One Poet's Garden

One Poet's Garden One Poet's Garden

I carry my darkness with me now. And my silence: earbuds block any loud noises. I use them to play quiet, calming sounds...
07/09/2024

I carry my darkness with me now. And my silence: earbuds block any loud noises. I use them to play quiet, calming sounds. Translations of Hafiz, read in the voice of an Australian Buddhist nun, with soft flute and strings playing in the background.

She almost whispers, in her serene meditative voice:

"Be like Hafiz: Get up and make an effort.
He who throws himself at the Beloved’s feet
is like a workhorse
and will be rewarded
with boundless pastures."

If you saw me trying to follow that advice, you'd shake with laughter, like Budai, a thousand years ago. For your humble gardener-poet now cuts a fantastical, outlandish figure, like a character from an eccentric old novel. Big, floppy hat, almost a desert sombrero, or the white headgear of an amazon explorer, to block out the sun. A blue satin headband, cut from a do rag and tied. Earbuds, and very dark wraparound sunglasses. An old white long sleeve tuxedo shirt, which has seen better days. And white golfing pants, with stretch-cling cuffs, to keep the creeping critters at bay. It's summer, and burning, in Washington. They say we'll get to 96 today.

I last posted over a month ago. That was a couple weeks after 'the great avalanche,' when a whole collection of household objects, including an Italian espresso machine, fell on my head as James and I worked, leaving me with post-concussion syndrome. That post was mostly a cry for help. Folks responded, and I sent it to Daniel, #5 son, who just graduated from med school. He called his mother, and she had me in front of a doctor the next day, and a neurologist the day after.

The neurologist changed the diagnosis to Severe Post Concussion Syndrome after reading the post, and asking permission to share it with his colleagues. He started telling me about my future, how my brain would be like this for weeks or months, if I was lucky. For some people, it goes on longer than months, as some folks reading this will know all too well. And he told me "No exercise, as that leads to relapse."

"Can I at least garden?" He told me I could sit out there, but only do small things. "So I can garden until I start feeling bad?" He said I should stop way before I start feeling it, and if I didn't stop then, I would lengthen my recovery, or even make things worse. OK, I said, well, I've built a weight room in the basement. It's cool, and out of the sun. Can I at least still do some lifting?

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to. The look in his eyes told me I wasn't comprehending, and I understood it would be a long time before I started lifting again. "Drink lots of water, stay in the cool-quiet-dark, and give yourself permission to simply rest."

Easier said then done, when the garden's dying. It's been hot, and very dry. Lawns and trees all over town are suffering. All my plans for the food forest in the lower garden are on hold. I can barely even keep the fruit trees, still in their pots, well-watered. Any plans for the main garden are paused as well: I can neither w**d or plant. It's usually viridic chaos out there, but at least the chaos was ordered.

Not that I haven't tried. Kate calls me 'her stubborn mule,' showing her usual insight. And I got frustrated, and decided to at least plant out eight grape vines. I took it slow and easy: dug holes for the 10 foot posts - I'm planning a shaded arbor pathway from the dovecote down to the food forest - then dry poured the concrete, carted in some compost and got the vines planted at their bases. Lentement, lentement: just that little bit took me four days, with much resting. I was happy to at least get something done.

The next morning, I donned my equipment and went to check on the vines. Gone! The deer had found those soft, greenhouse grown leaves quite tasty. I was overcome with anger, even though I'd been told to keep my emotions in check, that I'd have irrational thoughts and feelings, but shouldn't indulge them, they were just symptoms of the syndrome.

But my grapevines were gone, and I needed a fence. That part wasn't irrational. I'd taken it slow and easy with the arbor. I'd just be careful. I dug a hole for a gate post, and then started digging down the line. I was on the second one when the post hole digger hit a large rock, about a foot down. No problem, I've got a heavy iron digging bar. I lifted it up, and drove it down, hoping to split the rock. The stone was as stubborn as I am, so I lifted the bar again. And again. Each time it struck the stone, my whole body shook. It felt as if even my brain shook as the rock finally broke, and suddenly my world was filled with white light. Luckily, I had a good hold on the digging bar, so I didn't fall. After a few minutes, I was even able to walk a few steps, and sat near the dovecote in the shade. And I realized the fence, and everything else, would have to wait.

