Poetry Review of London was for many years a magazine that specialized in publishing poems that were not only conservative but were indeed themselves about the campaign that would have to be waged in order to save poetry from both the modern sensibility and poetry's entanglements with leftism.
In a 1950 issue of the magazine**, we find a two-line ditty by one P.E.B. Canny. It's title is "Nineteen Thirty-Seven." This is 1950 so we already have a sense of its skepticism or distaste. 1937: yuck. Can't be good. Indeed, the poem's two lines run as follows:
Can there be worse Than this extra-Auden-airy verse?
I use del.icio.us to preserve my bookmarks. I recommend it. Since they are on the web, I can review them anywhere, from any machine. Of course I can also share them. If you don't have the time for blogging but want others to get your recommendations for sites, documents, pages, photos, etc., set yourself up with del.icio.us and then create an RSS feed, so that people can receive notifications of your new bookmarks, just as RSS notifies people of new blog entries. Web 2.0 at its best, I think.
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'the inner fragmentation/destruction triumphs over lives which end up in rooms to die more so than heal, especially at the back wings, a mock freedom of soul, where "nothing/ will grow" and "cinders lie" -- ashes to ashes dust to dust -- a mirror of industrial us, perhaps -- a snapshot of the imagination'
'I liked the almost petulant flavor of his home-recorded reading: he projects the word “nothing” as if he wanted it to be an object . . . a "something" beyond him. “Broken” and “bottle” are flung far enough from the body so they could stand off and judge it; or rather, not even that far—it’s more like spit in the wind. (Cf. Marinetti, whose flung words transform the provincially trapped poet, merging into an international technosphere.) The poets had a good laugh at the improbability of doing a podcast devoted to Paterson: Do it!'
down with 1937
In a 1950 issue of the magazine**, we find a two-line ditty by one P.E.B. Canny. It's title is "Nineteen Thirty-Seven." This is 1950 so we already have a sense of its skepticism or distaste. 1937: yuck. Can't be good. Indeed, the poem's two lines run as follows:
Can there be worse
Than this extra-Auden-airy verse?
** vol 41, no. 2, p. 64
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need more memory, fewer memorials
Ingratitude
Still gets to me, the unfairness
and waste of survival; a nation
with so many memorials but no memory.
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a mirror of industrial us
'the inner fragmentation/destruction triumphs over lives which end up in rooms to die more so than heal, especially at the back wings, a mock freedom of soul, where "nothing/ will grow" and "cinders lie" -- ashes to ashes dust to dust -- a mirror of industrial us, perhaps -- a snapshot of the imagination'
Joe Milutis, over at New Jersey As an Impossible Object, had this to say, in part:
'I liked the almost petulant flavor of his home-recorded reading: he projects the word “nothing” as if he wanted it to be an object . . . a "something" beyond him. “Broken” and “bottle” are flung far enough from the body so they could stand off and judge it; or rather, not even that far—it’s more like spit in the wind. (Cf. Marinetti, whose flung words transform the provincially trapped poet, merging into an international technosphere.) The poets had a good laugh at the improbability of doing a podcast devoted to Paterson: Do it!'
For more of Joe, go here.