Why is Nobody Here? Who is Listening to Us?

I’m in a group that’s reading through Jack Spicer’s poetics this spring, and by way of introduction, we were asked to respond to his “The Poet and Poetry” and it spurred me to make some notes about something that I’ve been trying and failing to write since October. I’ll get there eventually.

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— I hate the idea of introducing myself as a writer with something super unpolished so I’m going with bullet points so that I don’t feel like I’m uploading a shitty first draft (Anne Lamott) but rather notes for a shitty first draft that I can then share with no-one.

— Spicer’s “embarrassing question” (“why is nobody here? who is listening to us?”) resonates with a lot of the questioning about the relevance of the humanities today, and that’s even before he gets to his jabs at the New Critics.

— In my very small corner of the academic-study-of-poetry world, cited to the point of cliché is the question posed by Mahmoud Darwish: “Is al-Andalus in the earth/ or in the poem?” He’s asking whether this place in time (medieval Spain) that is so lionized or demonized or something-else-with-teethized is or was real or exists only in the imagination of poets.

— Since October I have been avoiding writing something about the unfortunate coincidence in my undergraduate syllabus that had me teaching the Andalusi Zionides the week that the war between Hamas and Israel began. These are lengthy poems written in Hebrew by the otherwise-Arabic-speaking Jewish poets of medieval Spain that express a longing for Zion, sometimes metaphorical and sometimes geographical and real. Normally I try to draw some distinctions between “Zionism” in the Middle Ages and political Zionism in the modern world. This time I just avoided saying the word as much as possible.

— I did a terrible job teaching poetry that I normally love and teach well because I just. didn’t. want. to talk about it. My friend Noam posted on Facebook that he teared up that week in a seminar he was teaching all about Andalusi poetry; I think he did the better job of it because he let his students see the impact that medieval poetry could still have on a person.

— Me? If I cry, it’s about the Sarajevo Haggadah. (Look up Geraldine Brooks’ piece from the New Yorker a bunch of years ago if you don’t know what I’m talking about.)

— NYU kicked Faculty for Justice in Palestine out of the atrium of the library where they were holding a reading of Palestinian poetry because you can’t read poetry aloud in the atrium of the library.

— “Live poetry is a kind of singing… Poetry demands a human voice to sing it and demands an audience to hear it. Without these it is naked, pure, and incomplete — a bore.” Spicer was trained as a medievalist. Of course he knew this.

— One more bullet point would be putting, well, too fine a point on it, no?

Dispatches from the Seamus Heaney Syllabus

I. One of the central challenges I’ve found myself facing writing poetry(? — still can’t quite say it without the question mark at the end) has been rather like one of the central challenges I think I face out in the world: I’m a fount of useless bits of knowledge that make up the entirety of the non sequitur-driven internal monologue that accompanies me and I have to remind myself that the rest of the world isn’t right there with me.  I tend to do the same thing when I write and it’s very hard for me to assess whether I’m being over-the-top obscure and allusive or whether I’m being fair in asking my readers to trust me and to look it up for themselves if they want to know more.  Reading some of Heaney’s earlier poetry (North, from 1975, this week, e.g.) is proving to be one model for how to do that in a very controlled way. 

II. I had planned to start with Heaney’s Beowulf and some more Beowulves but I found myself getting stuck in the interstice between his and Maria Dhavana Headley’s translations, treating his as the original. 

A Personal Seamus Heaney Syllabus

Following my surprising foray into poetry? as a pandemic project, I applied for and was accepted into a yearlong program at Brooklyn Poets — lots of writing, lots of reading, lots of critique, lots of class. One of the elements of the program is that each participant chooses a poet to do a yearlong deep-dive read. Because I’m particularly interested in translation and reworking medieval texts, I’ve chosen Seamus Heaney. I feel a little intimidated about having to be intelligent about the work of a poet that is totally out of my context, as if I should be able to jump in and be brilliant just because I already know how to read text; but if I can screw up my courage, I’ll try to blog my way through reading Heaney’s oeuvre. 

I’ve kept the secondary literature to a minimum, partly so that I’m approaching the poetry without it being filtered through others’ readings first, and partly, honestly, just because there are still only 24 hours in a day and I have an academic book, a trade book, and a translation that I’m also supposed to be working on, plus all the other stuff… But in any case,  what I’m reading this year is after the jump:

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