So that's where I am now: sitting, waiting. Old friends write me, worried, but I don't dare respond. "My mind's not right," as the poet said. The few times I've tried, I've said the wrong things. I accidently offended someone, in spite of my best intentions. If you've been patiently waiting for a response, please forgive this delay.

It's frustrating. I've always had a good memory, it's my only virtue. Pulling allusions and references out of thin air, and building something with them, is my only talent. But now all that's on hold. I reach out into the air, and nothing comes to my grasp. Yesterday, an old poet friend came up in conversation. I remembered her first name, and her poems, but her last name escaped me for many hours. I wept for her - she passed away a few years ago - and for my memory. "Calm yourself, William. You can't let your emotions go feral. It's just the syndrome. You need to heal."

So if you're wandering down the Rachel Carson Nature Trail, and see an odd character, all dressed in white against the heat and sun, wearing a big floppy hat and dark sunglasses, looking a little lost, It's probably me.

But there's also good news here. Last fall, Kate said "We should both lose weight before Daniel's wedding in August." Yes, I said, standing tall as a big strong man tipping the scale at 260. And yesterday, the scale said 194. I've had to buy all new clothes, in despite of Thoreau's warning. Now I'll be grocery shopping -minus the hat and headband, of course, and suitably dressed - or just walking along the street in my aviator sunglasses, and strangers will stop me to tell me how good I look. Women and men both. "Strong look, bro," one said, as Kate and I strolled a Bethesda sidewalk.

It's oddly gratifying: yes, I'm idle and mindless, with a completely empty head, but at least I look good... ;)

It ain't all water lilies and red roses around these parts. Sometimes I think I should rename the house from "Les Naiade...
05/22/2024

It ain't all water lilies and red roses around these parts. Sometimes I think I should rename the house from "Les Naiades" to "Chaos Manor."

James and I spent the better part of an hour just trying to clear the pantry shelves enough to get the dryer and clothes washer out so the repair guy could work on them. I love my darling bride, but she's a bit of a hoarder. Between her New England frugality, and her Depression Era mother, she comes by it honestly.

I can relate: I can still remember tossing an old, bent nail, and having my father say "That's a perfectly good piece of metal!" I still find it hard to throw away something that might be useful in the future. And inevitably, if I do chuck something, I always wish I still had it three days later.

So the pantry shelves were stuffed to overflowing. Landslides are a constant hazard. By the time we'd cleared those shelves back to their original 27 1/2 inches, the kitchen and dining room were cluttered to the point of impassibility. But at least we now had access!

I unscrewed the connecting bracket, and off came the dryer. It was lighter than I'd remembered, and only 24 inches deep. James and I had no trouble picking it up, getting it past the still packed shelves - now slightly unstable with their hastily rearranged contents - imagine Mount Blanc with freshly fallen snow, except the potential avalanche is dish towels, out-dated incandescent light bulbs, and small kitchen appliances!

We charge the car using a dryer hookup in the shop James and I installed, so we put the dryer down on the portico a few feet away. Halfway done! Suddenly optimistic, we went back for the washer. It was way heavier than I remembered ... and I was a much younger man the last time. Perhaps we could have lifted it together, but it would have been dangerous. I went searching for a dolly.

That helped. We got the dolly under it, and after a few tries, freed it fairly easily. Now to get it past the shelves, and turn the pantry corner!

But it's summer in the tropics here in DC: warm and very humid. In such conditions, even shelves made from quality wood expand a little. Not much: maybe a quarter inch on each side. So our 27 1/2 clearance had now shrunk had now shrunk to 27. No problem: all the weight was on the dolly, and the sides are clean metal, so it slid easily against the painted wooden shelves on both sides.

It did get progressively tighter. For the last foot or two, I had to push harder, while James, on the other side, held the handles of the dolly. Almost free! But the last couple inches, it stuck. Having come so far, and gotten so close, I was unwilling to surrender. I laser focused on exactly where and how hard to push, warned James, and gave it everything I had.

I was so focused, I forgot I was living in the Alps. Have you ever seen them fire artillery shells at a snowpack, and marveled at the resulting avalanche? I'm still not sure exactly what fell on me where, but I know the landslide included dish towels, light bulbs, and two heavy kitchen devices: a fancy Italian coffee maker, and a soda making machine.

