What with vital writers and artists — Rainer Maria Rilke, Pablo Neruda, Paul Celan, Franz Kafka, Joan Baez, Robert Lowell, and others in Memoirs of a Maverick Translator — what with them, a time comes for various other people, events, jokes, unique ideas, and more. They have wild difference, thus not much order or connection.
Decades ago I heard the excellent poet W. S. Merwin (1927–) when we were concerning a poem’s value. A few people were lamenting its translation, so Merwin simply said: “The original is never harmed.”
The Dark Room and other poems by Enrique Lihn, a fine Chilean poet, was translated in 1978 by New Directions. Payment went to someone who edited and introduced; with him, we three translators also got some pay; Lihn got an okay amount; New Directions certainly did. Our four fellows, however, would not receive $25 payment until this $2.45 book succeeds. After three decades I got it.
When Federico García Lorca was murdered in 1936, Roy Campbell wrote: “Not only did he lose his life / By shots assassinated: / But with a hammer and a knife / Was after that — translated.”
Frost did not write “Poetry is what gets lost in translation,” though he must have spoken it. He wrote “Poetry is that which tends to evaporate from both prose and verse when translated.”
Simone de Beauvoir replied, in French, to my article about young Pablo Neruda’s use of women: Chère Madame …, “Dear Madam, Many thanks for your essay on Neruda which gave me lively interest et que j’ai fait lire par mes amies feminists. En toute sympathie, S de Beauvoir [and which I’ve had my feminist friends read. In all kindness, S de Beauvoir].” Why “Madam”? Well, she translated “John” to Jean in French, then thought I was female.
A Stanford event asked me to translate an ancient Hebrew epigram into English…: “The broadest land’s too tight to squeeze / To give two foes an ample space, / Just as a very narrow place / Can hold a thousand friends with ease.”
Yves Bonnefoy’s Ce qui alarma Paul Celan translates to “Why Paul Celan Took Alarm” when one can learn his eloquent syntax of phases, layers, inversions, delays.
Caminante, no hay camino, / se hace camino al andar.
Clearly this holds for blazing a trail and bushwhacking and walking cross-country: where there’s no given path, you make your own way. Whether it holds for poetry, for translation, for life itself — we’ll see as we go. Antonio Machado having had his say, we’re bound to bring these lines into decent English or else learn Spanish, or marry a native speaker, or settle in Spain or Latin America.
Deeper than the eye, the ear senses rhythmic repetition: Caminante … camino … camino. But Caminante (walker) and camino (road, way) don’t seem to yield cognate terms in English, if that’s of the essence here. To begin with, then:
Walker, there is no way,
A way is made by/in walking.
“Walker … way” turning round to “way … walking” provides a telling bonus, a balancing of thought. Yet doesn’t that doubled “walk” miss the point? Since the walker’s already walking, a way must be made by something else. “Traveler, there is no trail …”? No, camino’s not “trail.” “Pathfinder, there is no path …” Interesting, but pathfinders already do more than just walk, and they’re mostly lost to us now, with their leather stockings.
Is there a way to follow the “way” throughout this maxim? Taoist and Christian overtones alone would justify it, even though Machado’s thoughts point toward experience before and beneath religion or philosophy. A word comes to mind that feels hackneyed, but I (for one) would go with it: “Wayfarer, there is no way.” What happens next depends on how we hear se hace — “is made,” “gets made,” “you make”? — and andar. Since the second verse has general force, we could try this:
Caminante, no hay camino,
se hace camino al andar.
Wayfarer, there is no way,
A way gets made as you go.
The Spanish lines, in equal syllables, take three stresses each that change place from one moment to the next, so it helps to get that pacing in English too.
Sure enough, just as poets find a way as they go, so do translators, so do we all.
“Fertile Misremembrance.” Denise Levertov started a poem:
In the forties, wartime London, I read
an ode by Neruda I’ve never found again, …
I could search out the Obras Completas
I know …
I couldn’t find Denise’s source. It was not an ode, but one of Neruda’s Tres cantos materiales, three material songs. She wanted Apogeo del apio (“Apogee of Celery”). Translating I played with “Celebration of Celery,” and she said “Thanks very much for the translation … Perhaps one’s misremembrances are always more fertile than accurate recollections.”
Everyone knows The Oprah Magazine. One time she had the great British writer, A. S. Byatt (1936–), do “A. S. in Wonderland.” Byatt’s pages gave us her favorite seven books of all time, “Books that change you, even later in life, give you a kind of electrical shock.” These books are: Lewis Carroll’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass; Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s The Idiot; poems by Alfred Lord Tennyson, Robert Browning, and Samuel Taylor Coleridge; The Poems of Emily Dickinson; George Eliot’s Middlemarch; Marcel Proust’s In Search of Lost Time. Those — and also, I must say, my Paul Celan: Poet, Survivor, Jew.
Dickinson and Celan: not close friends, at least not for Dickinson. In 1961, Celan dedicates Für Nelly Sachs, a Dickinson stanza for Sachs. A few years later, Dickinson and Celan joins: a little-known Dickinson poem plus a Celan version.
So you are turned—a Someone
You rise in every Wellspring—
So bist du denn geworden
Du steigst in alle Brunnen
Celan’s alternating seven-six-seven-six syllable count answers nicely to Dickinson’s odd orthographic emphases. Also syntax, rhythm, staccato, etc. Celan has taken Dickinson’s wry and rueful address to one of those putative romantic figures in her life, and readdressed it to the lost figure in his own life, his mother deported from Bukovina (known for its wells).
All this proves thought-provoking, as Celan finds solutions for Dickinson’s lines in lines that sound strangely like his own voice. Then I let on just how “little-known” the Dickinson poem was. The English quatrains in “So you are turned” are in fact an imitation. A friend and myself made a pseudo-Dickinson rendering, translating into English a 1950 Celan lyric, So bist du den geworden, which does address his mother. A learnable hoax, though a deeper source.
Now almost everyone knows Samuel Beckett, who was, as Wikipedia says, an Irish avant-garde novelist, playwright, theatre director, and poet who lived in Paris for most of his adult life and wrote in both English and French (1906–1989). And maybe more of us know his En attendant Godot, “Waiting for Godot” (1953). In Paris I met a German translator, Elmar Tophoven, who gave me a triple-language Godot: French, English, German. Beckett himself got a leg-up on his own English translation, “Waiting for Godot,” by dint of his work with Tophoven.
Tophoven’s happiest stroke of translational intervention occurs in Act Two when Pozzo, now blind, has fallen in a heap with Lucky. The heroes debate whether to help him up, then tumble down themselves. One hero, ESTRAGON, says Ce qu’on est bien, par terre! (“How good it is, on the ground!”) Tophoven gets a bit wordy, suggesting less supple: Man ist doch gut aufgehoben bei Mutter Erde (“Indeed one is well taken care of by Mother Earth”). Whereupon Beckett cleanly re-enters his own voice, by way of Elmar’s heartlifting Mutter Erde — but stunningly simpler: “Sweet mother earth!”
During eleven years, Claudio Spies selected seven Shakespeare sonnets, expanded by including German versions of the same sonnets by Paul Celan, then gave it all music: soprano, bass-baritone, violin, viola, violoncello, clarinet, bass clarinet, conductor.
Princeton composer, born in Chile of German Jewish parents, Claudio (1925–) called this “Seven Sonnets,” Sieben Sonette. Scores of letters occurred between him and me.
Normandy in August 1984, Études sur Paul Celan: Colloque de Cerisy-la-Salle occurs mainly in French. I give a talk: “Langue maternelle, langue éternelle: La présence de l’Hébreu dans les poèmes de Paul Celan.” At one moment I illustrate a point by singing the Hebrew Sabbath hymn L’cha dodi, which warms some folks. Right afterward, an arrogant dogmatic French academic stands up to warn against surjudaisant for Paul Celan, “over-Judaizing” him. Ah well …
Gisèle Lestrange, Celan’s widow, enjoys the Hebrew hymn, though in Cerisy she feels her husband has entered history — a loss for her. Their son Eric remembers when he was thirteen, his father walking in streets with him, singing revolutionary songs in Russian, Yiddish, French, proud of his Dad. In Cerisy, playing table tennis with Eric, I fear that winning with him might feel unkind then.
Ezra Pound tells us poetry’s “language is charged or energized in various manners.” Then he shows that melopoeia’s musical property is impossible to translate from one language to another, and phanopoeia casting images can wholly translate, while logopoeia does not translate “locally.” He also says, “Poetry is news that stays news.”
“It is difficult / to get the news from poems,” William Carlos Williams tells us, “yet men die miserably every day / for lack / of what is found there.” The famed “Red Wheelbarrow” was not a title for W. C. Williams. He wanted none, just
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
Some persons don’t believe it’s a poem at all, but still it is. No rhyme to poeticize it, no title to emblematize it, no capital letters or climax at the end to organize it. Just an image urged upon us, trimmed to four two-line stanzas, each stanza a phrase with consistent syllables.
Taking another view on Williams now, there’s a little-known angle of his poems and translations. Decades ago I took his modern bench mark, “The Red Wheelbarrow,” and tested two versions of it in the Spanish American grain.
The Nicaraguan poet and priest Ernesto Cardenal gave this:
reluciente de gotas
junto a las gallinas
Phrases two and four do sound right in Spanish, with nouns coming before adjectives. Yet with “red” and “white” coming first, we absorb radiance. Because only the barrow would be red, a momentary “red wheel” vision lightens the sky. Likewise “wheel” and “rain” adjectives each show their prime, their free nature, before “barrow” and “water” simply remind plain facts. In a way, Yehuda Amichai’s “It’s the living child we need / to scrub when he’s back from play” moves in a rhythm somewhat similar to these phrases by Williams.
