Hegelian Timex

October 30, 2016

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Since August I’ve been wearing a watch again. A cheap Timex, my Internet fancy from summer, delivered for less than the price for lunch for two. Periodically I fixate on looking at watches, for a while I tried out their intimate ticking to cure insomnia, one more failed cure. At weddings and family funerals, I wear my father’s Enicar. I bought it in Switzerland; I was fourteen. It doesn’t bother to keep time more than a day. To know today’s real time, I use my phone. My new handsome Timex used to be what was termed a whim, a trifle to look in. Around dawn I woke up on the couch. “The Isle of Dead” that I was watching as I fell asleep morphed into a teenage girl (portrayed by an older actress) who discovers an odd text on hypnotism that entrances adults portraying adults into romantic slapstick. It was Saturday, I didn’t have to make a time clock click, so I tucked back under the covers upstairs. Back in bed Carol & I read our phones in luxurious weekend pace. We were waiting for Junior to come by to explain why the roof leak I traded a months’ pay to disappear, reappeared.

Since August completing simple tasks at my job have been shifting from middling stressful to middling chaotic. Friday my coworker & I shared an AM commute to work with Devo singing along to “DNA Smart Patrol” until we turned at the block the new campus shares with sex workers. Silence seemed inadequate. Stressful and chaotic are relative vocational terms. Confusing innocence with not having done something, I imagine I might be cast as one of the passing townspeople in “Nights of Cabiria”. In reality from, poets to prostitutes, we all get paid, or pay people to act in tasks we don’t want to spend time from our own lives to do.

My job at my new school remains frustrated by temporary technology and backorders. For five days this week I’ve been salaried to waste time walking up and down stairs to check pages at a printer, deliver a form for a signature, or travel one office to another to ask or answer a question. Hopefully I’ll replace myself with devices. Clever machines that are manufactured, and later disassembled, by people invisible to me. Those lives may appear a bit better than the women walking the street in a moral sense, but not much different in a qualitative or quantitative sense. They’ll be abused, abandoned, die early. Everything moving takes us along willing or not.

This year is also the 246th birthday of Hegel. Most of my life I’ve been willful in misinterpreting Hegelian Dialectics as egocentric relativistic analysis rather than a reflection of an absolute bipolarity. This morning that process appears roughly equivalent to memories of a former lover’s expression, sighing the line from J. Alfred Prufrock, “that’s not what I meant…”   Still I’m older than Hegel ever was (longevity being a different relative value). Being philosophically orthodox has currency, but life accrues like tree rings. I’d rather profit by dark parsing with a lost lover than diagraming reflexive arrows, but I can’t now.

What matters in this current now, is the ceiling has been leaking from the room above the library. The leak is real and metaphorical, it’s symbolic, but it doesn’t symbolize anything specific. Who Carol thought to be Junior calling from his habitual tardiness, was a friend explaining their tardiness returning a call with a date for dinner. Time, as Dali depicted it in Tempus Fugit feels less painful than the exegesis of that intoxicated distortion, time is a narcotic.  We hoard time in dreams, cut it like addicts with razor blades and triple balance scales dividing years into minutes, seconds and femtoseconds. We decorate gardens with sundials, astrologically measure out futures on ancient charts of stellar sand, reckon time in disintegrating atomic fountains of combed atoms, crust clocks with filigree, or construct private time machines like my father’s watch. They are legerdemain, illusions to slur perception of our time’s inexorable passage, at best, like a Hegelian dialectic, they allow a transitory sense of correctness. It was now 9:41, but 9:41 has already disappeared. Yet that once misinterpreted lover’s glance continues, she continues brushing back her hair and brushing back her hair, if only to me, only lost without periodization.

The dinner engagement in the telephone call was being postponed due a trip to Brussels, polite domestic disarray, and his Halley’s mind is slowing, dissolving, cognitive slippage. She has forgotten more than I’ll ever…her lyric goes twisting off, a comet disappearing as her past present future. She’s dying by many names, diabetes, hypertension, arthritis. It’s monstrous and horrifies me. The prayer to St. Joseph I memorized as a devout pre-adolescent seemed inconceivable then, now a desperate, sincere sentiment. Even the iconography, a robed figure resembling Santa Claus carrying a lily, come to fetch life from peaceful sleep is attractive. It’s exponentially more attractive than the 1945 Boris Karloff portraying a Greek general opening his wife’s grave on an island quarantined by a disease that can be stopped only by a sirocco. Still the plot’s misguided cinematic fellow travelers will forever share a film of life inhabited by thieves, servants, and a semi-comatose killer in a negligée.