I don't think I lost consciousness. But I found myself on the floor, holding my head, vaguely aware of James calling my name. Flashes of white light, and pain everywhere. James couldn't get to me, the washer was in the way. Both arms were bleeding, but I didn't care: I just held them to my head, where the appliances must have hit, and slowly tried to open my eyes.

For some reason, lying there, I remembered an incident from my childhood. I must have been six or seven. I'd forgotten to close the front door, and my father uncharacteristically, swung his coat at my head, forgetting there was a heavy key ring in his pocket. Down I went. We all had short haircuts at the time, and it turned out you could see the shape of the heaviest key in the pattern of blood oozing from my skull. We ended up not visiting my Grandmother that day.

I hadn't thought about it in years. But lying there, I remembered it all: the pain, the blood, the white light, the panic. Meanwhile, James was apoplectic. He kept calling. I thought of how he felt, seeing his father lying there, half conscious and bloody, and decided I'd better stand up. For his sake, if for nothing else. It was a struggle. I steadied myself on the washer. And I noticed, for the first time, that last shove had gotten it clear of the shelves.

He refused to let me push any more, but her got it turned, got me the the sink, got my arms washed and bandaged. He made me sit while he wrestled the dolly. I had him fetch a rachet strap, and showed him how to make the dolly and washer one. From there, it was easy. He cleared a path through the detritus, and wheeled the problem away. I only had to help him once: to pick it up a little so he could clear the front porch threshold safely. Even that was a mistake.

But he set the washer down on the concrete, and we were done! As we moved it, I noticed the washer was all rusted out on the bottom. So we may end up with a new one. Which means we would have had to get it out anyway.

Half an hour later, I was still sitting on a bar stool in the kitchen, trying to recover, with James watching me closely for any sign concussion. I had so much to do in the garden, but all hope of getting anything else done was gone. He wouldn't even let me walk down to feed the doves, and promised to do it himself. The koi could go without food for the day.

Then Kate came home. She was pleased we'd gotten the washer and dryer out and ready. She complained about the state of the kitchen and dining room. Then she noticed my bandaged arms, and the dazed look in my eyes. James told her what had happened. And all she had to say was:

"Did the coffee maker break?"

"What do you think the parson found,When he got up and stared around?The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,As if it had...
05/21/2024

"What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, —
All at once, and nothing first, —
Just as bubbles do when they burst."

I'm not the keenest of Oliver Wendall Holmes fans, but we had to learn this poem in grade school, and it stayed in my head. The theological implications of the poem's predestination argument were lost on me at the time. What struck me was the image of the Parson, sitting on the ground while everything he'd built collapsed all around him. I know he's supposed to be the punchline, but even as a grade schooler, it felt like the perfect metaphor for my life.

It's very much the Wile E. Coyote trope. Or Berryman, who goes fishing with a friend: "We caught nothing. It is in the nature of Henry to catch nothing..." Disaster all around. Or think of Eben Flood, understanding the nature of existence, and therefore setting the jug down very carefully, because "most things break..." ;)

Why am I thinking of Holmes this morning? How many things are suddenly broken around here? Let me count the machines:

The dishwasher. We got it used at a Restore outlet about 15 years ago. Cheap and noisy, I mentally cursed it daily for infringing on my peace. Died a horrible death two weeks ago.

The washing machine. Suddenly started leaking all over the floor. Truly unseemly.

The dryer. Suddenly heats, but won't turn.

The 2006 toyota highlander. I think it broke a brake caliper last week, and after 20 years, our trusted mechanic closed up shop about three months ago. Can't really drive it until we find a new mechanic.

That doesn't even count the freezer's busted sensor, which means its alarm is constantly going off. Or the kitchen vent fan, which I suddenly need to give a good bop everytime I cook. I could go on, but you get the idea. This has precipitously become a Wile E. Coyote world, and my repair options have fallen off the proverbial cliff, leaving me standing there, mid-air, holding a sign reading simply "HELP!"

Worse, washer and dryer are stacked in the pantry, and there's no room to work on them. So today, James and I are undertaking the attempt to separate them, pick them up, and carry them out to the front veranda, where I have alternate hookups.