The Mexican poet Octavio Paz is our second translator. In 1970 he’d written a famous essay arguing that translation is crucial, and that translating a poem is akin to creating one. (Strangely enough, in working on this chapter I found an eighteen-page translation — when and why I don’t know.) Paz did this:
so much depends
Unlike Cardenal, the rhythm slackens, no overhangs lean us into the poem and keep impending interest. Paz’s cuánto also implies “how” much depends, as if the speaker already knew how much, concerned by something rather than wondering. Or my grandmother: “so much, I can’t tell you!” After all, how much depends upon the barrow, water, chickens, and what depends on them? Maybe everything. Whatever depends depends on seeing those things afresh by saying them anew. Since “depend” in line one is the poem’s only Latinate word, we can see Williams’s delight in the rest, all Anglo-Saxon compound. But that’s hard for Spanish. At the end, though, Paz did follow English adjective-noun, “white / chickens,” blancas / gallinas.
One more word, “glazed,” turns out to be curious. Cardenal’s glazed wheelbarrow is reluciente, shining like a halo or the family silver (as a Chilean friend told me), while Paz’s is barnizada, varnished (varnishing began in Berenice, Libya). Williams liked “glazed” a lot: his old mother wakens to birds “skimming / bare trees / above a snow glaze.” Doughnuts and pie, pottery and majolica, oil paintings, snow, eyes are glazed. “Glaze” has a thriving family: glass, gloss, gleam, glow, glare, glint, glitter, glisten, glimpse, glance, glide, glee, glad, gold. This wheelbarrow stands radiantly for itself.
William Carlos Williams, born to a half-Sephardic Puerto Rican mother, made translation a profession, along with daily medicine and poetry. He translated Neruda, Andrade, Nicanor Parra, and with his mother, a Quevedo novella. In fairness to Octavio Paz, his other Williams poems came out better: “Nantucket,” “Young Sycamore,” and especially “Hymn Among the Ruins.” What baffled him was intense simplicity in “The Red Wheelbarrow,” the poem free of title.
And translating Spanish, Pablo Neruda took Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”: “Urge and urge and urge / Always the procreant urge of the world,” Impulso, impulso, impulso, / siempre el procreador impulse del mundo. That’s possible, unless one prefers perfection. Yes, Neruda must be with us.
Now to translate the last lines of another material song, Entrada a la Madera, “Entrance into Wood.” His last paragraph begs “come to me … / and clasp me to your life, to your death, / to your crushed materials, / to your dead neutral doves.” Then the last lines:
|y hagamos fuego, y silencio, y sonido,
y ardamos, y callemos, y campanas.
|and let us make fire, and silence, and sound,
and let us burn and be silent and bells.
Again Neruda comes keen. English can’t mime -ego, -cio, -ido, / -amos, -emos, -anas. As campanas is a noun not a verb, then “bells” act the same! Neruda’s a joy and more: “Floods,” “Guilty,” “Heights of Macchu Picchu.” Lots of sharp toil in Translating Neruda: The Way to Macchu Picchu (1980).
Sad, sad, the 2014 death of José Emilio Pacheco: Mexican poet, essayist, novelist, short story writerlisted in Wikipedia with Federico García Lorca and Octavio Paz and Pablo Neruda Awards, but no mention of translation. Similar to Paul Celan writing on Shakespeare’s four-hundredth year, in 1989 Pacheco took on T. S. Eliot’s “Burnt Norton” and “The Dry Salvages” from Four Quartets. As ever, Latin languages use more words than English.
|Words move, music moves
Only in time; but that which is only living
Can only die.
|Las palabras se mueven, la música se mueve
Nada más en el tiempo; pero lo que solo está vivo
Sólo puede morir.
In the first line, four in English, eight in Spanish — yet in the third line, three for both. More to the point, Pacheco has translated for his people.
30 Apr 
Yr letter came at an appropriate time — I had just gotten back from NY, from seeing Blackburn & Robt Kelly & Roi Jones & Joel Oppenheimer (whom I hadn’t met before) — Kelly had given a reading on the 17th — at which was also Stan Brakhage (who also gave a showing at Princeton that weekend I saw, & talked to him again afterwards — his movies are incredible things to me, the more and more I see them; & he is a very direct & open person — the audience sat after the flicks for 2 hrs or more asking questions & taking in what he was saying — unusual for Princeton types, but then, who knows). A good week in all, & then yr letter to cap it all off, esp. since I had been thinking re Olson just what you were saying there, that his movement formally is very much, totally, a dynamics of construction, not a preset pattern across the page or even out of saying. & not long before you had shown up in some crazy dream of mine, but with crewcut red hair, so god knows what that involved! Anyway, & again, the letter was very good to get — don’t worry abt writing back in answer to this till things clear for you — I’ll be deep in Japanese anyway from now on, trying to catch up & review & retrieve what can be retrieved from a pretty much lost semester. So, anyway, this to keep the lines humming, communications live, the contact there.
I had on getting back here, seminar paper due & no paper done, figured just to say hell completely & leave then & there, money being the only drawback (as always). But I talked the thing over with various sorts of professors, & agreed that in order to get the rest of my scholarship & collect the money for the course I’m grading, I should at least finish up — even if I flunk it’s no worse than leaving, & the money is there. So — the seminar is out of the way by arrangement, but Japanese & Chinese left. Onward & BANZAI & don’t give up, so, on.
That, then, & enough of all this shit of mine re this institution (yr attached bit on the back of the letter was, yes, to here! where the hell did you find it?). I’ve got, as I reckon you have, the flyer from CHANGE, with its very attractive photo of the editors & the fastest car on earth, & (by god, for me you’ll figure, a welcome & not-used-to sight, my name in any kind of print) me among the mentioned. Which is nice of ’em & sustenance in the midst of rainy generally shitty cold spring (?) weather here (god, how much I go or lapse from the sheer presence or lack of the sunlight, but then).
There is a book of photographs I’ve seen you might like very much if the library there’s got it, or some book store (not likely I reckon that) — by Eliot Porter, of Glen Canyon, The Place Nobody Knew, which are of any I’ve seen the finest color photographs as a group I’ve ever seen, I guess, & the quality of the reproductions superb. You probably know of him or know him personally since he has lived in Santa Fe a long time now. But god knows the book is a great one.
So. Here I sit & getting, by god yes, drunk, red wine & the rain & why not & hills hills hills in my mind, the ones you live on, stuck in my memory as gray as this rain because it was early morning when I woke up on the bus & saw them just before the sun, not Pocatello but Twin Falls, like them I guess; & the hills of my 2 yrs in the Army, Ft Riley, the Flint Hills of Kansas that Custer rode out of much as I did an early morning, going myself to the rifle ranges, he to idiocy of a kind he paid for by taking a lot of others with him, generic to army posts & the plains too — & Ft Leonard Wood in the Missouri red clay Ozarks, with pines & nothing but gravel all over the ground — & Albuq & the Sandias; & home of E. Kansas just as wet right now as here probably, long lines of cuesta hills stretching around Trading Post. […]
So, prominences / I no more know why they come & go behind the eyes than why, finally, I came to them, why I lived there around them at all; like Bob says
such geography of self and soul
brought to such limit of sight,
I cannot relieve it
nor leave it, …
In the rain, & wot the hell wot the hell. The urge always to get to the top of the hill — is this the primary drive in mt climbing, the real climbing, that is the Mt Everest etch outfits? The cuestas of Linn County Kansas were like the mesas of the SW to me — how they came up out of the flat lands, farm lands there in Kansas, but the hills equally as the mesas, almost as if separate country. & my desire to get on top of either — that drove me 3 or 4 times to climb the ft path up the face of Sandia Crest, once 3 ft deep in snow with Anderson, the Arkansas type you met that NYr’s Eve in Santa Fe. The urge that only is there when it is those prominences that rise from the plains, though; among the mts proper, in the Rockies, I have no drive to get to their tops. Who knows, or why it is so. Maybe the reactions of a plainsman to see his own country just a little better — when he sees mountains, they’re mts, whether in em or on em — just revel to be there (like Cousin Minnie Pearl used to say on the Grand Ole Oprey, “well sir, I’m just soh pleased (proud)? to be here”).
Or why drunk I’m going all over them now. Anyway.
Have been reading Powell’s Exploration of the Colorado River, & am convinced he was much more interested in getting to the Indians there & tapping them, than the river & its canyons alone (or, yes, the geology too, I forget that) — the description is interesting cause he is in the midst of first describing, almost, yet he is not innocent to this kind of landscape at all, he’s been around the country elsewhere, so it doesn’t break in on him with complete ton of bricks. & the legends from the indians do turn him on. The worst thing is to realize that all of Glen Canyon as he saw it (& those photographs saw it) is now under god knows how much silt-laden water, backed up behind that damn dam who knows why we really need.
o well shit Ed I could go on & on, & I’m to other things if the wine don’t keep me off it, them.
There’s a possibility I may do a review of The Sullen Art for Kulchur, but up in air. Would like to try, though to review as a whole involves some effort. But why not try.
