “‘Barnacled Hope’: Homage to Donald Baker,” writes an essay about the lyric poet and the individual stand against the storms of life; Roger Mitchell’s  “ ‘People Have Turned This Corner and Disappeared,’: Some Thoughts on the Poetry of Donald W. Baker” muses about that fine line between “consequence and inconsequence” a poet must navigate to rise above these crises; and finally William Trowbridge deals directly with the impact of World War II in “Delinquent Laurels: In Praise of Donald Baker’s War Poems.”

How did Worcester come to be as Baker says, “The nearest I come to a ‘home town’”?[1]  The Great Depression hit his family as hard as any.  They moved to 630 Pleasant Street from Springfield in 1930 when Baker was seven, and by the time Baker completed his studies at Classical High School, his family had also lived on Lovell Street (270), Reed Street (14), June Street (190) and Courtland Street.  The stability of the public school system provided for Baker that sense of place one could call home.  In biographical statements for three of his books the first sentence of each pays homage to that schooling not only directly but also by equating it with Ivy League and flight training saying he was “educated by the Worcester public schools, Brown University and the Army Air Corps.”[2]  In his letters for this essay, Baker refers often to his schooling, particularly at Classical High School where he played first the violin poorly and then switched to the viola.  There he refers to himself as “the least effective member” member of the debate team, but found the love of poetry trying to “memorize more Wordsworth than any other member of Perry Howe’s English class.”[3]

There he also discovered Edward Arlington Robinson and Robinson’s impact on his poetics remains to this day:

“… those wonderful lines from Robinson, ‘What to him are Plato and the swing of Pleiades.’  Those have stuck in my poetic heart, the rhythm, of course, and the alliteration, but chiefly I think that totally fresh and surprising (and perfectly apt)      word ‘swing.’  The more I think about it the more I come to believe that the most  important achievement of the great poets is their discovery of the unexpected but   absolutely right word– its connotations, its sound, its rhythm, and its relation to the other words of the line.  It’s only a slight exaggeration to say that in almost  every line of Emily Dickinson you’ll find that surprising and revelatory word.  The frost ‘beheads’ the flower; the ‘blonde’ assassin, and so on.”[4]

Baker believes his poems about poetry may be the best statements of his poetics; therefore, we conclude with “Essential Questions” in its entirety and two excerpts from poems Baker suggests speak his sense of poetics far better than he:[5]

“Essential Question”

My job is to get up in the morning
and start writing poems.
It’s at least as useful
as getting up in the morning
and starting to sell Cap’n Crunch.
I put on my jeans and sneakers,
eat two eggs over and a bran muffin,
and sit down at the living room window
with a cup of tea.

Vic Sammartino drives by
on his way to work.
He waves.
His busy smile expresses superiority and disdain,
because he thinks I am doing nothing.
He reminds me of the chairman of my department,
who prefers publishing scholars.
He’d better be careful.
Look what happened when they called Hitler
a lazy slob.

Meanwhile, I rake my imagination
for something to write about.
Am I an alcoholic?
Will my kidneys last out the year?
Are these essential questions?
Are they fit subject for poetry?
What is fit subject for poetry?
How can I tell?
Do I care?
So one inspiration leads to another
down labyrinthine ways
of the poet’s mind.

Mike Donovon’s daughter walks by,
off to the municipal pool,
in what appears to be a bikini.
She doesn’t wave.
No doubt her illiterate father
has poisoned her mind against poets.
She reminds me of high school summers,
girls named “Priscilla” and “Leona,”
who float on my mind’s eye
like rubber dolls in a bathtub.

Perhaps I should have been Gaius Valerius Catullus,
lounging at poolside,
composing a poem for Patty Donovon,
“voluptuous virgin,” phrases like that.
In Latin.

It’s no good.
If my wife ever had it translated,
she’d kill me.

Bradford Dunbar goes by, the corporate lawyer,
jogging.
He pretends to look at his watch,
then runs as hard as he can to intimidate me.
He thinks I am a failure
and out of shape.
OK, Dunbar, I know you saw me.
Lickspittle capitalist lackey!
He sprints to catch up with Donovon’s daughter,
who blows him a kiss
as he passes.
They don’t fool me.
He’s not her uncle.