Did I mention the pantry is filled with built-in cabinets, fully loaded? Or that the washer is 27" wide, and I built and installed those cabinets so they'd have 27 1/2 inches of clearance? Why didn't I go to thirty inches? It goes to my character: indolence, foolishness, a lack of foresight.

So it turns out Burns and Holmes were right: our well thought out plans come to ruin, and we end up flat on our you-know-whats. I've often scoffed at their poetics, but they clearly know more than I do. If we ever meet on the Elysian Fields, I owe them both an apology... ;)

It's such a bucolic scene here, just outside the beltway, I could almost write a new version of Virgil's Georgics. Excep...
05/15/2024

It's such a bucolic scene here, just outside the beltway, I could almost write a new version of Virgil's Georgics. Except for the beekeeping: I don't have any hives. Yet. But I may need some, as the about-to-be-planted food forest grows. Last year, I planted hops, hoping to harvest enough to send to my brother, the chocolatier and craft brewer.

I'd heard stories of their rapid growth, and planted them where I needed shade: one near the greenhouse, two more near the crisscross bench. Alas, they sulked, sadly dreaming of their gentle pacific northwest homeland while enduring our thunderstorm summers. The tropical vines outpaced them, and I'd thought they'd disappeared. Now they're back, and I may even get a crop!

But who has time for beekeeping and brewing, or for rewriting Book II: on the cultivation of trees and vines? Yesterday was a big day - I drove out to the arcadian countryside to help James pack up his dorm room and bring him home for the summer. Since he started on the packing ten minutes before I got there, there was some down time.

I knew I'd just gotten access to the new Omni from OpenAI, and thought I'd test it. Fasten your seatbelts, everybody.

I needed a question I knew it had never been asked, and one I'd done substantial research on, enough so I could judge the answer well. I remembered a colleague once asking for advice on how to teach rhyme, and I'd suggested an historical approach: that she trace the spread of rhyme in poetry, from its origins in ancient China, thence across Asia to the Middle East and on to Western Europe. She replied 'They don't pay me enough to do that kind of research for one class.' It was an answer I respected: a professor's life is tough enough already.

So I asked Omni: "Please trace the history of rhyme in poetry, from its origins in China, then across Asia and the middle east, then on to western Europe." Leading the witness? I know, but we'd do the same thing with an exam question. And yes, I'm always polite when talking to the AI. And Omni replied:

"Certainly! The history of rhyme in poetry is a fascinating journey that spans several continents and cultures, each contributing to its development and evolution. Here's a chronological trace of the history of rhyme in poetry, beginning in China, moving across Asia and the Middle East, and finally reaching Western Europe.

Origins in China
Ancient China: Rhyme in poetry can be traced back to ancient Chinese literature. The Shijing (Book of Songs), dating back to the 11th to 7th centuries BCE, is one of the earliest examples of rhymed poetry. These poems often used end rhymes and were sung, emphasizing their lyrical quality. The use of rhyme was a natural extension of the musicality and rhythm inherent in these works.

Classical Chinese Poetry: During the Tang Dynasty (618–907 CE), rhyme schemes became more sophisticated. Poets like Li Bai and Du Fu perfected the art of regulated verse, known as lüshi, which strictly adhered to tonal patterns and rhyme schemes. The structure and use of rhyme in Tang poetry had a profound influence on subsequent Chinese literature.

Spread Across Asia
Japan: Rhyme was less prevalent in traditional Japanese poetry. However, forms like waka and tanka, although not rhymed, influenced later rhyming forms such as haiku. The influence of Chinese culture and literature on Japan led to a nuanced appreciation of rhythm and sound in poetry, even if it did not directly adopt rhyme.

Korea: Similar to Japan, traditional Korean poetry, such as hyangga and sijo, did not heavily rely on rhyme. However, the influence of Chinese literature and the use of Hanja (Chinese characters) in Korean writing meant that rhyme and tonal patterns found some resonance in Korean poetic forms.

Influence in the Middle East
Arabic Poetry: The use of rhyme in Arabic poetry dates back to pre-Islamic times, with the Qasida being a notable example. This form, which often used a single end rhyme throughout the entire poem, became highly sophisticated in the hands of poets like Al-Mutanabbi and Al-Ma'arri. The Quran itself, while not poetry, uses rhymed prose, further cementing the importance of rhyme in Arabic literature.