So, well, anyway. Glad you like the thing I sent you—little has been going—& one the Harvard Advocate was thinking of printing they now want me to change (how or why don’t know) & am pissed myself, if they don’t want it, don’t fuck with me over it, its not that great nor are they. Oh well. I hope things work for you—i.e. done with the least hang up. Roi said some of yr students were putting out a magazine, Wild Dog (as I remember?), & that’s very good. Let me hear from you when things clear for you — & for sure I hope to see you all in NMex come summer, but will keep in touch all along. Bless you again for those saving letters — they’ve lifted me when I didn’t figure there was a lift going.
love to you all
10. See endnote 15 (“April 8, 1963”).
11. Early issues of Wild Dog — of which there are twenty-one issues in all, published between 1963 and 1966 — were coedited by Dorn, John Hoopes, and Drew Wagnon. See endnote 9 (“October 21, 1964”). For further information, see: Steve Clay and Rodney Phillips, A Secret Location on the Lower East Side: Adventures in Writing, 1960–1980 (New York: The New York Public Library and Granary Books, 1998), 152–153.
Ken Irby’s poem beginning with the phrase “We might say poetry” is the first of the “Berkeley” sequence that makes up close to half of his book Catalpa, published in Lawrence, Kansas by John Moritz’s Tansy Press in 1977. It is not an entirely typical Irby poem — happily, there is no such thing. But it bears at least three of the features that we would not be wrong to associate with Ken’s work generally. First, it is a landscape poem — or, to put it in more current terms, it is a site-specific work; it bestows specificity on a particular locale, and in so doing it projects forth from its site a multilayered and emotionally complex geocultural vision. Second, it is notable for its intimacy of address; one feels one is sharing not only a moment but the affective memories, sensations, and feelings that characterize that moment. And third, it radiates love.
In advance of the publication in 2009 of The Intent On: Collected Poems, 1962–2006, I composed a blurb for the back cover of the book. I spoke of the poetry’s “scope,” “gravitas,” and “emotional nobility.” I said that “It is not the fleetingness of life but the longevity of life’s effects that Irby’s poems make note of. The works unfold through the continuous remembering of persons and places loved and known — and known as loved.”
I still think this assessment holds true of his work generally, and of the poem beginning “We might say poetry” specifically. And the aptness of the assessment — that Irby’s poetry “unfolds through the continuous remembering of persons and places loved and known — and known as loved” — is not belied by the way that “We might say poetry” complicates its site, the contours of remembering, and the unrepresentable but determinative topology of friendship. The poem also undertakes something akin to time travel (but what poem doesn’t, really?) and, perhaps more to the point — or merely as an item of secondary, contingent interest — anthropological travel (or spiritual ethnography).
You all have a copy of the poem, I think. Here it is:
We might say poetry
as accumulation of specific
but instead we talked about the mind
’s a sixth sense, the Tibetans’
sense of it
West in the mist
Tamalpais’ top floated
the earth that was not connected
was ours clear up to the hillside
where Alexandra David-Neel spoke in Lowell
the scatterings of trees
on hills like our own hill
or interlacing of ridges
no line on a map
but the greenery of grass
cutting even the heart away
with the brightness of the day
SW towards Orinda
As I said, this poem is the first of the sequence titled “Berkeley” in Ken’s book Catalpa. And the first nine lines of the twenty-two-line poem seem to situate the speaker and his comrades — the we who “talked about the mind / ’s a sixth sense” instead of about “poetry / as accumulation of specific” — in Berkeley. The hillside and the scattering of trees are familiar features of coastal northern California, and the mist and Mount Tamalpais specifically belong to the environs of Berkeley.
I’ve tried to figure out what time of day it is in the poem — or what time of day it was, since the first long stretch of the poem is cast in the narrative past tense (“we talked,” “Tamalpais’ top floated”), and when it shifts to the so-called present tense (“the greenery of grass / is fence”) what we get isn’t temporality but a state of things, a truth condition, discovered, or perhaps merely glimpsed, where conditions otherwise are fleeting.
And of course they are fleeting — this is a pastoral poem, of sorts, and conditions of the pastoral landscape (the so-called “natural world” as a site for social being) are always fleeting, ephemeral — conditions of light, color, aroma, tactility, and talk. These are temporary; they are also temporal. They comprise what Larry Eigner, in his poem “B,” calls “the constant ephemerals,” the elements of time itself. History. The ghosts of events. And the marks of history’s hand on the landscape. This, as I will explain in a minute, is a site of something of lasting negativity in the poem.
The poem inhabits some time-of-day.
The poet and his (or her — I don’t want to make unwarranted assumptions — but still — this isn’t a so-called “persona poem” — we can ascribe it to some version of a character named Kenneth Irby) — the poet and his companion or companions are looking West toward Mount Tamalpais, surrounded by mist. This is mist, rather than the autumnal hot-weather haze of Indian summer in Berkeley, but that doesn’t necessarily place the poet and friend or friends in a winter landscape. As Ken puts it in another poem in Catalpa, “Indian Summer in Berkeley means / the fogs come back in October.” The poet and his friends, then, could be part of an actual summer or a faux summer scene — the San Francisco Bay Area being famous (or infamous) for its summer fog — particularly noticeable (and delightful) in the mornings, until the fog begins to burn off around midday.
And, since near the very end of the poem there is mention of the “brightness of the day,” I’m guessing that the poem is “happening” at midday. And that the poet himself is in Berkeley. Mount Tamalpais does sit west of Berkeley; it is a notable, and peculiarly sacred, San Francisco Bay Area natural landmark, rising without particular drama but magisterially out of Marin County. The other notable, but for many negligible or even unknown, Bay Area “mountain” is Mount Diablo. Mount Tamalpais is patrician; Mount Diablo is working class. This is worth mentioning, since, though my social classification of Mount Tamalpais and Mount Diablo is not relevant to Irby’s poem, it is the case that, if one looks from Berkeley to Orinda, and if the weather is right and one’s elevation is sufficient, one will see Mount Diablo. Orinda lies midway on a direct line of sight from Berkeley to Mount Diablo. Due east.
but the greenery of grass
cutting even the heart away
with the brightness of the day
SW towards Orinda
I really don’t know what to make of the reorientation that we find has taken place somewhere in the course of the poem such that our attention is directed “SW towards Orinda.” Orinda, as I said, lies almost directly due east of Berkeley.
But between the eighth and ninth lines of the poem a far more dramatic resituating has taken place. Or perhaps it’s between the seventh and eighth lines. Wherever it happens, it is the work of that sixth sense, the mind, in “the Tibetans’ / sense of it.”
There is important semantic, as well as geographical and temporal, slippage at this point in the poem. It may be “the mind [… in] the Tibetans’ sense of it” that sits “West in the mist.” Or it may be that “West in the mist / Tamalpais’ top floated.” Or it may be that “Tamalpais’ top floated / the earth.” All three are grammatically, though independently, correct; all three are said in the poem; all three are possibilities that the mind can accept the sense of. For the moment, it is the extension of the third that I want to follow: “Tamalpais’ top floated / the earth” and not only that: it is “the earth that was not connected.” It is, then, not Irby and his companion or companions — we — that have moved from Berkeley but the earth that has moved, while being still “ours clear up to the hillside / where Alexandra David-Neel spoke in Lowell.”
Alexandra David-Neel, the author of My Journey to Lhasa and Magic and Mystery in Tibet (to name the two of her books best known in America), was never in Lowell. Born in Paris in 1868, she died 101 years later; in the interim she lived in many places and visited even more, but she was never in the US or Canada. But if one types her name into the Google search engine, one finds in entry after entry with unnerving regularity (such that one is reminded that there is no originality to be found via Google) this sentence: “Her teachings influenced beat writers Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg.”
It might be, then, through her books that she “spoke in Lowell” — which, as we all know, was Kerouac’s hometown.
Or it might be that the “Lowell” being named is not the working-class Massachusetts town but Ken Irby’s friend Lowell, who is present in many of the Berkeley poems: “I said to Lowell,” “Lowell went first down the path the last stretch,” “Lowell left a note,” etc. (260, 261, 308).
In Magic and Mystery in Tibet Alexandra David-Neel passes along a remark offered to her by a gomchen (Buddhist hermit): “A living being is an assemblage, not a unity.”
And The Tibetan Book of the Great Liberation (a central and ancient text of Tibetan Buddhist philosophy, which gained some popularity and influence in the English-speaking world — probably including Lowell — with its publication in an Oxford University Press paperback in 1954), posits that “Realization of the One Mind” comes about “through introspectively attaining understanding of the true nature of its macrocosmic aspect innate in man.”
And — though I very much do not want to suggest that Ken Irby wrote this poem under the influence of Buddhist philosophy — “We might say poetry” does indeed have a macrocosmic aspect, and it does, in its quiet way, demonstrate a way in which “the one Mind,” might be a sensing faculty, capable of realization — capable, that is, of making manifest and real — temporal and spatial truths of the world that no hand on a clock face and “no line on a map can represent.”
This is, however, a realization that comes about not introspectively but socially.
And the affective aftermath of that realization is not bound to the poet’s ego; the truth of the emotions belongs not to the poet but to the situated occasion, to the landscape of extensive event. It is here that we can discern the ethical dimension of Irby’s art.
Ken Irby is in some ways an austere poet.
That statement may simply be an oblique way of describing the dignity of the man in and of the poems. He holds his feelings dear but at a distance — but it is the distance neither of irony nor of alienation.
Indeed, in a powerful and positive sense, Irby is a poet of non-alienation. His work homes in on its locales and on the sharing of them that makes them memorable, known in common. And his austerity — the distance of his feelings — gives us the measure of the capacious outreach of which proper sociality is capable.
