Ygdrasil: A Journal of the Poetic Arts -- May 2002
May 2002
Editor: Klaus J. Gerken
Production Editor: Pedro Sena
European Editor: Moshe Benarroch
Contributing Editors: Martin Zurla; Rita Stilli; Michael Collings; Jack R. Wesdorp
ISSN 1480-6401
A BANQUET OF SONETS
by
Michael R. Collings
Introduction
Exotica-Elemental Sonet
Hæmatite
THE SENSES
Taliesin and the Kings
Taliesin to the Stones
On Seeing Photographs
of My Grandfather in His Middle-Age
Quasimodo from the Cathedral’s Pinnacles:
Apollo as an Eagle
Jigsaw Puzzles
Where the White Crow Flies
Harvest Crows
Cormorant
13 Vultures
On Speaking a Child's Blessing
in November:
Moss Agate
Plantings
First Taste
Wire-Art
Trilobites:
Aunt Amy, Fossil-Hunting in Southern Utah, c. 1955
Something about the Curve of Lip
Without a newyork
While a number of the following poems were originally conceived as extensions of
earlier sonnet-series-especially Remembery, Taliesin, and Elementals (initial
versions of which all appeared as issues of Ygdrasil), I found myself hesitant
to add them or to print new editions of the earlier series.
Instead, it seemed as if at least part of me was beginning to view these poems, as
varied in content and theme as they were, as part of something new. They expanded on
old thoughts and images, perhaps, and certainly exploring further the potentials of
the form-the `fragmented sonets'-that has preoccupied me now for nearly a decade;
but somehow they defied all attempts to allow them to settle quietly (and quiescently)
into old series. Then serendipitously (as so many things are in the world of
words-as-art), while reading backgrounds for a class to be taught this fall, I came
upon the following passage relating to George Chapman's Elizabethan poem, The Banquet
of the Senses:
Ficino, in his commentary on Plato's Banquet (Symposium) had arranged the five
senses in order, below the power of reason: sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch.
Touch was the most earthly of the five, because it depended most on physical
contact. Sight was the most spiritual, because no physical contact was necessary.
The senses were regarded by Ficino as steps on the ladder to rational apprehension.
Two years after the publication of [Shakespeare's] ,Venus and Adonis Chapman brought
out his Ovid's Banquet of Sense, a poem which can be read as an adverse commentary
on Shakespeare's poem. It is notoriously obscure and difficult, even among Chapman's
works, but it is capable of interpretation. Chapman at least provided an Argument,
in which he informs the reader that Ovid, newly enamoured of (Augustus's daughter)
Julia, whom he calls Corinna, is led on from hearing her singing to the lute,
through the senses of smell, sight, and taste, `to entreaty for the fifth sense
and there is interrupted'. This scheme, which is the Ficinian scheme used by
Shakespeare, is mixed up in Chapman's poem with another, that of the Five Lines of
Love, and there is a counterpoint between the two motifs. This second scheme derives
from Donatus' commentary on a passage in Terence's Eunuchus: `Quinque lineae perfectae
sunt ad amorem: prima visus; secunda loqui; tertia tactus; quarta osculari; quinta
coitus'; sight, conversation, touching, kissing, coition. In the poem Ovid
sophistically defends the banquet of the senses (which is implicitly opposed to the
Platonic, or Ficinian, scheme) for its own sake. He uses much learning to prove that
the progress of love is, so to say, down the ladder. But surely Chapman is being
ironical.... (John Buxton, Elizabethan Taste). London and New York: Macmillan/St.
Martin's, 1966. 301)
For a moment, I paused, trying to visualize the connections between poetry and these
once-current psychologies/philosophies of the senses ... until, with something akin to
amazement, I realized that here was the organizing principle underlying all of
these new poems.
The general movement was not particularly new. Elementals had been based on movement
downward and upward-from Macrocosm to Microcosm (Earth) and back again, with a healthy
dash of late Renaissance chemistry of the Four Elements. And most of my poetry (so I
have been told) is highly sense-oriented, focusing as it frequently does upon the
natural world.
It then remained simply to arrange the poems, from the most elevated and ethereal-those
corresponding to sight-to the most physical and troubling-those related touch. The
arrangement is not perfect; nor was it intended to be. Several poems might have fit as
neatly in another category as in the ones in which they finally appear. There is no
attempt at symmetry among the parts of the series, just as our senses do not impinge
upon us with equal intensity. In spite of these decisions, the poems do seem to hang
together. They are all sonnets-or, to remain true to my 16th-century originals, Sonets.