Persian Poetry: Persian poets, influenced by Arabic traditions, developed their own unique styles. The ghazal, a form characterized by its rhymed couplets and refrains, was perfected by poets such as Hafez and Rumi. Persian poetry's intricate rhyme schemes and meters had a lasting impact on both regional and later Western poetic traditions.

Hebrew Poetry: Medieval Hebrew poets in Al-Andalus (Islamic Spain) were influenced by Arabic poetic forms. Poets like Yehuda Halevi and Solomon ibn Gabirol incorporated Arabic-style rhyme and meter into their Hebrew works, creating a rich fusion of styles.

Arrival in Western Europe
Medieval Europe: Rhyme became prominent in Europe during the Middle Ages. The spread of rhyme in European poetry is often attributed to the influence of Latin hymns and the works of troubadours in Occitan (southern France). The troubadours' lyrical poetry, which used complex rhyme schemes, influenced poets across Europe.

Italy: The Italian poet Dante Alighieri is credited with popularizing the use of rhyme in vernacular poetry. His Divine Comedy (14th century) employs terza rima, a rhyming verse scheme (ABA, BCB, CDC, etc.), which showcased the potential of rhyme in epic poetry.

England: In England, Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales (late 14th century) used rhymed couplets and was instrumental in establishing rhyme as a central feature of English poetry. The Renaissance further solidified the use of rhyme, with poets like Shakespeare and Edmund Spenser exploring intricate rhyme schemes in their sonnets and other works.

France: French poetry, influenced by the troubadour tradition, saw the development of fixed forms like the sonnet and the villanelle. Poets like Pierre de Ronsard and the Pléiade group were instrumental in refining these forms.

Germany: German poetry also embraced rhyme, with poets like Walther von der Vogelweide in the Middle Ages and later figures like Goethe and Schiller contributing to its evolution.

Modern and Contemporary Developments
19th and 20th Centuries: The Romantic period saw a renewed interest in the emotional and musical qualities of poetry, with rhyme playing a significant role. Poets like William Wordsworth, John Keats, and Emily Dickinson used rhyme to enhance the lyrical quality of their work.

Free Verse and Beyond: The 20th century saw a move towards free verse, with poets like Walt Whitman and T.S. Eliot breaking away from traditional rhyme schemes. However, rhyme did not disappear and continued to be used creatively by modern poets, demonstrating its enduring appeal.

In summary, the history of rhyme in poetry is a rich tapestry that spans cultures and centuries, evolving from ancient Chinese songs to the sophisticated forms of Persian and Arabic poetry, and finally to the diverse expressions in Western Europe and beyond. Each culture adapted and transformed the use of rhyme, contributing to the dynamic and multifaceted nature of poetic expression."

***

Were that a question on a Comprehensive Doctoral exam, I promise you, the student would pass. But as a grad student, I sometimes made up for my sloppy scholarship by composing long poems on the subject at hand. Professors ate that stuff up! Could Omni do the same? Why not ask?

"Can you write that out again, this time in rhymed iambic pentameter?"

"Absolutely! Here’s a brief history of rhyme in poetry written in iambic pentameter:

In ancient China, poets sang with rhyme,
The Shijing set their words in rhythmic time.
From Tang’s great era, verses took their flight,
With Li Bai’s lines and Du Fu’s pure delight.

Through Asia’s lands, the rhyme began to spread,
In Japan’s haiku, subtle rhythms led.
In Korea’s sijo, echoes we can find,
Though rhyme was not their foremost in their mind.

In Arab lands, the Qasida was king,
Al-Mutanabbi’s words did richly ring.
In Persia’s courts, the ghazals took their place,
With Hafez, Rumi, weaving rhymes with grace.

Medieval Europe, troubadours did sing,
Their rhymes and verses made the valleys ring.
Dante’s terza rima paved the way,
For Chaucer’s tales, in couplets bright and gay.

In England’s fields, where Shakespeare penned his plays,
Rhyme flourished in the sonnet’s structured ways.
And in France, the sonnet and villanelle,
With Ronsard’s touch, their beauty did compel.