Maybe I should have been Pablo Neruda,
hiding out in the Rockies,
writing a political poem,
“Letters from the extreme left,”
that would sweep the country.
I see Reagan, Haig, and Bradford Dunbar,
in Adidas and jogging shorts,
fleeing to Argentina.
They are arrested by the Cuban police.
Poets wreck all the nuclear energy plants,
and I win the Nobel Prize.

So that’s that.
What more can one do in a morning?
I get up from my notes,
go into my study,
and sit down at my typewriter.
It needs a new ribbon.
Well, it always takes a few days
to think through and polish a poem.
It’s twenty after eleven.
Let’s call it noon.
Let’s mix a martini,
and contemplate politics, love,
and the essential questions.

Unposted Letters, 16-19

***

One of them said, A poet has no
information.  It sounded right. . . .
Sometimes at such parties I go out,
into another year, where the moon
is painting the house next door

“Information” (li. 1-2, 6-8) The Day Before, 37

***

. . . if I could,
I’d trade eggs for milk, walk only
that sandy path behind the house
where berries grew.  I’d read it all
into pages we’d choose together,
you, me, Grandpa, and that boy we’ll
never become, hot afternoon,
flood tide in the river, a book . . .

“Sons and Poetry” ( li. 29-36) The Day Before, 35

Bibliography

Formal Application  (Daleville, IN: The Barnwood Press Cooperative, 1982)
Search Patterns (Brewster, MA: Sugar Creek/Steppingstone, 1996)
The Readiness (Brewster, MA: Sugar Creek/Steppingstone, 1996)
The Day Before (Muncie, IN:  Barnwood Press, 1989)
Twelve Hawks (Brewster, MA: Suger Creek/Steppingstone 1974)
Unposted Letters (Dalewood, IN: Barnwood Press, 1985)

Notes

[1]Donald Baker, Letter, September 11, 1998

[2]Baker, Formal Application, The Day Before, Unposted Latters

[3]Baker, Letter, 9-11-98

[4]Baker, Letter, 9-11-98

[5]Baker, Letter, June 16, 1998

Etheridge Knight, photo credit: Univ. of Pittsburgh Press

Behind the Beat Look is a Sweet
Tongue and a Boogie Foot
(for those who see me as a tragic figure)

There is glee in my teeth, and mirth in my mouth.
My birth under the Mississippi sun so a boast,
A toast to my Black Daddy, Gandy-dancer, Master of the
Buck and Wing.  The Skin and Grin.

But what you see might not be what you get.

Etheridge Knight, The Worcester Review, XIX, 1998, p. 131

A brief biography of Etheridge Knight (1931-1991), including his ties to Worcester, was written and published by David Shaw as part of an interactive student project. The biography is available here.

A more comprehensive look at Etheridge Knight is featured in The Worcester Review, Vol XIX 1&2 (1998) including his years in Worcester.  The introduction by Editor Rodger Martin also lays out how his military record can not answer the question of Korean War service one way or another because a Vietnam War protest fire set at the Army Record Center in St. Louis destroyed significant portions of Knight’s military record.

In September 2018, the WCPA honored Knight by renaming the performance portion of the WCPA’s Annual College Poetry Contest. The “Etheridge Knight Performance Prize” is awarded to a single individual each year and includes a cash prize. College and universities in central Massachusetts chose a participant to represent the school at the event. Craig Blais of Anna Maria College is chairing the contest again this year.

Visit the Poetry Foundation page for Etheridge Knight

Worcester Telegram article regarding a local reading of Knight’s work.

Stanley Kunitz in his Provincetown garden. Photo by James Laughlin

The Testing Tree

1

On my way home from school
  up tribal Providence Hill
     past the Academy ballpark
where I could never hope to play
  I scuffed in the drainage ditch
     among the sodden seethe of leaves
hunting for perfect stones
  rolled out of glacial time
     into my pitcher’s hand;
then sprinted lickety-
  split on my magic Keds
     from a crouching start,
scarcely touching the ground
  with my flying skin
     as I poured it on
for the prize of the mastery
  over that stretch of road,
     with no one no where to deny
when I flung myself down
  that on the given course
     I was the world’s fastest human.  
     