In continuing to think about the temporal conditions of the poem, I have come to realize that the time of day in the poem is both a point of entry and a point of departure. The open landscape, the conversing companions, the midday light — not to mention the inclusive opening pronoun (“We”) — all invite us into the occasion. But they do so not through Whitmanesque prolixity and exuberance; the occasion blossoms in the light of its condensation. The poem is only twenty-two lines long, and the conversation and concomitant regarding of the landscape last only as long as “the brightness of the day” allows. The time within the poem is the duration of a glow.
And this is what produces a point of departure into the occasion’s afterglow, which is the time of the poem.
The poem’s temporal expansion is already articulated spatially, in the strong (and even, given that we may get all the way to Lowell in it, magically excessive) horizontality of the poem’s spatial landscape. Unimpeded (the hills are embedded and integral, not tossed up and demanding), the mind sweeps west to Mount Tamalpais (which has, finally, a more maternal than magisterial aspect in the distance as seen from Berkeley) and then floats back and drifts calmly, slowly, even languidly (albeit at the speed of thought) eastward across the continent to Massachusetts.
Conditions are, the poem says, “unpredictable.”
And yet, as I see it, the ultimate time of the poem is its future — or futurity as such, since the future I am referring to — the future of the poem — is now (though it will also be tomorrow).
I don’t mean by this that the poem has become, or will become, or should become, canonical. It may, but that is not my concern here. What I mean is that the time in the poem — those particular brightly present sunlit hours in Berkeley, lived and experienced and condensed through what Kierkegaard would call “formative activity” into a poem beginning “We might say poetry” — becomes the time of the poem: the expansion of the past present occasion into its future — which remains the occasion and event, still lived, in which a poet and a comrade or comrades sitting or walking in the Berkeley hills talk about poetry and the mind.
The book in which the poem was originally published begins with a short text titled “In Place of a Preface.” It consists of slightly more than two pages of what one might call raw material — material akin to that which makes up what we now have of Walter Benjamin’s Arcades Project — etymological information related to the words “land,” “scape,” “landscape,” “plant,” and “place,” and a set of thirteen quotations from an assortment of pertinent texts, including this from Charles Olson: “By landscape I mean what ‘narrative’; scene; event; climax; crisis; hero; development; posture; all that meant — all the substantive of what we call literary” (250). Word and place are not strictly separable in the world of Ken Irby; both are occupied by occasion, friendship, affinity, and also crisis and the muted heroism that humans require of each other.
I don’t have time today to quote, nor even to situate the importance of, all thirteen of the citations offered “in place of a preface.” But in addition to the bit from Charles Olson that I just quoted, two others seem deftly pertinent to “We might say poetry.”
The first is from Edgar Anderson’s essay “The Considered Landscape”: “When we consider a landscape, what are we considering? Is it just what we see or is it something more — if so, what is that something more? What we see is a view, most certainly. When we talk about landscape, when we try to have a meeting of minds as to its various problems, there is more than the view itself. We are contemplating what is before us. The eye is seeing and the mind is perceiving. What we think, what we ask, what we investigate will depend upon how rich is the experience brought to bear on that contemplation. It is not only what we see, it is also what we see in it” (250).
The second is from an essay by a University of Kansas historian, James C. Malin, who died in 1979, two years after Catalpa was published. The four quoted lines in the poem — forming a staggered quatrain — are from Malin’s book titled The Grassland of America: Prolegomena to its History: “the dovetailing / or interlacing of ridges / no line on a map / can represent.” What Ken quotes in his “In Place of a Preface Text” is from another work by Malin, an essay titled “On the Nature of Local History”: “Every historical event must happen not anywhere, but in some particular place, at some point in space, in some locality or minimal unit of space in which its unique causal factors operate” (251).
The poem hints at the unrepresentability of poetry. Its opening gambit — its foray into offering an at least tentative description or definition of poetry, or of the saying of poetry — is truncated (and only obliquely returned to near the end of the poem, where our attention is directed to “the greenery of grass,” which is no sooner named than it becomes itself an instrument of truncation: it “is fence”).
“We might say poetry / as accumulation of specific,” but we don’t — at least not directly. The poet and his comrades talk instead “about the mind,” as a force that can be independent of the five perceiving senses, “a sixth sense.” Or perhaps it is more accurate to say that the poem turns into mind, not as an engine of reason but as a seat of affective intensity and corporeal liberty.
Some kind of epistemology is at stake here, but the knowledge it bears is not principally rational. The knowledge belongs, rather, to the world of emotion. And it exists as the halo of event and occasion. Irby’s poem — and his poetry more generally — is emotional even as it emanates austerity; it is certainly not sentimental.
As Charles Altieri, in his Particulars of Rapture argues, emotions come attached to stories; they have a past and a future. They are, in this, different from sensation, mood, or feeling. “Emotions are affects involving the construction of attitudes that typically establish a particular cause and so situate the agent within a narrative and generate some kind of action or identification.”
In the poem, I would argue, affect (or “we might say poetry”) — that which offers us, non-predatorily, a landscape that can be “ours clear up to the hillside” — is an emanation not of aesthetic feeling but of social emotion. This poem was born not in solitude but in company, and the poetics it realizes are a social poetics — a realization of lyric sociality, which far outdistances the lyric subjectivity that tends so tediously to inform conventional nature writing.
It is the camaraderie and the occasion that make the place Irby and his friend or friends venture into a landscape. Beyond that, they don’t touch a thing, though their conversation touches on many things.
And this brings me to the “the greenery of grass” that intrudes suddenly upon the musings the poem remembers. Those shared musings of the conversing friends can be said to be, like “the scatterings of trees / on hills like our own hill,” “unpredictable,” “dovetailing / or interlacing” in ways that “no line on a map [nor line of poetry] / can represent.” But the “greenery of grass” is a line. With the burning off of the morning mist, what becomes visible is not entirely landscape proper but also the landscaped. It is greenery rather than greenness of grass that is seen — lawn, hedging. It is as if, for an instant, the poet relives the historical change brought about by the imposition of land enclosure, when vast areas of forest and meadow that had for “time immemorial” been the shared landscape of everyday life were privatized, bringing about the end of the commons.
In the poem, the shock is muted — the privatization of land has become second nature. But nonetheless, the shock is registered, “cutting even the heart away.” This is one of the two central epistemological moments of the poem — and, though it comes at the end of the poem, it is, in fact, the first. It registers realization of loss and of the historical forces that caused it — call them early capitalism or human greed — and that have shrunk the horizons of possibility for the very kinds of comradeship that the poem takes as its original and creative terrain. In response, and retroactively, so to speak, the poem makes its assertion of camaraderie — insistence on the abiding truth of social subjectivity — and this establishes the second epistemological moment of the poem, as well as its ethical power.
This poem of Ken Irby’s has undeniable outward momentum. It is an account of thinking and talking into the distance, an ungrandiose — one might even say anti-grandiose — account of thought’s spatial and temporal sweep. But, after its last line, “We might say poetry” reaches back to what was in front of it, concerned certainly, rather than complacent, wanting to make sure that the humanity will last, and can find an answer to difficulties its own history throws at us.
For Ken Irby, in honor of his seventy-fifth birthday, in celebration of his seventy-five years
Lawrence, Kansas, November 5, 2011
2. Kenneth Irby, The Intent On: Collected Poems, 1962–2006 (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2009), 257. [Because “We might say poetry” appears on a single page, in-text citations have been left out of the main text. For all other references to The Intent On, page numbers are provided in parentheses. — Eds.]
6. “The Grasslands of North American” is also the title of the first poem in Catalpa; dedicated to the poet Bob Grenier, the second part of this two-part poem says “There must be in the juice / and flesh a same plain / as these, the same moving / wave as this grass // the body comes back to / only having heard as they say / only heard, by hearsay / and believed it” (253).
|October 18, 1936||Hears Duke Ellington’s band “from the womb” when parents Addison Craft and Dora Elizabeth Irby attend one of Ellington’s concerts at the Texas Centennial Exposition in Dallas.|
|November 18, 1936||
Born in Bowie, Texas, the second son of Addison Craft (physician) and Dora Elizabeth (nurse) Irby.