The Romantics cherished rhyme’s sweet song,
With Keats and Wordsworth, melodies grew strong.
Though modern poets ventured into free,
Rhyme’s timeless charm remains for all to see.

***

Yes, there are things to criticize. But if one of your students came up to you after your lecture on rhyme, and handed you that, you'd be staggered. You'd show it to your colleagues, saying "See! There is still life in the Humanities!" I give it a few points just for the Neo-Augustan stanza control alone.

But as James was still packing - this had taken maybe five minutes so far - so I thought I'd dive a little deeper, and asked "Who wrote the most graceful rhymed poetry in French?" Since the question was thinly formulated, Omni returned an undergrad answer: Baudelaire and Verlaine. So I asked "Are there any from previous centuries?"

"There are several poets from previous centuries who are renowned for their graceful rhymed poetry in French. Some notable figures include:

Pierre de Ronsard (1524–1585)
Ronsard was a leading member of the Pléiade, a group of 16th-century French poets who sought to elevate the French language to the level of classical Latin and Greek. His sonnets and odes are celebrated for their elegance, musicality, and sophisticated use of rhyme.

Joachim du Bellay (1522–1560)
Another prominent member of the Pléiade, du Bellay is best known for his collection "Les Regrets," which contains some of the most beautifully crafted sonnets in the French language. His poetry combines classical inspiration with a distinctly personal voice, marked by grace and eloquence.

Jean de La Fontaine (1621–1695)
La Fontaine is famous for his fables, which are written in rhymed verse and are characterized by their wit, charm, and elegance. His fables remain some of the most beloved and well-known works in French literature.

François de Malherbe (1555–1628)
Malherbe is often credited with helping to refine and stabilize French poetic form and language. His poetry is known for its formal perfection, clarity, and harmony, making him a key figure in the development of French classicism.

Nicolas Boileau (1636–1711)
Boileau was a poet and critic who played a significant role in shaping French classicism. His satirical and didactic poems, such as "L'Art poétique," are noted for their precision, clarity, and graceful use of rhyme.

These poets from previous centuries made significant contributions to French poetry, and their works continue to be admired for their artistic excellence and graceful use of rhyme."

***

Ah, Boileau! Let us not pretend that any of us here have dived deeply into his work. Perhaps we spent a few moments there during a survey course, and never returned. There's no dishonor in the admission. "Tell me about L'Art Poétique."

"L'Art poétique" is a didactic poem written by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux, published in 1674. It is a seminal work in French literature, laying out the principles of classical poetics and serving as a guide for poets and writers of the time. Boileau drew on the classical traditions of Horace and Aristotle to outline the rules for writing poetry, advocating for clarity, order, and restraint.

The poem is divided into four cantos, each addressing different aspects of poetic composition:

Canto I: This section discusses the general principles of poetry, emphasizing the importance of following nature, maintaining decorum, and avoiding excessive ornamentation.

Canto II: Boileau focuses on the various genres of poetry, including epic, tragedy, comedy, and pastoral. He provides guidelines for each genre, stressing the importance of adhering to established forms and conventions.

Canto III: This canto covers the technical aspects of poetry, such as versification, rhyme, and meter. Boileau advises poets to pay careful attention to the sound and rhythm of their verses.

Canto IV: The final section addresses the poet's craft, including the importance of revision and the necessity of balancing inspiration with discipline.

"L'Art poétique" had a significant influence on French literature, shaping the neoclassical ideals that dominated the literary scene in the 17th and 18th centuries. It promoted the values of clarity, simplicity, and harmony, and its impact can be seen in the works of many subsequent French writers."

*******

Perhaps that's enough for now: the evidence is clear, and overwhelming. Remember: we're ten minutes in at this point. If you had a professor who could stand in the well of the lecture hall and do that - with no preparation, mind you, just fielding random questions from the students - you'd arrive at her every lecture early, and stay well after she was done. Could I do it, in an expansive mood, on my best day? Maybe, but I'd quickly steer the question towards comfortable, familiar ground, making sure I never got to Boileau. Could Derek do it? Yes, but he was just as quirky and idiosyncratic as I was ... although it was delightful to follow his mind through the various thickets.