Most have fourteen lines, but some may have more or fewer. Most have a rough rhyme
scheme, but some may depend heavily upon slant rhyme while others may suggest free
verse. Many have an underlying iambic beat, but some consciously attempt to subvert
that beat and replace it with alternate ways of creating rhythm. And, like to many of
the Elizabethan sonnets, many sound autobiographical; but all-even those triggered by
a memory or a moment from my life-have been shaped, formed, and arranged beyond the
boundaries of autobiography and, I hope, into something near art.
*NOTE: This unusual spelling was suggested by the title of Richard Tottel's Songess
and Sonettes, written by the ryght honorable Lorde Henry Haward late Earle of Surrey,
and other (1557), which its more familiar nonce-title, Tottel's Miscellany, was among
the most influential source-books for the later Elizabethan poets. A generation later,
John Donne echoed Tottel with his own Songs and Sonets, of which, scholars have noted,
not a single one fits our contemporary definition of `sonnet.' Since the 16th century
did not limits its conception of the sonnet to a 14-line poem in iambic pentameter,
with an unvarying rhyme scheme, neither have I.
A BANQUET OF SONETS
by
Micheal R. CollingsExotica-Elemental Sonet
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Long and lean-sole curvature against
A panoply of blues-cerulean
Cobalt with subtle hints of cerise
Where sunlight glints and slides-long and lean
In sunbaked brown-monotonously
Rich complexly umber-enough to crown
Sensations in silkworn sands-lushly
Sterile emptiness- -a single mound
Rides midway visible-rioting
Citrine-amethyst-sapphire-emerald-
Gemrich palmfronds-blossoms uniting
Heat and moisture-desert arable
Swirls of bracken-honeycombed moss-
Dew-parched petioles-silent loss
Hæmatite
~~~~~~~~
eagle-flight light-/height-/flight-ed fantasy
azure/pleasure leisure-feather-lilted
shifting cloudbanks shifting ice-crushed Ecstasy
upward soaring flaring faring jilted-
jolted-folded earthward wingSinging harsh
airbursts fragmentary EchoSong long
lost now glossed now to mere memory brash
flash/slash of eagle-gray suspended hung
breath-length eye-blink then sinking further/farther
Azure transmogrified as SilverBlack
flecks of fire/heat/blood condensed-ice ardor
frailing dream/scream of flight in crystalled slack
crimson-crystalled water weeps FloodMoans-
weeps and wets glints/cuts/abrades BloodStone
THE SENSES
~~~~~~~~~~
Taliesin's Vision of the Wondrous
Pillars Supporting Arthur's Halls
One, three, ten, scores-they rise as seedlings rise,
Fragile at first, susceptible to each
Fluctuation in warm earth, in moist skies;
Then-tentative-unfurl stark leaves and reach
To emulate mute prayer. Their natal ties
To solid rootstocks falter, fail. They breech
Into bright open space and breathe their prize,
Exalted almost into mortal speech;
But no, these are not growths of wood and bark-
No apples brought from distant Avalon,
No fragrant peach-these pinnacles of stone
Emerge from Arthur’s vision-eye; they mark
Extent and boundaries from night to dawn...,
They represent the life-blood in his bone.
[Note: The word Avalon means 'Isle of Apples']
Taliesin and the Kings
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Other kings arose before this King-
Princes, princelings hungry for a crown,
Eager for raw-valiant thrill of waging
War against the immortality of Rome.
Other kings-chieftains, tribal heroes, strong
Men of courage, lifting weapons, raising
Voice-pitched flames against the Dark that long-
Too-long concealed our coming King-to-Be.
Other heroes-earlier-sought to draw
The sword, grasped its gilded haft with bone-bare
Hands long used to manhood and men’s awe-
Raised it but the breadth of one coarse hair.
Other kings approached the Blade-in-Stone-
But none could draw it fully-no-not one.
Taliesin to the Stones
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
RingStones stand silent aslant in wasted lands
beyond the Plain. once they spoke/sang/rang-before
the oldest memories of Oaks beyond
bloodSongs of bloodThirst-worship staining earth
I stand and search dim/dark horizon lines-
bones long brittle rise/rage/urge my quest for
Song Beyond the Plain ancient Bardic bones,
Heroes’ bones, witnesses of War-weary War.
My fingers ply their stringless lyre. Voice
Beseeches silence-demands ears-invokes
Gods lost/forgotten/
/ hoped-for/
/feared.
Face
And hands and body weave the Shape of Hope.
Soon.
Soon.
But now the Stones-the Land-the Song
Await.
I feel it breaking-trembling Dawn
On Seeing Photographs
of My Grandfather in His Middle-Age
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He floats unfinished, elemental-cheeks
Stubble-rough with whitened whiskers, hair
Wildly corn-shock coarse and peppered black
On white, lips thin and quavering and quer-
-ulous with looming age. Even-rarely-when
I see him young, ambitious, smooth, largely,
Eager to consume the world; then
Or later, hearth-black-tincted by his forge,
Leather apron glossy in the heat;
Or later still a hatted silhouette
Anonymous in the corn-even then
There is about him that which, silent, cries
For grinder, sander, lathe, and polish to
Finish incompleteness-give him life.