|March 1940||Irby family moves to Fort Scott, Kansas.|
|1954–58||Attends University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas, where he receives BA in history; invited to join Phi Beta Kappa Society; meets Edward Grier, professor of English and later acquaintance of Robert Duncan, Edward Dorn, Robert Creeley, and other poets in the New American Poetry milieu.|
|Summers 1955–57||Visits Mexico City, where he stays with older brother James, who is working toward a master’s degree at the National Autonomous University of Mexico.|
|1958–60||Attends graduate program in Far Eastern studies at Harvard University, where he begins to learn Chinese and Japanese, and receives MA.|
|March 1959||Meets Charles Olson in Grolier Bookstore, Cambridge, Massachusetts.|
|August 1960–August 1962||Drafted in the army; serves at Nevada Test Site, Albuquerque, New Mexico, and Johnston Island.|
|December 1960||Meets Ed Dorn in Santa Fe, New Mexico.|
|July 9, 1962||Witnesses the detonation of a W49 thermonuclear warhead 250 miles overhead, from the deck of an aircraft carrier, as part of the Starfish Prime high altitude nuclear test, nineteen miles southwest of Johnston Island.|
|1962–63||Briefly resumes graduate studies at Harvard before finally withdrawing from PhD program.|
|September 1962||Visits Charles Olson in Gloucester, Massachusetts, with Bob Grenier.|
|August 1963||Moves to Albuquerque, New Mexico.|
|Summer/Fall 1963||Begins regularly writing book reviews for Kulchur.|
|1963–64||Works as staff member, Sandia Corporation, Albuquerque, New Mexico.|
|1964||The Roadrunner Poem is published by Duende Press, Placitas, New Mexico.|
|September 1964||Moves to San Francisco, California.|
|January 1965||Moves to Berkeley, California.|
|Summer 1965||Works as store manager, Duncan MacAndrew, merchant tailors. Kansas–New Mexico is published by Dialogue Press, Lawrence, Kansas. Movements/Sequences is published by Duende Press, Placitas, New Mexico.|
|1967–68||Attends University of California, Berkeley, where he receives MLS.|
|1968||The Flower of Having Passed Through Paradise in a Dream: Poems 1967 is published by Matter Books, Annandale-on-Hudson, New York.|
|1969–71||Works as duplicating machine operator, Institute of Traffic and Transportation Engineering, University of California, Berkeley.|
|1970||Relation: Poems, 1965–66 is published by Black Sparrow Press, Los Angeles, California.|
|1971–73||Works as lecturer (one year), then assistant professor (one year), Tufts University, Medford, Massachusetts.|
|1971||To Max Douglas is published by Tansy Press, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|September 1, 1972||Meets eccentric prairie historian James C. Malin in Lawrence, Kansas, introduced by mutual friend, Michael Brodhead.|
|January 20, 1973||Meets pioneering cultural geographer Carl O. Sauer at the Alta Bates Hospital, Berkeley, California, introduced by mutual friend Bob Callahan.|
|Summer 1973||Vort 3 appears, dedicated to the work of Irby and David Bromige, with contributions from Don Byrd and Robert Creeley, among others.|
|1973–74||Works as visiting professor, Copenhagen University.|
|1974||To Max Douglas, second enlarged edition (including “Jesus” and “Delius”), with an introduction by Edward Dorn, is published by Tansy-Peg Leg Press, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|1974–75||Receives Fulbright travel grant. Returns to Tufts University, Medford, Massachusetts, as assistant professor.|
|1976–77||Returns to Berkeley, California. Archipelago is published by Tuumba Press, Willits, California. In Excelsis Borealis is published by White Creek Press, Cambridge, New York. For the Snow Queen is published by Tansy Press, Lawrence, Kansas (issued as Tansy 1).|
|January 1977||Returns to Fort Scott, Kansas, to assist his mother in the sale of the Eddy St. house.|
|June 1977||Moves to Lawrence, Kansas, with his mother. Catalpa: Poems, 1968–1973 is published by Tansy Press, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|1978||From Some Etudes is published by Tansy Press, Lawrence, Kansas (issued as Tansy 9).|
|February 1979||Credences 7 appears, “In Celebration of Kenneth Irby,” containing essays and prose reflections by David Bromige, Robert Kelly, Paul Metcalf, and George Quasha, among many others.|
|1981||Orexis is published by Station Hill Press, Barrytown, New York. Riding the Dog is published by Zelot Press, Greensburg, Pennsylvania (issued as The Zelot, no. 4).|
|1983||A Set is published by Tansy Press, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|1985||Works as lecturer in English, University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|March 1986||Delivers three lectures on Walt Whitman, Poetics Program, New College, San Francisco, California.|
|Spring 1992||Notus 10 appears, half of the issue dedicated to an overview of Irby’s writing, including both new and previously published poems, as well as two new essays over his work by Stephen Ellis and Edward Schelb, respectively. Calls Steps: Plains, Camps, Stations, Consistories is collaboratively published by Station Hill Press, Barrytown, New York, and Tansy Press, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|1994||Antiphonal and Fall to Fall is published by Kavyayantra Press, Boulder, Colorado.|
|1997||Appointed associate professor, University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas.|
|2001||Studies: Cuts, Shots, Takes — a notebook sequence, August–December 1999 is published by First Intensity Press, Lawrence, Kansas (issued as First Intensity Chapbooks no. 2). Ridge to Ridge: Poems 1990–2000 is published by Other Wind Press, Ann Arbor, Michigan.|
|2003||In Denmark: Poems 1973–74 is published in No: A journal of the Arts no. 2, New York, NY.|
|2009||The Intent On: Collected Poems, 1962–2006 is published by North Atlantic Books, Berkeley, California.|
|2010||Irby receives the Memorial Shelley Award (corecipient, with Eileen Myles) from the Poetry Society of America.|
|2012||Promoted to full professor, University of Kansas, Lawrence, Kansas.|
1. In the final lines of the poem beginning with the line “the Crystal Ballroom, Fargo, North Dakota,” Irby writes: “snow snow snow over Kansas / my unknown, my just before I was born country / my parents saw Ellington in Dallas in 1936 at the centennial / I heard him from the womb.” Kenneth Irby, The Intent On: Collected Poems, 1962–2006 (Berkeley: North Atlantic Books, 2009), 331. For information on Ellington’s participation in the centennial festivities, see: Dreck Spurlock Wilson, African American Architects: A Biographical Dictionary, 1865–1945 (New York and London: Taylor and Francis, 2004), 345, as well as A. H. Lawrence, Duke Ellington and His World (New York and Oxford: Taylor and Francis, 2003), 202, 345. One can also view three short films of the exposition (not Ellington’s performance, unfortunately) on the website of the Texas Archive of the Moving Image.
2. On the National Public Radio website, one can watch excerpts from the “Starfish Prime Test Interim Report by Commander JTF-8,” which include footage of the 1.4 megaton detonation, shot in Honolulu, almost 900 miles from the warhead’s launching point.
Homing in on Irbyland
Knowledge, Duncan McNaughton reminds us, is all of what one’s love becomes capable of.
— Kenneth Irby, from the introduction to Patrick Doud’s The Man in Green
Over the past half-century, Kenneth Irby’s writing has serially explored the contours and sundry habitations of what he calls the “spiritual landscape” (94) of the North American continent, seeking out and attending its “Lords of the Soil” (319) and “sustainers of the spirit” (91), its “Rock Chalk dogs” (306), “dark gods” (214), “dwellers of the dream” (306), and “mute attendant spirits [who] in-dwell” (331) the objects of his everyday life. Neither sentimental nor didactic, Irby’s poems are not content with a posturing of fictive subjectivities, or with a solipsistic confessionalism that posits distress as the measure of lyrical authenticity. Instead, his poems invest the quotidian with a luminescent majesty, taking “strength in very quiet great distances” (523), and making palpable “the temporary and altogether transitional affluence of life itself” (561) — a sense of “that endlessness of everyday / that is precisely eternity” (176). Because for Irby — and this point is perhaps most crucial in appreciating his work — the “spiritual landscape” is emphatically of this world, not an “illusory world” (95; 162); it is found, he explains, in “the precise landscape wherever we are, here and now” (93–4). Driven from the start by “the conviction that the landscape demands us, and reveals us” (94), Irby’s work has remained faithful to an investigation of this founding principle, a patent but enigmatic relation between bodies and landforms, wherefrom he sets off in “The Grasslands of North America,” one of his earliest published poems: “There must be in the juice / and flesh a same plain / as these, the same moving / wave as this grass // the body comes back to” (253–54). We find this demand renewed in his most recently published work: “though you think you’re there with people you know and love, and are” he writes in the prose poem “Visitations — Homage to Emerson,”
or how do you know they’re there and how do you know they
aren’t, never easily amazed, and by yourself, who is in there with
you, who do you keep true company with inside, not images but
known, or who is known except outside, and those you do not
know […] circumfused in air, into the dark time to come, […]
ricocheting trunk to trunk, leaf left to leaf to let go, you go find,
you go find, you go find
In their desiderata and “reach” — a word that appears more than seventy times in Irby’s catalog — his poems do not attempt to transcend, but more intimately to come to know the particulars of the localities we inhabit, “here and now,” as both interface and index of the human interior.
While the voice of Irby’s poems is musically distinct — who among his contemporaries, for instance, would write something like, “who gazes at the bottled horsehair in the sun / to be eel” (634)? — and their register percipient, discursive, and meticulous, the method whereby Irby’s poetic practice attains its knowledge happens also to be the overarching desire of his body of work: to love (a word that appears 214 times in his collected poems). “Love’s reality is to love,” Irby writes in an early preface to Movements/Sequences, “not to understand or change, only to love” (29). This yearning for a “[l]ove that invades everything — till it is / part of the body, not its object” (64) is Irby’s signature orexis (a word he chose as the title for a 1981 book) and it has been highlighted by a number of his most attentive readers. In her illuminating and compassionate essay “‘We might say poetry …,’” included in this feature, Lyn Hejinian cites “radiat[ing] love” as one of “at least three” central features of Irby’s writing — for, “in a powerful and positive sense,” Hejinian writes, “Irby is a poet of non-alienation.” Along similar lines, in an essay for the 1979 special issue of Credences, “In Celebration of Kenneth Irby,” George Quasha likens Irby’s “hunger … for the further present” to a Deleuzian sense of “Desire” which “is not born of need or a lack, but is productive of its own object, makes more world.” Irby’s is “an art of the potential actual,” Quasha writes, “an art within the virtualities of the possibly so.” At the other end of that decade, in a statement on Irby’s poetics for a special 1973 Kenneth Irby/David Bromige double feature of Vort, Robert Creeley announces that, “we will find a world only as [Irby] does, by loving it.”