       2

Around the bend
  that tried to loop me home
     dawdling came natural
across a nettled field
  riddled with rabbit-life
     where the bees sank sugar-wells
in the trunks of the maples
  and a stringy old lilac
     more than two stories tall
blazing with mildew
  remembered a door in the
     long teeth of the woods.
All of it happened slow:
  brushing the stickseed off,
     wading through jewelweed
strangled by angel’s hair,
  spotting the print of the deer
     and the red fox’s scats.
Once I owned the key
  to an umbrageous trail
     thickened with mosses
where flickering presences
  gave me right of passage
     as I followed in the steps
of straight-backed Massassoit
  soundlessly heel-and-toe
     practicing my Indian walk.
     
       3

Past the abandoned quarry
  where the pale sun bobbed
     in the sump of the granite,
past copperhead ledge,
  where the ferns gave foothold,
     I walked, deliberate,
on to the clearing,
  with the stones in my pocket
     changing to oracles
and my coiled ear tuned
  to the slightest leaf-stir.
     I had kept my appointment.
There I stood int he shadow,
  at fifty measured paces,
     of the inexhaustible oak,
tyrant and target,
  Jehovah of acorns,
     watchtower of the thunders,
that locked King Philip’s War
  in its annulated core
     under the cut of my name.
Father wherever you are
   I have only three throws
      bless my good right arm.
In the haze of afternoon,
  while the air flowed saffron,
     I played my game for keeps—
for love, for poetry,
  and for eternal life—
     after the trials of summer.
     
     4

In the recurring dream
  my mother stands
     in her bridal gown
under the burning lilac,
  with Bernard Shaw and Bertie
     Russell kissing her hands;
the house behind her is in ruins;
  she is wearing an owl’s face
     and makes barking noises.
Her minatory finger points.
  I pass through the cardboard doorway
     askew in the field
and peer down a well
  where an albino walrus huffs.
     He has the gentlest eyes.
If the dirt keeps sifting in,
  staining the water yellow,
     why should I be blamed?
Never try to explain.
  That single Model A
     sputtering up the grade
unfurled a highway behind
  where the tanks maneuver,
     revolving their turrets.
In a murderous time
  the heart breaks and breaks
     and lives by breaking.
It is necessary to go
  through dark and deeper dark
     and not to turn.
I am looking for the trail.
  Where is my testing-tree?
     Give me back my stones!

by Stanley Kunitz, read at The Higgins House, Worcester Polytechnic Institute, 1972

Stanley Kunitz (1905-2006), twice named Poet Laureate of The United States, was born in Worcester in 1905 and has become one of the most celebrated poets in the United States.  He once said, “Worcester provoked me into poetry.”  Regardless, we can savor the brilliant work those provocations created.   His childhood home is a poetry mecca for poetry lovers over the world.     

He has been featured numerous times in The Worcester Review and the WCPA has honored him first as one of the initial poets invited to read at its founding in 1971 and with many celebrations since.

Learn more about Stanley Kunitz by visiting the following sites:

Stanley Kunitz Boyhood Home

The Poetry Foundation Stanley Kunitz Page

Stanley Kunitz on Wikipedia

Literary Landmark: Boyhood Home of Stanley Kunitz

the Paris Review interview with Stanley Kunitz

Stanley Kunitz Obituary in the New York Times

Poetry Everywhere with Garrison Keillor on PBS “Touch Me” by Stanley Kunitz

Charles Olson and his major work.

That’s all. I said. I promise to witness.
Charles Olson, Interview, 1970

To build out of sound the walls of the city
And display in one flower the wunderworld so that
By such means the unique stand forth
Clear itself shall be made known.
Charles Olson, Unpublished Fragment

Excerpt from The Charles Olson Sympsium:

Charles Olson’s inventiveness as a poet and scholar, as well as his engagement in community and national politics, have rendered him an American poet who continues to be an originating influence in our times.
Please join us as we mark the centenary with a challenging few days of poetics, friendship, and exploration.

We welcome the participation of poets, presenters, scholars and participants. Contact the WCPA or Olson Centenary Chair Mark Wagner at markgwagner@charter.net for additional information.

COMMUNITY EVENTS & OLSON SYMPOSIUM
SCHEDULE & ADDITIONAL INFORMATION

Charles Olson photo courtesy of Charles Olson Papers,
Archives & Special Collections, Thomas J. Dodd Research Center.

