This is newness: every little tawdry
Obstacle glass-wrapped and peculiar,
Glinting and clinking in a saint's falsetto. Only you
Don't know what to make of the sudden slippiness,
The blind, white, awful, inaccessible slant.
There's no getting up it by the words you know.
No getting up by elephant or wheel or shoe.
We have only come to look. You are too new
To want the world in a glass hat.
--Yet another Plath
Monday, December 31, 2007
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
The smile of the snow is white
Plath's "Nick and the Candlestick" spliced with "Wintering"
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters--
Sir So-and-so's gin.
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs...
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Chinese yellow on appalling objects--
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish -
Christ! they are panes of ice,
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady
(They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.)
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
Winter is for women--
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,
With soft rugs -
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
I am a miner. The light burns blue.
Waxy stalactites
Drip and thicken, tears
At the heart of the house
Next to the last tenant's rancid jam
and the bottles of empty glitters--
Sir So-and-so's gin.
The earthen womb
Exudes from its dead boredom.
Black bat airs...
This is the room I have never been in
This is the room I could never breathe in.
The black bunched in there like a bat,
No light
But the torch and its faint
raggy shawls,
Cold homicides.
They weld to me like plums.
Chinese yellow on appalling objects--
Black asininity. Decay.
Possession.
It is they who own me.
Neither cruel nor indifferent,
Old cave of calcium
Icicles, old echoer.
Even the newts are white,
Only ignorant.
This is the time of hanging on for the bees--the bees
So slow I hardly know them,
Filing like soldiers
To the syrup tin
Those holy Joes.
And the fish, the fish -
Christ! they are panes of ice,
To make up for the honey I've taken.
Tate and Lyle keeps them going, The refined snow.
It is Tate and Lyle they live on, instead of flowers.
They take it. The cold sets in.
A vice of knives,
A piranha
Religion, drinking
Now they ball in a mass,
Black
Mind against all that white.
The smile of the snow is white.
It spreads itself out, a mile-long body of Meissen,
Its first communion out of my live toes.
The candle
Gulps and recovers its small altitude,
Into which, on warm days,
They can only carry their dead.
Its yellows hearten.
O love, how did you get here?
O embryo
The bees are all women,
Maids and the long royal lady
(They have got rid of the men,
The blunt, clumsy stumblers, the boors.)
Remembering, even in sleep,
Your crossed position.
Winter is for women--
The woman, still at her knitting,
At the cradle of Spanis walnut,
The blood blooms clean
In you, ruby.
The pain
You wake to is not yours.
Her body a bulb in the cold and too dumb to think.
Love, love,
I have hung our cave with roses,
With soft rugs -
Will the hive survive, will the gladiolas
Succeed in banking their fires
To enter another year?
The last of Victoriana.
Let the stars
Plummet to their dark address,
The bees are flying. They taste the spring.
Let the mercuric
Atoms that cripple drip
Into the terrible well,
What will they taste of, the Christmas roses?
You are the one
Solid the spaces lean on, envious.
You are the baby in the barn.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Plath takes on new meaning this century
Blackberrying
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
--Sylvia Plath, 1961
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks ---
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
--Sylvia Plath, 1961
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Paul McCarthy: Chocolate Santa with Butt Plug
Paul McCarthy's latest show, currently running at Maccarone (630 Greenwich Street) through 24 December, employs themes that the artist has been discussing for decades: unbridled sexuality, iconography in popular culture, the role of fame in public life, politics, and the nature of violence. His new show continues a number of these themes, if only in a manner that can only be described as charming. For this show McCarthy turned the gallery into a fully-functioning chocolate factory, in which workers, under the direction of master chocolatier Peter P. Greweling, produce 1-lbs Santas composed entirely of, well, chocolate. However, McCarthy's edible version of the holiday icon, sold at $100 a piece and packaged in boxes filled with shredded copies of Artforum, is accompanied by a molded butt plug, that most democratic and accessible of sex toys. (Do we really need another reason to eat in bed?) McCarthy, of course, has always been interested in psychological disruption, shock treatments, and in exploring base desires--as well as the impulses that drive them. Using foodstuffs to explore these themes (like mayonnaise, hot dogs, and ketchup), McCarthy makes it a point to jar us out of our emotional and physical havens, as if to reinforce the notion that comfort has no place in the modern world, and that even our most precious of cultural artifacts are subject to corruption. Collectors, get your checkbooks ready.
http://www.peterpaulchocolates.com
http://www.maccarone.net
http://www.ubu.com/film/mccarthy.html
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
My true nemesis is Rachael Ray
She is currently interviewing and having coffee with John Cusack.