Thus, in the time since Irby’s first mimeographed book, The Roadrunner Poem, was published by Larry Goodell’s Placitas-based Duende Press in 1964, when Irby’s poems were beginning to appear in magazines such as Matter and Wild Dog, alongside his many book reviews — the majority of which appeared in Kulchur, and which are the focus of Matt Hofer’s essay included here (and the matter of its cento) — Irby has shared (another favorite term) his love, “flung out” in over twenty books of poems. Along with additional unpublished material, these publications comprise Irby’s master opus, The Intent On: Collected Poems, 1962–2006, published by North Atlantic Books in 2009. The following year, Irby received the Poetry Society of America’s Shelley Memorial Award, placing him in the company of such luminaries as Marianne Moore, Kenneth Patchen, Muriel Rukeyser, Gwendolyn Brooks, and Michael Palmer, to name only a few.
If Irby appeared on the New American scene half a decade too late for Don Allen’s seminal anthology, it’s perhaps tempting to say he was half a decade too early for the Language movement. But such a dyadic assessment conforms to the pressures of pat critical classification at the expense of a more nuanced reading of the work. For while Irby’s early writing (up to the mid-1970s, say) reflects the influence of Charles Olson, Robert Duncan, Ed Dorn, and Robert Creeley (and his earliest work, some of which is reproduced here, recalls that of Robert Lowell and Wallace Stevens), the aural splendor of his writing from the late 1970s echoes the work of Louis Zukofsky, Robert Kelly, and José Lezama Lima. Note the “Etudes” section of Call Steps, for instance, which presents a “doughy” soundscape, studded with surreal curiosities (e.g., “face grave houndom into human hone” ), murky protean quatrains (e.g., “steps of the camp / mud element of trance / essence star of hippopotamus / walking the bottom of the river milk” ), and imaginal distillations, or sonic friezes, or whatever one wants to call something like this: “call snown draw cold moon sawm / comb new leaver lean / so shadows dough” (464). That we find praise of (and publishers for) Irby’s work spread across otherwise exclusive “school” lines — for example, among Black Mountaineers, like Creeley, Dorn, and Paul Blackburn; among innovators of the Deep Image, like Robert Kelly and Jerome Rothenberg; among a handful of early Language poets, like Lyn Hejinian, Ron Silliman, and Robert Grenier; among once-Beats, like Anne Waldman and Joanne Kyger; among the otherwise difficult to categorize, like Gerrit Lansing, Chuck Stein, Paul Metcalf, Thomas Meyer, Nathaniel Mackey, and Ammiel Alcalay; and among a handful of so-called “avant-garde” poets of a younger generation, like Dale Smith, Cyrus Console, Monica Peck, and Ben Lerner — attests to the extraordinary mutability of his register.
With Irby’s collected works in hand, new ways his poems trace mutually constitutive relationships between morphologies of place and self are revealed, and a comprehensive look at the recursive and reflexive nature of his life in print becomes possible for the first time. It has been, up to this point, the geographical elements of Irby’s writing that have dominated much of the scholarly attention it has received, and to a certain extent this remains the case with many of the essays gathered here. For Irby’s poems are preoccupied with questions of orientation and direction, and among his chief influences and allies are geographers and other practitioners of the cultural landscape, like Carl O. Sauer, James C. Malin, Bob Callahan, Michael Brodhead, and Edgar Anderson. As the essays by Denise Low and Lyn Hejinian point out, place names litter Irby’s “site-specific” poems — the third section of Kansas–New Mexico, for example, lists the counties and townships one passes through traveling southwest across Kansas — and many of his books’ titles appropriate geographical terms: e.g., Archipelago; Call Steps: Plains, Camps, Stations, Consistories; Ridge to Ridge; In Denmark; Riding the Dog; etc.
Scrolling over The Intent On, we find Irby’s line ranging from the tight “derringer” couplets of To Max Douglas — which recall, in form and theme, H.D.’s The Walls Do Not Fall, as much as they do Olson’s breath-broken flow — to the multijointed, hyperextended utterance, full of hyphenated nomenclature (redolent of Navajo poetries) and syntactic involutions, which characterizes his more recent collections, such as Call Steps and Ridge to Ridge. On the whole, the line appears to have lengthened with age — note the oversized page of Call Steps, or the enormously oversized 35 x 44 centimeter dimensions of A Set — and though it’s in his 1977 collection Catalpa that we find “September,” the only short story Irby has ever published, his metrics expand into the prose poem more and more frequently in the work of the past decade. No matter the fluctuations in line or subject, however, Irby continues to weave his peculiar phrasing and lexicon into a vast “mycelium mat” (212) of recurring tropes and images. As signposts along Irby’s “discontinuous / dendritic narrative of a journey” (288), these details are invested with the plural significance familiar objects obtain through watchful and loving persistence — a homing effect that poet Cyrus Console (a former student of Irby’s) notes with regard to the seemingly cryptic aspects of Irby’s work: “All items in the richness of his routines,” Console observes, “in them, the work emits a special sense of company, even its recondite elements, even if they remain obscure, some are insistently so, they grow personal, demonstratively familiar.” So for all its hermetic reverberations, Irby’s poetry is also fundamentally concerned with the materiality of its language, with sharing a realm of awareness in which ideas are not just in, but also are, things. The elongation of Irby’s line is one indication of this interest, and while his early work enumerates locational data — attuned to the outdoor landscape’s areal particulars — his later work rigorously explores what Dale Smith calls the “self-imposed distances” of an indoor and “extraordinarily private” stanzaic space that is, Ben Friedlander writes, “at once expansive and compressed.”
In addition to the lengthening of Irby’s line, we can identify three formal tendencies that characterize its construction. First, Irby employs idiosyncratic (not arbitrary) punctuation, often making use of a Dickinsonian dash (particularly in his letters), and — as Low notes in her examination of the graphical elements in his work — his writing almost totally avoids the full stop. Second, Irby has a large, unconventional, often weird vocabulary, which includes a talismanic penchant for what poet Peter Longofono’s essay calls “word-smelting” — examples of which include, “densefulness” (534), “underfingernailfleshed” (428), “interinterventions” (531), “unthunder” (429), and so on — as well as the epical epithetic constructions we encounter in “In Memorium — Sam Thomas,” for example: “Sam Thomas, Instructor of the Night Mind, Missouri Traveler, and Conundrumist of terrible intelligence — Self Destroyer […] He Who Throws Dust Into His Own Eyes […] The Preacher, The Whisperer, the Voice of the Blind Lizard” (277). And third, one of the most recognizable features of Irby’s elegantly circuitous line, is its abundance of prepositions, and a preference for placing them at the ends of their phrases (as in the title of his collected poems), thus concocting hinges, swings and slides, interleaved ambiguities between the lines. Navigating these syntactical twists and turns is the poetical equivalent of ascending Magritte’s staircase in “Forbidden Literature (The Use of the Word)” — painted the year of Irby’s birth — straight into a wall. But in doing so, one is alternately made aware of the pleasure in fluctuations of syntax alone — no longer as a means of conveyance, but an experience of its own duration. Whether Irby’s prepositions function as orientational markers, directives, or load-bearing beams — e.g., “finding a front porch down the road to get up on to out of the rain” — the dense syntactical patterns they construct require cat-like agility on the part of the reader to bolt and bounce around the stanzaic field:
Then take up the empery and the dominion and return them
as the rabbits at the salt lick take what is left for the deer
and the long stare back into the woods for the others
The water that is in the sky and the land and the hand
pass on in one direction West with the eagles
and with the spin of blackbirds back against the other
And you are the continuance and the impress and the delivery
and the indication, the in and the from and the pre and the to (548–49)
Thus with the lineal solder of conjunction, hyphen, and preposition, Irby administers a reading experience as rewarding as it is (and because it is) demanding, forcing the reader to find her own way through the musical thicket, which is an empowering allowance: “what in the path passes between the pather and the pathing, or in the reading,” Irby asks in “[Visitations],” and “who else, always another might, always the who else” (545).
In Irby’s work of the late 1970s and after, the investment in a grammatical disorientation so extreme its unpredictability attains an order of immediacy, commensurate with the actual, is paradoxically accomplished by interrupting the reading experience, emphasizing the poem’s mediated-ness. This interruption also bodies forth a peculiar form of presence, sometimes achieved through ludic, “concrete” effects. What occupies the “gap of remembrance” in the poem below, for instance, when the senses are scrambled into synesthesia?
between what is seen (heard)
and what is seen (heard)
what is ( )
or didn’t never so much pay attention to as change back and forth with,
someplace else (470)
Reminiscent of John Cage (cf. the preface of Irby’s Movements/Sequences: “as now the cars’ sounds out these windows …” ), this typographical riddle leaps off the page at its unwitting reader. Reimagining the poem as an interactive event (as Hejinian does), and reading (like writing) as a “formative activity,” Irby’s overhaul of readerly attention engineers a constantly renewable present in which “the time in the poem … becomes the time of the poem.” And these uroboric suspensions and reflexive cantilevers of syntax that dislocate the reader in one context — like “the driver” in “[Visitations],” who “thought he was going around and around himself in the dark” (545) — enchant her in another, with the fluvial grace of a line that compelled Ron Silliman to declaim Irby’s “ear” the finest among his contemporaries. In this way, Irby’s lyric envisions a new kind of polis founded and inhabited in the intimate distance of reading, as the opening poem of The Flower of Having Passed Through Paradise in a Dream announces: “of / Relation / & of that City / where all our meeting lies / As has been said: / the Nation can only come into being / but the City we may / found / Between us / Here & Now, as we read / these words” (159–60).
