David X Novak
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Haiku Poseur

2/29/2016

 
While I was in the mode of thinking on things Japanese, I remembered this poem from my compilation, The Rip of Gales. I can't recall exactly the circumstances of its composition, but I believe I had seen a friend do a linkage of traditional haiku "stanzas" concatenated into a longer poem. When I say "traditional" it should be in inverted commas: the English "Haiku" probably bears no resemblance to the Japanese original, requiring only a 5-7-5 syllable count; but the form has become ubiquitous and accepted, at least commonly. The uniqueness of my formation, below, lies in the addition of rhyme and meter; but the form has little future, I decided, and have left it unpursued.


Haiku Poseur

​I
His petty rancor
Stirs not my tranquil bark, a
Ship tied at anchor.

II
As lazy verses
Scale his vanity’s arc, a
Vain fool rehearses.

​III
He apes a Shakespeare
Whom—innuendos proffer— 
Modesty makes peer.

IV
With scorn belittles
Sundry the tireless scoffer,
But pride embrittles.

Be Not Defeated by the Rain: A Loose Paraphrase from Miyazawa Kenji

2/27/2016

 
A few years ago, I happened upon a translation by David Sulz of the poet Miyazawa Kenji, and, as is often my wont, fiddled with the lines to come up with something in keeping with the spirit of the work, but formally structured, if not actually qualifying as an accurate translation. Recently, as the last two poems I've posted here might indicate, I have been busy reading The Tale of Genji, and sharing that experience with friends on social media. I had forgotten about this little thing, but, suddenly remembering and posting it, received a favorable response from friends—so why not share it more generally here on my blog, I thought. And here it is:

Loose Paraphrase from Miyazawa Kenji


​Adapted from a translation by David Sulz


Be not defeated by the rain,
Nor let the wind your master prove;
Succumb not to the wintry plain
Nor sultry summer let one move.

Be strong in body, by desire
Unfettered, not enticed to anger;
Cultivate joy, instead of ire,
Feed others first, despite one's hunger:

In quiet equanimity
Put others first, count oneself last;
Observe and hear attentively,
The lessons garnered holding fast.

A thatch-roof house, in shade of pine
Upon the meadow nestled nice;
Some simple fare on which to dine,
Rice, miso, greens—let these suffice.

If to the East, a child lies sick,
Go forth and nurse his convalescence;
If to the West, crone derelict,
Relieve her burden with one's presence.

If to the South, one dying lies,
Let words of courage fear dispel;
If to the North, harsh contest vies,
The ways of tranquil spirit tell.

In times of drought, not be withheld
The tears of knowing sympathy;
In summer chill, concern not quelled,
Companion walk in empathy.

Aloof from the unknowing masses
Better dismissed than to succumb
To greatness deigned by ignorant classes:
So I should be, or would become.

Akashi Coast

2/21/2016

 
After a time, as falls the sand,
One becomes fond of sea and strand,
Yet even though it breaks my heart
The time has come—you must depart.

Myself an exile from the city,
Its manners decorous and witty,
I yet sought your needs to provide
Despite its luster was denied;

Yet, though life’s darkness glooms with shade,
Why thus conceal my best brocade,
My daughter, whom I cherish so,
And therefore must insist you go.

For it were a great detriment
To be here with the rustics pent,
And my granddaughter, baby mild,
Must grow to be a lady styled.

When you have heard, I rise like smoke,
Do not regret, but your tears choke,
For even as I turn to dust
A father does what father must.

The tears which fall, run copious,
But let them not detain you thus:
The waiting boat, which here lies moored,
Now beckons you, and you must board.

If Books Might Live Though Man Must Die

2/17/2016

 
Not, in my youth, a lover of
The printed word, in well-kept books,
An ag
èd man today I love
    Them, shelved within their nooks.

My lamentations of today
Are not the same a youth might have,
But rather, as time fleets away,
    To hoard them I would crave.

In ill health, both in art and love
A failure, from them I receive
A solace that is good enough
    If not quite a reprieve.

How I should like to fade away,
To be, like ink upon the page
Ethereal symbol—held at bay
    The sufferings of age.

Let these be my companions: you,
Sweet creature of an hour, betrayed
The sunny hopes I harbored, too
    Bright for books’ fictive shade.

The wisdom I would glean! O, let
Me live awhile, to read these lines
That do not help me to forget
    But fix in cloudy signs.

Cultural Literacy and "the Thinking American's List": What Every American Needed to Know

2/13/2016

 
Picture
We have little book boxes up in the neighborhood where people can exchange their books. These are described as miniature libraries, which have cropped up in part to help citizens compensate for the failed public library system, as well as providing a place for one's discarded personal copy of a title just read or any other unwanted book. (The Public Library "weeds" its books and makes sure they get shredded.)

I found this oddity of a title, Cultural Literacy by E.D. Hirsch, in my street's box while passing by on my way from an event. It is hard to characterize the book. Published almost thirty years ago, it looks to have functioned primarily as a defense of white cultural hegemony. The book seems to have arisen, if not from, then in tandem with the Reagan administration: an essential promoter was William Bennett, U.S. Secretary of Education, who is blurbed on the back ("This important book could, and should, change what goes on in our nation's classrooms. It makes the critical point that we learn how to learn by learning something") and who is credited in the book's preface for his enthusiasm in "champion[ing] its ideas."