A Brief Biography

Charles Olson was born in Worcester, December 27, 1910, the son of working-class parents, a Swedish immigrant father and an Irish Catholic mother. They lived on Mitchell Street, moving in 1912 to 6 Norman Avenue. In 1914 his family settled in a third-floor apartment at 4 Norman Avenue, where he was raised. Throughout his youth and into his years at Classical High School Olson struggled to overcome his consciousness of his size and height. He went to Wesleyan College in 1928.

Olson has strong association with two places other than Worcester: Black Mountain College, North Carolina, where in the 1950s Olson was a teacher, rector, advancing alternative ways of thought and verse; and Gloucester, Massachusetts, a north shore fishing community where he spent his childhood summers and a place that would provide the major background for his epic work, The Maximus Poems, which are rich in myth, full of geography, history, architecture, and personal reflections. Though his poetry may not be focused heavily on Worcester, in 1965 at a public reading in Berkeley, California, after reading a poem titled “An Ode on Nativity,” a poem set in Worcester, Olson blurted out, “Gee, I’m moved. Wow, I never write about Gloucester like this. Do you think? I’ve been wrong all this time… My subject is Worcester.” Though these words may have been spoken in jest, some of Olson’s finest moments are Worcester ones. Three stories about his boyhood in Worcester are “Stocking Cap,” “Mr. Meyer” and “The Post Office,” each a loving tribute to a father who took his young son berrying in the summer, gathering walnuts and wild grapes in the fall, and fishing through the ice on Worcester’s lakes in the winter. In “The Post Office,” Olson describes his father’s mail route in Worcester:

It stretched along the lake which bounds the city on the east.
Originally the route ran on both sides of the lake south from the
bridge which carried the road to Boston. The bridge alone, and the
other wooded side (where nothing much was but the city’s amusement
park and some summer camps) were enough to make the route what
my father would like. Just to cross the bridge a winter morning…
or to be a part of the boating around in the summer and the fall,
gave his workday a freedom…

Before Olson left Worcester in 1928 to attend Wesleyan, as Classical High School’s star speaker he had won a summer-long trip to Europe, top prize in a national oratory contest. He received a BA at Wesleyan and stayed on to earn an MA in 1933, writing his thesis on Herman Melville. Olson returned to Worcester to teach at Clark University. He was a favorite among the freshmen students he taught and proctored. He received two Guggenheim fellowships and a grant from the Gren Foundation to study Mayan hieroglyphics.

During WWII, Olson worked in the Office of War Information, then in Roosevelt’s 1944 re-election campaign. Finding no place for an artist in such pursuits, Olson left politics and began writing poetry seriously in the period during which he served as informal secretary to Ezra Pound at St. Elizabeth’s Hospital in Washington, DC. In 1950 he stepped out of the footsteps of Pound and began the development of post-modern free-verse with Robert Creeley.

In 1957, Olson retreated to Gloucester to concentrate on his own poetry, emerging occasionally, the leader of anew poetic counterculture. He taught briefly in Buffalo and at the University of Connecticut, Storrs. He died in 1970 at the New York Hospital and is buried in Beechwood Cemetery, West Gloucester. Charles Olson was an extremely influential poet. His stature did not lie merely in his physical size but in the mythic dimension of his work.

The Sun woke me this morning loud
and clear, saying “Hey! I’ve been
trying to wake you up for fifteen
minutes. Don’t be so rude, you are
only the second poet I’ve ever chosen
to speak to personally

so why
aren’t you more attentive? If I could
burn you through the window I would
to wake you up. I can’t hang around
here all day.”

“Sorry, Sun, I stayed
up late last night talking to Hal.”

“When I woke up Mayakovsky he was
a lot more prompt” the Sun said
petulantly. “Most people are up
already waiting to see if I’m going
to put in an appearance.”

I tried
to apologize “I missed you yesterday.”
“That’s better” he said. “I didn’t
know you’d come out.” “You may be
wondering why I’ve come so close?”
“Yes” I said beginning to feel hot
wondering if maybe he wasn’t burning me
anyway.

“Frankly I wanted to tell you
I like your poetry. I see a lot
on my rounds and you’re okay. You may
not be the greatest thing on earth, but
you’re different. Now, I’ve heard some
say you’re crazy, they being excessively
calm themselves to my mind, and other
crazy poets think that you’re a boring
reactionary. Not me.