In “Homage,” the final poem in The Intent On, the vast body of Irby’s work comes rhizomatically to indwell the lyric’s ascetic compression. The poem is a kind of summary koan concluding the preceding volume’s compendious response to the call to “find the Secret History of your Self, wherein you live, which is more vast and great than any Shell or Strife you know” (305):
You will not always walk in the rain
on a May morning
or see the iris in bloom
before you give a final
on a campus where you were young and took them
longer ago than you will live after (672)
“Homage” quietly invokes the lived material gathered in the volume at the end of which it appears by negatively reinforcing its content and transporting the reader to a moment previous to its production. Within the poem’s six lines we encounter three versions of Irby in the voice of one — KU undergraduate, KU professor, and future anterior poet-speaker. And just as the “I” who utters the poem and the “you” to whom it speaks stand on either side of the selfsame, unenunciated antecedent, so the phantom “I” that cleaves intention into intent on also serves as the object of the title’s truncated predicate: intent on ... what? Intent on seeking out a self “lost on off / in those steep and wandering canyons,” a self momently retrieved in and through the lifelong practice of daily writing.
In its return to the familiar, “Homage” demonstrates a means to home — i.e., to return to after a long time away; to move toward with great accuracy and determination; to focus attention on. “To return / to the recognition / without remembering,” Irby writes in “[nostos • kuboå],” combining an instructive distance with the notion of a renewable, transitory, timeshare-self: “you have to become / a stranger / to have / a homecoming” (654). Here home, as a noun, is haunted by the trace of the passage that’s an essential component of its verb form, and it must first be set at a distance (from distancia, “to stand apart”), in order to be reinserted into a network of animate relations. Homecoming and homage — terms for desire’s systolic and diastolic motions in Irby’s writing — not only proffer ways of going home, but are also modes of inhabiting it: “home itself is an organ of perception” (568), Irby writes in Studies. And if poetry is, as it was for Olson, a personal form of public allegiance — a crossing-over of thresholds opposing individual to collective desire, or the company of the living to that of the dead — then we might say all of Irby’s poems are forms of homage. In its original, feudal usage, “homage” was related to the landscape’s hierarchical enclosure, and referred to the allegiance of a subject to an “artificial” lord, or landlord. But in Irby’s “Homage” we encounter an intrasubjective plurality, a form of what Hejinian calls “lyric sociality,” wherein the distance between “I” and “you” collapses into an omnipresence, an overmind.
Seeking a mode of “all attention,” Irby’s work inhabits an interrogatory dimension, where established facts lose traction, where certainty lies only in the shifting of relations, where distance is the impetus and guage of desire, where gaps are interstitial, and where “home” is, like love, a habitation, a form of dwelling, a place always in the making. Amid these Steinian waters, it’s the reader’s job to map her own relations: “so the word is passed on,” Irby writes in Call Steps, “and equally not known / till how much later, the thrill of recognizing can still be known” (423). While repetition and reflexivity facilitate the “thrill of recognizing” — a thrill shared outside conventional modes of sociality, but within language’s storehouse of experience — uncertainty forms the groundwork of Irby’s poetic logic. “[H]aving come to this meadow,” he writes in “Point Reyes Poem,” “there is only the uncertainty of all purpose” (138). In this way, Irby’s poetics of “non-alienation” closely resemble the “open form” poetics of Robert Duncan, which value process, inquiry, accumulation, dissonance, and the materiality of the poem’s “matter” over and above the abstraction of an authentic, or “true,” expressive “self,” lurking beneath the recto: “I read and write,” Duncan writes in his essay, “The ‘Self’ in Postmodern Poetry,” “gathering darkness, I would say, deepening the rift. Here, this matter of self must be seen not as undergoing change — the word itself is in question. But I work only in question; mine is a questionable work.”
Irby’s “questionable work,” like Duncan’s, seeks the “transvaluation,” as opposed to the “overthrow” of this “matter,” lodged everywhere around us — in overheard speech, in non sequiturs and tangent associations, in fleeting physical sensations, whatever the poem brings, or is brought, to one’s awareness during its composition. The poet must learn to hear “the importance of whatever happens in the course of writing as revelation,” Duncan insists, “not from an unconscious, but from a spiritual world.” Duncan’s notion of a “spiritual world” that assails the poem at the time of its making is also instructive for an understanding of the “spiritual landscape” Irby designates as the terrain of his own poetic endeavor. For Irby and Duncan both, the “spiritual” describes an amplified presentness, “here and now,” attained through writing as a process of selection and sensitization — an enhanced sense of being in, not outside, time, of being in the world, living with other things. One task of The Intent On, then, is to pursue vivifying lines of inquiry and relation, e.g.: “did Pike read Boehme?” (501) or, “What good does it do / to talk to the dead? — those who are / the removed from human communion, Duncan said” (194). In order to “stay fresh” at the door of one’s experience, as Olson encourages in his essay “Human Universe,” to tune into those radio waves Spicer described, “where [one] is responsible to more than [oneself],” the poet must remain in the grip of questions, a mode of intensified listening. At this crossroads, we find Irby entreating: “Where do you go now?” This interrogative “yearning” compels much of his writing: “tonight I go home to Berkeley,” Irby confesses in “The Brief Connection,” “there is the question still of cause” (107). Thankfully, the question prefigures a mystery always running on beyond us, out into the margin, over onto the next line, there to reach to all the way back of “the Lore,” into the love itself, “till it is / part of the body, not its object”: “To make sure you never forget in your prosperity the misery and destitution that brought you here and those who shared it with you, the compassion that created you,” Irby writes in “[Notes],” “And when you have remembered and have restored, to disappear again” (660). Such is the rocking rhythm of Irby’s homing process, wherein “we are not at home if we are not at rest / going and coming in” (142).
Irby’s actual home is Kansas, the “centrum pocket of the continent” (306) where his family settled when he was three — in Fort Scott, having moved north from Texas — and where he currently resides, in Lawrence, home to the University of Kansas, where he received a History BA in 1958, and where he returned to teach in 1985, first as a lecturer, and, as of 2012, a full professor (in spite of the fact he holds no PhD, nor any degree at all in his field of appointment). As the chronology included in this feature illustrates, in the two decades between 1958 and 1977, when he returned to Fort Scott to assist his mother in selling the family home, Irby travelled extensively throughout the North American and European continents, living for extended periods of time in Albuquerque, Boston, the Bay Area, and Copenhagen. But “no matter how far his body wanders,” Dorn notes in his introduction for To Max Douglas, “he never wanders. […] Irby has stayed with the materia” (184). Kansas — “forever at the heart of things” (207), forever in “the torrent of the boundary” (525) — remains always on the way to the other coast, always in the in-between, always “the who else.” This Janus condition — often represented in Irby’s poetry by the Chinese character “hsin 心 the heart / that is the mind, as the Zohar / also knows them one” (207) — becomes the model for a doubled cleaving that the work effects wherever its gaze alights. Take the closing lines of “Notes II,” for example, which recall the Korean War of Irby’s adolescence — “I watched that push toward Pusan / in maps in the Kansas City Times / hoping we’d be shoved shitfaced / into the sea.” Here, Irby sets the gauge of a lifelong pursuit to lovingly (i.e., not militantly) take a landscape, in order to ever have a home to return to: “war I knew came home along the corridors of high school,” he writes, “landscape I would have to take / to ever come home // all was at war, but I was not a warrior” (276–77). By the time the second edition of To Max Douglas was published in 1974, Irby had roamed to the “edge of the continent” and back again — all the way back to Scandinavia — and had, in the eyes of those peers he most respected, sufficiently taken his place. Indeed, so much so that Robert Duncan, for example, referred to Kansas as “Irbyland,” and Ed Dorn, in a 1971 poem entitled, “an œcological prophecy,” which plays on a John Wayne line from Red River (i.e. “gesturing / toward Texas says: // Someday thatll all be Beef!”), writes: “… Gestures / twrd Kansas / Someday thatll all be Kenneth Irby.” A decade later, when Dorn delivered the Charles Olson Memorial Lectures at SUNY Buffalo, he thanked “longtime associate and geographer, Ken Irby,” among a short list of persons, all of whom, save Irby, were in attendance.
It was Charles Olson, in Call Me Ishmael, who took “SPACE” to be the “first fact” confronting man in America, announcing that, “the fulcrum of America is the plains, half sea half land, […]. Some men ride on such space, others have to fasten themselves like a tent stake to survive.” In her essay in this feature, Denise Low argues that Irby has both dug in and mounted, that he wanders from his staked plains on a very long lead, treading a littoral circumference. For example, while the poems of Irby’s 1977 collection, Catalpa, are arranged according to their place of composition — namely, Berkeley or Boston — all motions “in the whirlpool of the continent” swirl back to Kansas, and along the heart-shaped arc of Catalpa Irby begins to turn “back / where he had begun” (like Ledyard, Escalante, Cabeza de Vaca, and other journeyers who haunt the book), to complete another of the “great / circles” that The Intent On cartographically inscribes (123). The fact that Kansas receives no section title in Catalpa is a strategic omission, for it occupies an absent-present “centrum” in the book — just as it does on the continent, where it forms the shallow basin that once cradled the late Cretaceous Western Interior Ocean, the decayed benthic fauna of which enriched its “breadbasket” fifteen feet of loam.
Whereas Berkeley and Boston are the endpoints of two of its transcontinental spokes, Kansas is the “fulcrum” of “the Great Wheel of the Plains / [that] turns under Fort Scott” (266), and it’s the mandrel of Catalpa in a literal sense, as well. Home to John Moritz’s Tansy Press, the town is the site of the book’s publication, and as such its name appears on the title page, anchoring an overarching, ventricular sense of place. In all, eight of Irby’s books have been published by Lawrence-based presses, six of those by Tansy, starting with the first edition of To Max Douglas, in 1971. Meanwhile, the covers of both To Max Douglas and Catalpa feature Lawrence-based artist Lee Chapman’s sunflower drawing, displayed on the homepage of this feature, which Irby has adopted as a kind of signature crest, including it on the title page of nearly every book since. Chapman is also the founder and editor of First Intensity, which, as a press, published Irby’s Studies in 1999, and as a (now defunct) journal of the same name, featured more of Irby’s writing than any other magazine to date.