[Note: An earlier version of this poem has been
accepted for publication in Ariel XXI
(Triton College, scheduled for 2003).]
Quasimodo from the Cathedral’s Pinnacles:
Apollo as an Eagle
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
He glares at me- -arrogant hunchbacked mal-
-formed beak-talons in segmentals hung, keen
jasper roundels on raw jute-rosette bale-
-ful eyes concentric fractured shadows- -he
glares at me- -tongue protrudent like a hanged
man’s taunt-skull thrust forward on pain-
-twisted neck-poised to contort, to hiss, fang-
-rage, to goad- -he urges me- -who would fain
passively devour at leisure Shakespeare’s
sugar’d sonets-Milton’s sharp-quilled breaths-
Wordsworth-Byron-Keats- -yet still he surges
me-and rhythms wing staccato-feather
counterpoints- -static stutters linesfeetbeats
that unexpected spring from heart-burst-heat
Jigsaw Puzzles
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A hundred pieces-five hundred-once a
Thousand-in winter darkness we explored
Dutch-windmill-landscapes tainted yellow by
Unseen sunsets, age, and fading ink. Or
English gardens, thatched-roofed-shadows over
Lilac hedges blurred red-overlapping-
Blue in 3-D edges hard to focus
On. Filling borders inward, gaping
Emptiness replaced by fragment patterns
Webbing links until the picture lay
Complete. Then we might smile, her laughter
Uttering "End" to puzzle and to day.
Sometimes one missing piece-or many-kept
Us from understanding...and we slept.
Where the White Crow Flies
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
- Dim - dank - scum-clotted ponds breathe
Their pestilence and boil ripe contagion.
Trees - once oak or pine or yew - ease
Raddled branches to a pewter sky, grim
Arms upraised, bone-fingers retching
Ghosts of disembodied needles, leaves,
Insect-clutching galls - punkie, roach-
Infected blots of shadowed life. Stark eaves,
They overhang a dwindled earth - a soil
Barren-blasted - twitching darkness blackness
At its core. And more -... - a distant wail -
Panicked gravity - still warns and wakens
Dead ears. A slice of light - sharded Song -
Surveying its demesne a white crow wings.
Harvest Crows
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Harvest crows caw dark convocations,
Pace bone-grey walks with skeletal claws,
Haunt suburban entropy and span
Black fingers wide to polluted clay,
Waft contagion through the land. They perch upon
Rough concrete stanchions where lights once glowed at dusk,
Red-eyed, to glare deft retribution. One
Swoops and clicks and snaps diseased flesh that reeks
Beneath an August sun. Another grates
Its challenge for the filament of flesh,
Black flesh, raw flesh shimmering white against
A sable maw. And still the harvest crows press,
And congregate, and lordly strut stilt-gaunt legs
Along flat paths, asbestos drives, dead ways.
Cormorant
~~~~~~~~~
A single cormorant clasps a crippled face
Streaked and freaked with fading ocher stains
Where bird-lime-white once gleamed above a base
Of tumbled rock and patiently sanded grains.
The cormorant unfurls, fed by raging
Need, ragged hunger preying on its flesh-
Unfurls, rises, rides convection waves
Beyond flat swells, until its cliff-face flashes
Once and sinks. For days it rides. Scans the deeps
For shadowed signs, swoops and swirls-and nagging
Blue-harsh static sparks its neurons-ennui creeps-
Its circuit sinks wider lower flagging
Until thick grey voracious ocean currents
Consume the last and final cormorant
13 Vultures
~~~~~~~~~~~
A cliché, if not by actual count
I had not seen them there-large ravens from
A distance, well fed and plump, clotted
On the fenceposts by the concrete slough
But not-no, vultures, all thirteen, heads
Scabbily bald, wattled, red-spotted,
A congregation of old men sitting
Judgment on an empty field
One clutched the barkless knurl
Of an ancient cottonwood. Another
Cut its bevel through a dustcloud raised
By cars like mine. Eleven waited
Potently on fenceposts, waited for
The corpses that must come to them.
On Speaking a Child's Blessing
in November:
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
To give a name, perpetuate a name
To look as if into a mirror's depth
And see a face and form-though not my own-
Still mine...a part of me incipient.
Sugar-maples droop red-fingered leaves to
Earth; magnolias express blood-vibrant
Drops-I speak a Blessing-Name to one whose
Breath has bloomed with blood in autumn-time,
Who promises to stay until the Dawn.
To give a name, perpetuate a name,
And breathe upon the coals an infant’s song...
Rejuvenate a cooling ember-flame.