Just keep on
like I do and pay no attention. You’ll
find that people always will complain
about the atmosphere, either too hot
or too cold too bright or too dark, days
too short or too long.

If you don’t appear
at all one day they think you’re lazy
or dead. Just keep right on, I like it.

And don’t worry about your lineage
poetic or natural. The Sun shines on
the jungle, you know, on the tundra
the sea, the ghetto. Wherever you were
I knew it and saw you moving. I was waiting
for you to get to work.

And now that you
are making your own days, so to speak,
even if no one reads you but me
you won’t be depressed. Not
everyone can look up, even at me. It
hurts their eyes.”
“Oh Sun, I’m so grateful to you!”

“Thanks and remember I’m watching. It’s
easier for me to speak to you out
here. I don’t have to slide down
between buildings to get your ear.
I know you love Manhattan, but
you ought to look up more often.

And
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.

Maybe we’ll
speak again in Africa, of which I too
am specially fond. Go back to sleep now
Frank, and I may leave a tiny poem
in that brain of yours as my farewell.”

“Sun, don’t go!” I was awake
at last. “No, go I must, they’re calling
me.”
“Who are they?”

Rising he said “Some
day you’ll know. They’re calling to you
too.” Darkly he rose, and then I slept.

Frank O’Hara

Frank O’Hara’s early life hinted at American themes of mobility, touches of the rural upbringing, and a first rate education. Born to Russell O’Hara and Katherine Broderick in Baltimore, Maryland, on June 27, 1926, Frank and family returned to 12 North Street in Grafton where he grew in the embraces of his parents, brother John (Phil) and sister Maureen. O’Hara’s father and his Uncle Leonard ran a family business comprised of a dairy farm, a John Deere agency, livestock dealership, and a small hardware store for farmers. The family also owned many farms, a lumber mill in Northbrook, and a 1,200 tree apple orchard in Milford.

The O’Hara household was lively, with artistic parents. Russell was a pianist, and both parents were involved with community activities. A great part of their lives included love of music, books, art, theater, movies, and politics. (Members of the family still claim to be Democrats.)The welcomed lively discussions and differences. As a teenager Frank talked about returning when older and raising dogs on Tower Hill Farm on Sibley Street, one of the three farms the family owned. Though time crafted other plans, O’Hara spent many summer days at Kitville, a town beach on Route 140 East toward Upton. During later summers, Frank virtually lived at the Red Barn Summer Stock Theater in Westborough, a bit to the east of Grafton. Other influences shaping Frank’s aesthetic sensibilities included livestock and apples, St. John’s High School in Worcester, the colorful, mellow, seven hills on which Worcester and the surrounding towns stand.

O’Hara’s travels began with his studies of piano at the New England Conservator of Music between 1941-1944. Then the wider world and its complicities landed him on the USS Nicholas, where he worked as a sonar man in the pacific Theatre during World War II. He returned to attend Harvard on the G.I. Bill, meeting up in Cambridge with John Ashbery, a poetic kinship that will anchor, along with Barbara Guest, Kenneth Koch, and James Schuyler, the New York School of Poetry. But first came the University of Michigan, where he earned an MA in English Literature.

While the restless world called him, Grafton and family life are found in Frank’s short, surrealistic plays such as Try! Try! and Change Your Bedding. And where O’Hara’s poetry is not confessional in the way of Kunitz, where he does not catalogue his places and thoughts like Olson, nor revisit key events in childhood like Bishop’s strong work, childhood is there in “Poem (There I Could Not Be a Boy),” “Memorial Day, 1950,” and an early poem he wrote for his sister, “The Spoils of Grafton”:
Oh piano! Hire a moving van!
Put down the Mendelssohn and run!

The tension between what shaped him, and the need for distance from what shaped him, also turns up in “Autobiographia Literaria,” Here, O’Hara speaks of the alienation he felt in schoolyards as a boy, and yet,
And here I am, the
center of all beauty!
writing these poems!
Imagine!

O’Hara’s love of the place and the people of New York defined his mature life. His work a MOMA, criticism for Artnews, and the poems – sometimes scribbled at lunchtime – cemented his place in the pantheon of New York artists during the turbulent late 1950s and early 1960s. In 1960, O’Hara was named Curator of Painting and Sculpture Exhibitions. He curated and wrote the catalogues for four major shows at MOMA. Yet for all his love of the visual arts, O’Hara’s poetry is what summons us.