A number of the essays gathered in this feature locate a shift in the attentions of Irby’s work that roughly coincides with his moving back to Fort Scott in 1977. This makes sense, in part, because there have been few critical assessments of Irby’s career since the late 1970s — but in those that do exist, this transition has been inadequately considered. “Some people have accused me of writing about a place in a poem only when I’m not there,” Irby told an interviewer in the mid-1980s, “which is something we’ve all experienced.” Posing as an analytical deduction, this accusation repeats a given of the work without bothering to engage it, and operates under an impoverished concept of place that overlooks important features of Irby’s “spiritual landscape.” It ignores the fact that longing, daydreaming, what-have-you, is as much a fact of its place of origin as any other felt quality that place possesses, and, therefore constitutes a specific and unique relation, that reveals as much about the context it reaches from (“here and now”), as the one it reaches to. This flexion is apparent in the boomeranging dedication of Studies, which hurls us wide from the ledge of Mount Oread, “After, from, and back to / the California friends // and all the friends” (564). As Joe Harrington’s essay keenly observes: “The personal and historical, pastoral and epic, are never very far apart[.]” Indeed, the focus on household minutiae in Studies, for example, is not a departure but an expansion of Irby’s “pastoral” condition. That our local histories, full of affinities, are the grist of our big History, welds pastoral to epic and forms one of the central convictions of The Intent On — a conviction earlier articulated by Kansas historian James C. Malin: “Every historical event must happen,” Malin argues, “not anywhere, but in some particular place, at some point in space, in some locality or minimal unit of space in which its unique causal factors operate. Thus, no matter how closely welded the much publicized one world may become, people will still live and have their being in local space.” S0, while it’s true the word “Kansas” disappears from Irby’s catalog in early 1977 — its final mention in a poem written on April 8, included in the “Heredom” section of Orexis, just three months after Irby returned to Fort Scott — this absence is only nominal, for the energy of the place has otherwise dissolved into the fiber of Irby’s pastoral attention, characterized by its “feeling of great closeness with the vegetation lived among — an ecological calm … [that] enacts a state of consciousness or awareness, eternally and recurringly common to human beings, every day, every life” (94).
That Irby’s unique practice of the poem appeals to a wide variety of readers and writers is demonstrated by the diverse group of contributors to this feature, all of whom agree, however, that his work deserves far more attention than it has received: from Dale Smith, whose essay treats Irby’s poetics of “homecoming,” and drawing on Kenneth Burke’s notion of a “qualitative progression of formal appeal,” explores the “problem of perspective” in Ridge to Ridge; to Joe Harrington, who compares Irby’s work with that of Ronald Johnson, another Kansas poet of his generation, locating a decisive shift in the scope of Irby’s “pastoral” gaze; to Andrew Schelling, who contemplates the function of that gaze in Catalpa, as well as in Irby’s abundant and endearing correspondence; to Lyn Hejinian, who identifies an “intimacy of address” and a “site-specific” orientation as two of the chief signatures running throughout Irby’s profoundly magnanimous oeuvre; to Pierre Joris, who tracks the nomadic impulses and “ghostings” of Old World literary traditions throughout Irby’s career, envisioning a transatlantic communion in the music of Delius and Duke Ellington “upwelling” between his musical lines; to Denise Low, who, drawing on her knowledge of Native American symbologies, catalogs the graphical elements in The Intent On, and extends her investigation into Irby’s notebooks and personalized flyleaf inscriptions; to Matt Hofer, who surveys Irby’s abundant book reviews and “evaluative criticism,” which, over the course of his career, have provided Irby a transformative space, Hofer argues, in which he’s sculpted and refined his own poetic sensibility, and sworn his aesthetic allegiances; to Robert Grenier, whose dynamic, polymorphous prose-poem/memoir celebrates, as it interrogates, the notion of friendship at the pith of Irby’s life and writing; to Aldon Nielsen, who focuses on Irby’s career (alongside David Bromige’s) at the moment of To Max Douglas, in the fissure that divides the waning organic lyricism of New American poetics, from the emergent, politically engineered assays of the Language poets; to Robert Bertholf, who provides a comprehensive overview of Irby’s career and the evolution of his poetics of ensoulment; and, finally, to Ben Friedlander, who identifies three central “principles” — accretion, crossing, and experience — through which Irby’s writing seeks to fuse artistic production with everyday activity, and who proposes a shift in Irby’s catalog from the exploitation of “narrative and thematic” attributes of the poem, to the exploration of “formalist” techniques for rendering the intrapersonal “complexities” exhibited in his more recent work.
In addition to these insightful and most welcome contributions to the slowly growing body of critical scholarship on Irby’s poetics, this feature also contains a number of other pieces that help to illuminate the larger impact of his career. Like the pieces mentioned above, a number of these additional items appear here for the first time. A group of Irby’s former students — Jeff Bergfalk, Cyrus Console, Peter Longofono, Monica Peck, and myself — have contributed reflections on him as a teacher, a mentor, and a friend. The selection of Irby’s correspondence with Ed Dorn — modest as it is — nonetheless marks the first time a selection of Irby’s letters have been made available. Likewise, of the nineteen uncollected poems included in this feature, fourteen are first published here, and those remaining are reprinted for the first time since they initially appeared in various literary journals with relatively limited distribution in the 1960s and early 1970s. Finally, the detailed chronology of Irby’s life to this point is the first of its kind, and serves as a useful companion for The Intent On, while almost all of the photographs sprinkled throughout this feature (most of which come from Irby’s private collection), also appear here exclusively.
As a poet of exceptional ability and integrity, Irby has remained (to borrow a phrase from Donald Wesling, writing about Ed Dorn), “nomadic and marginal in the circumstances of personality and publishing.” Admirable as these qualities are, like Irby’s commitment to living in the marginal “centrum” of the continent, they have been accomplished at the expense of the broader readership that his work undoubtedly deserves. Writing at the tail end of the 1970s, Jed Rasula summarized “the problem of Irby’s reputation”:
He is probably the least anthologized significant poet around, for one thing.
The largest printing of one of his books was RELATION, with something
under 800. Probably his largest exposure was his repeated appearance in
CATERPILLAR. In certain respects his career is comparable to those of
his two closest (in temperament) contemporaries, Ed Dorn and Robert
Kelly — up to a point, that is.
To look back to 1965, from this faraway perspective, I find Irby the
more accomplished poet. He had three books out by then; Dorn had three;
Kelly a few more, but not much. All three had more or less laid their rails
by 1965 and were on the verge, or so it seemed, of large-scale work. The
next five or six years made that point abundantly clear, with Dorn’s NORTH
ATLANTIC TURBINE, GUNSLINGER I–II, BY THE SOUND, SOME
BUSINESS RECENTLY TRANSACTED IN THE WHITE WORLD and
numerous broadsides and pamphlets. Some of Kelly’s most remarkable
work was also published during the later sixties […] and in 1971 […]. And
what about Irby? Only THE FLOWER OF HAVING PASSED THROUGH
PARADISE IN A DREAM, not much to show. There was some catching up
in 1970 and 1971 with RELATION and TO MAX DOUGLAS, but I sense that
it was perhaps too late for any sense of continuity to develop between the
publications and thus sustain a real reading of Irby’s work. The early books
were never really “available,” and even now my writing of this essay was
hampered by my inability to get a copy of KANSAS–NEW MEXICO. I drag
all these material facts out here simply to show that, through whatever accident
of publishing history, Irby has for years been less well known than his immediate
contemporaries, and that the situation is not likely to be corrected for some time,
despite the presence now of CATALPA. […] So while Irby is not exactly a
“fugitive” poet, it remains difficult simply to sit down and read the 200 or so
existing pages of his work.
If North Atlantic’s 2009 publication of The Intent On remedies the core problem Rasula identifies — the unavailability of Irby’s books — then a critical valuation of this impressive collected body of work is now overdue. Working in that direction, this feature builds on the contributions of those journals that have dedicated past issues to Irby’s writing and to scholarship thereof: the 1973 Irby/Bromige double feature of Barry Alpert’s magazine, Vort, marked the first time that scholarship specifically addressing Irby’s work appeared in print (aside from books reviews), and was followed by Credences 7, “In Celebration of the Work of Kenneth Irby,” in 1979, and Notus 10, in 1992. Overall, the present feature not only intends to celebrate Irby’s ongoing yet underappreciated achievement as a poet and a teacher, and to introduce a larger audience to his writing, but also, by linking his achievement to the work of other poets — both forebears of the craft, like Whitman, and contemporaries in the field, like Ronald Johnson — and by proposing strategies and frameworks for comprehending and assessing his body of work, for mapping its trends and identifying its major shifts, this feature hopes to situate Irby’s remarkable career at the forefront of the “experimental” and lyrical traditions in post-WWII American poetry. Lastly, on this tragically misused continent, bombarded by a civilization that values overproduction and “the spotlessness of their records,” as Cyrus Console has written, “over that of their consciences,” Irby’s “strength in very quiet great distances,” his lovingly defiant kingdom of birdsong fandango garlic dream affection, and the “green crystal craze in [the] veins” (66), is a region from which we would benefit immensely by visiting more often. In the spirit of that generosity, then, let this feature be a guide for going there, “here and now.”