More than 3/4ths of the book (per page count) is devoted to a list, "the Thinking American's List" according to the cover, and it is this that has attracted my attention more so than the interior. It is hard to say exactly what the organizing principle is behind the list: are they items that a literate person should know, or are they what literate persons (in the U.S.) already professed to know? The list is compelling, but strange. Apparently the whole of it is not available online, but if you click the title link above, Amazon.com's "Search Inside the Book" feature will bring up portions. The first and last pages look like this:

Picture
Picture
It has been suggested that the book may profitably be viewed as a time capsule of its period.

Not immediately evident are the selection criteria for terms—why were some things included and others omitted? Furthermore what is the use of topics without any contextualization? "1492"? "1939-1945"? Presumably Columbus sailing the ocean blue or the Second World War are of significance, but of what use are the freestanding dates?

Also blurbed on the back jacket, Richard C. Anderson, Director, Center for the Study of Reading, University of Illinois, proclaims "Hirsch makes an eloquent and, I believe, persuasive argument that cultural literacy is not inconsistent with cultural pluralism". Not inconsistent, one presumes, if those subject populations can only be made to toe the line with colonialist aspirations. He also declares, "Hirsch's erudition inspires awe"—a bit hyperbolic, that.

The skeptic in me wonders if this might not have been a first salvo in the "dumbing down of America" which has been superbly effected in the years since Reagan, exclusive of certain pockets here and there. The text itself does not inspire me. One learns that "Confucius is as wise as Socrates", for example, which is essentially meaningless in any context. Far from being "the Thinking Person's List", the idea seems to be: Here are things you don't need to think about, just memorize a few key phrases.

It would be nice to read a modern-day deconstruction of the book, the list, and (apparently) the phenomenon, by the hands of a Ta-Nehisi Coates, who might, through retrospective analysis, explain what it was all about. I was alive at the time, but can't make head or tail out of it.

After a Motif in The Tale of Genji

2/12/2016

 
We come and go, depart or stay
    Within this world of dew,
Which we should not let hold such sway
    Upon us but eschew.

We dream, desire, grow quick or die
    Within a moment’s span,
In grains seeking eternity,
    Soft sift—and like sands, man.

To One Who Takes Offense

2/10/2016

 
I made a comment that caused one great pain
Through inadvertence. If I knew the way
I would retract the statement, would explain,
But I am yet unsure of what to say.

“The words I used were chosen poorly,” say,
Or “What I meant, was rather this not that,”
But lack of certitude’s a roundelay
As might inspire a rancorous tit for tat.

So I say nothing. Let the matter pass--
Words meant to soothe, but only spiked your rage;
We neither may forget, the moment crass,
But depth of injury is hard to gauge.

I note no fault, or what fail to discern
In my intention. Inadvertently
I spoke, but what the error fail to learn,
And so determine: best to let it be.

The tenor of our friendship changes now;
My words I’ll check, or monitor, with care,
On tenterhooks as to which to allow,
Which is to say, there is no friendship there.

It may be you are a great man, my friend,
But I intend to let friendship elapse,
To bleed into acquaintance, then to end,
Because I tire before so many traps.

Theater to What Aim?

2/5/2016

 
A friend recently went to see Satchmo at Court Theatre which I expected beforehand was going to be garbage, and she confirmed my prediction. I wrote previously that its presence in the lineup of a supposed "classical theater" signified degeneracy not only for the theater company itself, but with broader implications touching on the city of Chicago. I might be inclined to revise the latter part of that assumption: changes are burgeoning on the northside and it's hard to say where all the activity will lead.

Unlike—or I might say, a far cry from—Court's previous production of Agamemnon, after which only three audience members stood, Satchmo roused its audience to a standing ovation, which has become de rigeur in Chicago for every sort of theatrical mediocrity. "People like plays which acknowledge the audience to be on the right side of social conflict," she said.

Thinking of that last night, after seeing Posh up north at Steep Theatre, I decided her criticism to be not without purchase. It is the reason why Agamemnon did not induce a post-presentation standing euphoria: not a soul in the auditorium was left unscathed, Agamemnon implicated all of humanity. Satchmo left people comfortably sitting on the right side of the issue of racism.

Posh was directed by Chicago's Jonathan Berry, one of the best talents we have working in the city. Its execution was flawless. The playwright, Laura Wade, is new to me. "Perhaps she will be the new Caryl Churchill," my companion said, urging delight by mentioning my favorite living playwright—though what commonality they may have besides being British and female would be hard to say, nor (obviously) is it something to be sought. Contrary to a recent derogatory remark I made about a local Chicago hack, when a masterful director controls the staging, it is easier to see through to the structure of the play. Technically, Posh was flawless.

The only possible flaw one might point to in the play was thematic: a gathering of phenomenally wealthy spoiled rich boys (or young men, as it were), left the moral dilemmas drawn pretty much without nuance. It was, however, an excellent production, and certainly several cuts above what the effete cultural snobs were getting with Satchmo.
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    News?

    A new poem is always news to the poet.
    ​Or whatever.

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