With the publication of Meditations in an Emergency (Grove, 1957) he began to share with a wider public the brilliance and spontaneity of his thought and writing. He called his method Personism, which he defined as writing that addresses a poem to one person, creating a tone that involves a powerful inclusivity and love. In poems such as “Having a Coke with You” and “The Day Lady Died,” we enter a living world at times comic, burlesque, political, full of anxiety, difficult to summarize. The poem “A True Account of Talking to the Sun at Fire Island” (dated July 10, 1958) captures both the guises:
always embrace things, people earth
sky stars, as I do, freely and with
the appropriate sense of space. That
is your inclination, known in the heavens
and you should follow it to hell, if
necessary, which I doubt.

O’Hara died on Fire Island in 1966.

All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
“The Bight”

In 2011, WCPA ran a year long Centenary Celebration for Elizabeth Bishop (1911-1979).

Other Elizabeth Bishop Thoughts and Events

Inscribing the Stone: Notes from Worcester’s Hope Cemetary

by Angela Dorenkamp

When I first visited Hope Cemetery in Worcester, Massachusetts, to search out Elizabeth Bishop’s grave, snow covered the ground. At the cemetery office, I was given the exact location of the gravesite and learned that Bishop’s ashes had been buried on the reverse side of a monument bearing her parents’ names: William T. Bishop and Gertrude B. Bishop. On Beach Street, curving among Hope Cemetery’s gently-sloping, snow-covered lawns, I found the gravestone – a substantial piece of rectangular-cut, beveled granite. Bishop’s parents’ names and dates were carved on the side fronting the road. Anxiously, I scurried to the far side to see whether the line from “The Bight,” – “Awful but cheerful” – which Bishop had reportedly requested for her epitaph, was actually there. To my surprise, the stone was altogether blank. Perhaps, I reasoned, someone had placed an inscribed stone flat to the ground on Elizabeth’s side, but I could not test this theory because the snow was too thick and hard. When spring came, there was no flat stone.

When Laura J. Menides (WPI) and I presented a program about Bishop at the Worcester Historical Museum integrating biography, poetry, and slides, we had a slide of the family plot in Hope Cemetery and mentioned the fact that the grave was not marked and that we wanted to try to get that done. The cemetery office told us we needed permission from Alice Muthfessel, executrix of the Bishop estate, in order to have Bishop’s name cut in the stone under which she is buried. Eventually we wrote to Ms. Methfessel, as did Elizabeth Ross Naudin, a first cousin of Bishop’s who lives in Florida, and a few of the people who attended our presentations. Soon, Laura Menides, Carle Johnson (Worcester County Poetry Association), and I were busy planning The Elizabeth Bishop Conference & Poetry Festival, which will be held in Worcester Massachusetts, on October 9-12, 1997. We wanted to include a tour of places in Worcester related to Bishop’s life here, including her gravesite, of course. So I sent Ms. Methfessel a copy of the permission form required by the cemetery. When I spoke with her on the phone, she was gracious and anxious to have the matter resolved. In fact, she said, she had been under the impressions that the estate’s lawyers had taken care of the inscription some time ago. Once we had the permission – and the assurance that the estate would cover the cost of the engraving – I arranged for the work to be done. The lettering matched that of Bishop’s parents’ exactly. The letters, for instance, were hand-cut rather than sand blasted. The inscription, sent to us by Alice Methfessel, reads as follows:

Elizabeth Bishop
1911 – 1979
“All the untidy activity continues
Awful but cheerful.”

On a beautiful fall day – Sunday, October 6, 1996 – which happened to be the 17th anniversary of Elizabeth Bishop’s death, Laura Menides, Carle Johnson, and I made a pilgrimage to her grave. There we noted the newly cut inscription and read “The Bight” aloud. Bouyed by the nip in the air, we felt the lightness of euphoria. Thanks are due to Alice Methfessel; to Laura Menides and Carle Johnson; to Aldo Gatti, the stonecutter; to the cemetery staff; to Elizabeth Ross Naudin; to all those who supported and helped bring to closure, this small, but important. enterprise.