She is not a trained chef and cooks like I do, yet gets to dine with leading men like this...
The difference is I would not sell out and support Dunkin Donuts...I would keep it real and do commercials for Illy Espresso.
I am currently eating Danish sugar cookies for breakfast and watching daytime television. (Edgy just stole one of my cookies and ran off with it.) Where is the justice?
She is not a trained chef and cooks like I do, yet gets to dine with leading men like this...
The difference is I would not sell out and support Dunkin Donuts...I would keep it real and do commercials for Illy Espresso.
I am currently eating Danish sugar cookies for breakfast and watching daytime television. (Edgy just stole one of my cookies and ran off with it.) Where is the justice?
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
Wow Poem from Slate
The World War Speaks
When I was born, two incisors
had already come through the gum.
They gave me a silver bell to chew on,
brought me home in a wicker basket,
and kept me by the stove's coal heat.
Every morning my mother boiled
a huge vat of mustard greens,
steam drifting over to my crib and
after a few hours, souring into a gas.
I breathed it all in. I began to walk
so they fitted me with braces.
I began to run, so they fitted me
with books: Mars, hydrogen, Mongolia.
I learned to dig a deeper kind of ditch.
I learned to start a fire in three minutes.
I learned to sharpen a pencil into
a bayonet. Sometimes at night
I'd sneak into the house of our neighbors,
into the hall outside their bedroom,
and watch as they moved over each
other like slow, moonlit fish.
Sometimes my mother would comb
my father's hair with her fingertips,
but that was it. They wanted an only
child: the child to end all children.
--Sandra Beasley
When I was born, two incisors
had already come through the gum.
They gave me a silver bell to chew on,
brought me home in a wicker basket,
and kept me by the stove's coal heat.
Every morning my mother boiled
a huge vat of mustard greens,
steam drifting over to my crib and
after a few hours, souring into a gas.
I breathed it all in. I began to walk
so they fitted me with braces.
I began to run, so they fitted me
with books: Mars, hydrogen, Mongolia.
I learned to dig a deeper kind of ditch.
I learned to start a fire in three minutes.
I learned to sharpen a pencil into
a bayonet. Sometimes at night
I'd sneak into the house of our neighbors,
into the hall outside their bedroom,
and watch as they moved over each
other like slow, moonlit fish.
Sometimes my mother would comb
my father's hair with her fingertips,
but that was it. They wanted an only
child: the child to end all children.
--Sandra Beasley
Monday, December 10, 2007
Thursday, December 06, 2007
So THAT'S what happened to my manuscript...
From Scott Donaldson’s excellent biography, Edwin Arlington Robinson: A Poet’s Life (2007):
Neither Robinson nor Peabody understood how the fates—and human frailty—were conspiring to prevent publication of Captain Craig. Normally, EAR would have received proofs early in 1901. He did not and could not, for on a cold winter’s night a member of the staff at Small, Maynard paid a visit to a Boston brothel, left the manuscript behind, and quite forgot about it. Robinson wanted the script back for revision, and the publishers were forced to stall him while they turned the office upside down in a futile search for it. Months went by before springtime, with the sap rising, lured the erring staffer back to the whorehouse. There the madam presented him with the manuscript she had carefully preserved.
Unfortunately, Small, Maynard had by then gone into receivership and decided not to publish Captain Craig after all.
Neither Robinson nor Peabody understood how the fates—and human frailty—were conspiring to prevent publication of Captain Craig. Normally, EAR would have received proofs early in 1901. He did not and could not, for on a cold winter’s night a member of the staff at Small, Maynard paid a visit to a Boston brothel, left the manuscript behind, and quite forgot about it. Robinson wanted the script back for revision, and the publishers were forced to stall him while they turned the office upside down in a futile search for it. Months went by before springtime, with the sap rising, lured the erring staffer back to the whorehouse. There the madam presented him with the manuscript she had carefully preserved.
Unfortunately, Small, Maynard had by then gone into receivership and decided not to publish Captain Craig after all.
Sunday, December 02, 2007
SNOW
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window
was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes--
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of
your hands--
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
--Louis MacNeice
was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.
And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes--
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms of
your hands--
There is more than glass between the snow and the huge roses.
--Louis MacNeice
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