A Crocodile

Hard by the lilied Nile I saw
A duskish river-dragon stretched along,
The brown habergeon of his limbs enamelled
With sanguine almandines and rainy pearl:
And on his back there lay a young one sleeping,
No bigger than a mouse; with eyes like beads,
And a small fragment of its speckled egg
Remaining on its harmless, pulpy snout;
A thing to laugh at, as it gaped to catch
The baulking merry flies. In the iron jaws
Of the great devil-beast, like a pale soul
Fluttering in rocky hell, lightsomely flew
A snowy trochilus, with roseate beak
Tearing the hairy leeches from his throat.


-- Thomas Lovell Beddoes

The Booknet dictatorship

According to this well-argued article in Geist, booksellers are transfixed more than ever these days by sales figures, conveniently provided by Booknet, etc. -- and this leads to benighted decisions. If a literary writer doesn't sprint from the starting blocks to the top of the best-seller list with his first or second effort, he's dropped like a hot potato. But isn't it better, betimes, to be a hot potato?  A great many outstanding writers didn't come into their own until late middle age, after producing a number of works that, whatever their merits, did not fare well sales-wise.  Read all about it here.

How does the situation affect poets? Well, we have always been under the radar in that sales game -- but surely the current over-reliance on such crude, utilitarian indicators as sales figures will keep us ever farther from the Chapters/Indigo shelves.

Answer

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife!
To all the sensual world proclaim,
One crowded hour of glorious life
Is worth an age without a name.

Sir Walter Scott

Lynda Barry interview

I've been busy teaching full time, so this blog has somewhat fallen by the wayside, but here's an interview with Lynda Barry that a friend sent my way.  I'm told there's nothing like seeing her lecture/comedian/act live, but this article is the next best thing...

Sappho: On What is Best

Some celebrate the beauty
of knights, or infantry,
or billowing flotillas
at battle on the sea.
Warfare has its glory,
but I place far above
these military splendors
the one thing that you love.

For proof of this contention
examine history:
we all remember Helen,
who left her family,
her child, and royal husband,
to take a stranger's hand:
her beauty had no equal,
but bowed to love's command.

As love then is the power
that none can disobey,
so too my thoughts must follow
my darling far away:
the sparkle of her laughter
would give me greater joy
than all the bronze-clad heroes


This poem (translation, such as it is) comes down to us Sappho. It came into my mailbox via PoemHunter.com (Poem Copyright Raider.com?), and typical of selections to be found in that ill-lustrious site, there is no acknowlegement of the translator nor the publication it was found in. At least there are no obvious typos or omissions, but as to the latter it's hard to be sure.  I like the way the poem combines rational argumentation, imagery, and sensuality. Reminds me of what comes down to us from Cavafy. My friend Raphael responded this way, and I second him: "Beautiful poem of longing. I like the way she contrasts the bravado of armed men, the image of heroic war with the sparkling laughter of her absent lover as she uses Helen of Troy as an example of the power of love...talk about opposing camps. Can we ever be happy?"

Starting the year with a bang...

Churchtank Type 8 mixed media assemblage 2010 © Kris Kuksi

The Art of Warfare: more such arresting images here.