Moss Agate
~~~~~~~~~~
And thus the Grene Knyht sports with Arthur’s band,
Transience meets immortality-
Sir Gawain strikes the blow, beheads the Man...
As I behead last summer's stiff-mown weeds
Bold-grown and proud-ruff-necked, haut, gaudy for
My fatal stroke. Rude act-rude play, perhaps-
But necessary (as I think)-green gore
To pay for Fall's regenerative lapse-
Yet from the crystal-sharded rime of snow
Dendritic aches to full contractions swell
Seeded by the frozen-garnet glow
That with my hasty sword-stroke, dying, fell-
Molecule upon molecule tissue-flesh
Rebuilds, rises into spring breezes fresh
Plantings
~~~~~~~~~
On the North side he planted irises-
Raw-barren tubers spearing eave-hung shade
Where firs had sheltered before Christmases.
In front, facing the West, toward the road,
She planted roses, pre-echoing frail
Petals drifting endlessly on grass,
On stone, on clotted clods along fence rails.
In back, to the East, we children had
Our six-foot lengths to grow our chosen seeds-
Mine, Butterfly Wings, light, fragmentary
Next to stolid sunflowers and invasive weeds.
But South, along the drive, as if wary
Of being caught, I kept Nicotiana
In its gallon pot-half rebel-half-sorry.
First Taste
~~~~~~~~~~~
It was my first taste of Idaho peach
Moments off the branch, redolent with heat
And cold co-mixed. I remember I reached
For the largest, yellow-red, scented sweet.
It struck, sharp, quick-a wasp-blade in my neck,
A burning pain that startled before it
Even began to hurt. A second’s tick-
Then I screamed, a six-year-old’s banshee-fit.
It smoothed, cold and numbing on tight, hot flesh,
Soft mud where the wasp had stung, soothed there by
My grandfather’s coarse-now-gentle grip. Fresh
Ease eroded pain, calm replaced wild cries.
I now feared wasps-unseen, deceptive wisps.
I ate the peach-squashed, pulpy in my fist.
Wire-Art
~~~~~~~~
And when the stones spin whispers-
Gentle fragment-colloquies-
Uttered along broad finger-
Tips-the solid flesh-the eyes-
Muscles whisper answers
Back-a twist-a fold-a curve-
That echoes in a silver whirl-
A gold-metallic word-
And join the stone-as Symbionts-
Enmeshed in matrix-mood-
And neither one-perhaps-is clear
Which stands as stone and which as blood
Trilobites:
Aunt Amy, Fossil-Hunting in Southern Utah, c. 1955
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
90,000,000 years add ponderous weight-
Another score (or more?)-insensate Time
Impenetrably dense, as surface freight
Accumulates-spread grain by grain, sands limn
Silicon exchange-life and stone mate,
Twine..., urged crystal-echoes form and mime
Rigid carapace, each fleshly state
Within-density and measured hardness climb-
Until-with wind and rain, with flame and ice-
Mortised coffin-joints expand-austere walls
Disintegrate-alluvium (contrite
Perhaps) compresses to prolong the game...
Then fragments into crumbled sandstone cauls
And cuff-link-mounted, lacquered trilobites.
Something about the Curve of Lip
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Something about the curve of lip the fem-
inine almost or at the least the am-
biguity that signals startle/shock com-
pels attention and a farrowed brow-
or twist of fingertip outreached and over-
reached crookhook/stiff celluloidal arc
to signify both trans-/port and -/for-
mation emboded in geologic
greys-or worse and more some turn of thought/em-
pulse fivedactyldrive-focus on the mas-
culine not-with-knowing beneath blueden-
im cord/duroy caught in shadows from the past
Without a newyork
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
without a newyork where to scrabble sour
anonymity of sweatbond streets al-
-leyways that hunker darkness thru long-dour
casementbricks- -where to see touch taste ill-
-licits where among stark panhard widestreet
brightlit immortal sunbaked nothinged bak-
-ersfields- -on low back-shelves past rows of greet-
-ingcards dietaids slick porcelains lurk
moments gasp-grasped in the storm breath-choked-sigh
fragments convertible-plymouth top-down-
-nude parked ill-legally beneath a vi-
-olated half-moon sun in side-longing tones
of b/w glints slickporous papered sub-
-stitutes for neverknown newyorks poorchild
All poems copyright (c) 2002 Michael R. Collings
A New Age: The Centipede Network Of
Artists, Poets, & Writers
An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310]
(C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul
Lauda
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. REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings
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. THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken
. STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken
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. RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
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. ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken
. THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken
. THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken
. FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken
. POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken
. THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken
. DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken
. KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken
. BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken
. CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken
. WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken
. THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken
. SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp
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. ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
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. CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy
. BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
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. ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy
. THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena
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