And I have some thickets to clear, down in the floodplain, before I can plant the food forest, so I'll close. I just wish I could convey more deeply the emotions I felt then, standing in James' dorm room, overlooking the green quad with its cultivated canopy of trees and red brick buildings, held up by Ionian columns. My whole world: I spent my life in Universities, so much so a famous French scholar once introduced me not as a poet, but as "a Universitarian." And I wonder how long that world will be there for James to wander through.

I'm not much for reminiscing. All my poems - I hope - are about exactly what it's like to be a human being, in this part...
05/09/2024

I'm not much for reminiscing. All my poems - I hope - are about exactly what it's like to be a human being, in this particular place, at this moment. I even struggle to keep myself from looking forward. Your humble gardener poet just wants to be here, and now. Besides, it's full on Spring, and the garden needs me. Who has time to dwell on things?

But yesterday, re-reading that interview I didn't link, I felt like Proust taking that famous bite from the madeleine. We say "It all came rushing back," or "I was overwhelmed by a flood of memories." But it wasn't exactly like that. It was more like 'wow, yes, those things happened. Did I really do all that stuff? Me?'

Even more surprising: how did the interviewer know she should ask this question? I assure you, she had no idea. Since that's the case, I give her massive credit for intuition. Or perhaps she has simply led an exemplary life, and has been blessed with good karma.

In any case, she asked the question, and as Nabokov said, "It would never do to start skipping the hard ones:"

*****************

Q: Where were you when you heard the news of John Lennon’s murder?

OK. Fasten your seatbelts, everyone. It’s going to be a bumpy ride! Every detail of my writing life, every small or large success, comes from that evening. How did you know to ask this question?

So there I was, minding my own business, being a young poet in San Diego. I’d kicked around a couple years, a little lost, before starting at the University. I felt a tremendous sense of being “behind,” so I threw myself into my studies. One semester I took eleven courses! After a few years, I had more than 130 credits, more than enough to graduate. There was only one problem: they were all in literature. No general education courses, no foreign language, a smattering of art and philosophy. Things weren’t looking bright.

But I’d audited Carolyn Forche’s poetry seminar, and she’d shown me a whole new way of writing. I’d started a local poetry journal, and organized a series of readings. And that semester, I saw there was a course on William Carlos Williams, so I signed up. The course was taught be Jacqueline Ollier, a visiting scholar from France. I had no idea who she was at the time, no idea that academic mandarins still existed, that a few words from one could change lives.

After a few weeks, she hired me as a reader. We worked closely together all through that semester. About halfway through, she asked for a few of my poems, and I gave her about a dozen. That was just before she flew off to spend a week in Hawaii “with an old friend.”

The old friend turned out to be Galway Kinnell. She’d been his student, years before, in Grenoble. She left my poems on his kitchen table, and after a couple days, with nothing else to do, he read them. He said some nice words, he even got out a piece of paper and scrawled some kind words of recommendation. I still have that piece of paper somewhere.

When she returned, she asked me to go to the student council and request funding to bring Galway to San Diego for a reading. It worked, and a few weeks later there he was. The place was packed, I was the organizer, getting everyone settled and doing introductions. He was the great poet you’ve all heard about. A very successful reading.

The reception was afterwards, at Jacqueline’s house. The whole literary community was there. Everyone was drinking and chatting, Galway even tried to pick up my girlfriend. It wouldn’t be the last time. And at some point, Jacqueline had me sit down in another room with her, and Galway, and Marie-Helene, a visiting professor from the Sorbonne. And Jacqueline said “Bill, I want you to come to Nice, and teach at the University.”

I said “Jacqueline, I can’t, I don’t have the funds, I don’t even have a degree.” Jacqueline said, “Don’t worry about any of that. You must come to Nice.” I looked over at Galway, and he nodded. I looked over at Marie-Helene, and something about her expression told me I should say ‘Yes,’ and right now. So I did.

Every aspect of my professional and literary life, every success and opportunity and adventure derived from that moment. Books, prizes, readings in Paris and Rome and Monte Carlo, four degrees from two continents, professor at twelve universities, everything came for that room, from that short conversation with Galway and Jacqueline.

With my fate decided, we walked back out to the living room. Everyone was huddled around her small television set. I asked what happened. And someone said “John Lennon’s been shot.”

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