That’s where I fell asleep. Mr. Karloff, expending a last sigh of screen time into his near canine expression of pathos, the sad grimace of television, we the unseen audience, aren’t anticipated to recognize until the ironic last line. “He was only trying to protect us.” He wasn’t such a monster after all, just pretending…another patriarchal titan obliterated as the credits rise to disappear. William Pratt (Boris Karloff) spent much of his time exploring bipolarity of a dialectic inherent in the artifice of monster and victim. His craft was a construction of flickers, nuances, voice tones and eyebrows to encompass intimate loss and cosmic rage. At the films’ end our common factual knowledge returns as words superimposed, in a contrived order for a floating instant, then replaced by the name of the second assistant director, the key grip, part of the union contract with Marx and Hegelian dialectics. Who does work, who profits?

That morning I had been reading [How to Legally Own Another Person] in bed by touch screen phone. The article began nuancing behavior between employees and contractors, then somehow concluded the Saudi Government profited from subcontracting monstrous men to fly stolen planes into 9/11. For a minute it resonated within my experiences (excepting Saudi references), at least the detailed behaviors in the P/L food chain resonated enough to allow me time to contextualize the frenetic running I had been doing for days. We bind people to tasks we won’t exchange our time to accomplish. The pay, the trade of monetized time for real time builds the scaffold. Why do I tie my own tie?

My dialectic shifted with St. Basil’s chapel high noon chimes. I’m not sure if they signify arrival or loss. Junior knocked. He arrived to survey the residue. He wasn’t wearing a hat, uniform, or any branding (or a watch). He looked annoyed and hurried, according to the article, that made him a contractor, or a terrorist. Another exchange, an additional reflexive line. The longer the arrow, the greater the opportunity for interference. I work for a woman, a devout and apostolic believer. She points to a continuous relationship with her personal salvific moral imperative, direct and vigorous. Her prayers get answered by God’s Bullseyes, no deflections. Her information demands obedience, powerful as a shaft of sunlight extending from a divine furnace. Miracles, martyrs, ecstasies and mystics don’t require wrist watches. It’s my contemplative, bent reflexive arrows that require waiting to reflect on what desire means, the lunar pulling that turns, waxes and wanes. My arrows diagram the tenuous.

This morning in my pajamas I think I’d like to have breakfast and I’d like to travel to Bayreuth to endure    the Ring Cycle Festival. Two thoughts, the first simple, requires no historical exploration beyond the blind physiology of hunger. It doesn’t matter if it’s morning or midnight. Bayreuth can point tangentially to Hegel, to my experiences visiting historical localities. Maybe some detail in the geography or architecture will signal an idea. Another diagrammatic arrow strays, points to Nazis.  Did Richard Wagner unconsciously write the theme music for the NADSP? Wagner’s admirer, Adolf Hitler, never missed a production of the Cycle at Bayreuth until he decided to invade Poland. Der Fuehrer made Wahnfried, Wagner’s villa, his second home. I treasured Niebelungen since I chanced on the Arthur Rackman illustrations.  I was just a boy. However even moral imperatives as relative as mine struggle justifying Hitler and Nazi iconography with a vacation impulse.

The reflective arrows for my trip grow a dandelion crowned with 180 degrees of yellow fingers pointing accusingly. I’d be disingenuous to pretend the direct impulse that Dylan Thomas christened “green fuse”, to be catechism or intellectually less, (or even genuinely here). It’s always louche to be irreligious, I can’t be. Theology might be argument, but religion is held in bodies. It’s an instinct, a need to follow backwards, to touch water and light. The shadows set by monoliths at Stonehenge, sun tunneling into Newgrange, stone gates of a bull star, laurel left in the Parthenon debris, crawlspace down in chambers of a Zapotec pyramid, temporary blindness in Muir Wood, Raven’s stolen fire told with salmon on the table, the raw beginnings of Heaven. It’s who we are. I love the Fool, but not the foolish, I know morning’s Hegelian dandelion has exploded in tetrahedral parachutes, floating past recall or recapture.

In another week I’ll be back in a hotel room. Following God, or more likely where God used to be.  It’s the overture that opens the way over the mountain pass, a perfumed breeze after winter. We are so often pilgrims without destination, hearing the hush between stone columns, blinking in a granite pool holding the sun’s circle, hunching on plastic hospital chairs. We seldom find what we’re looking for. We seldom find anything. Old God, my God, why have you forsaken me here of all places? In the muddle of a dialectical as familiar as dead relatives, as aimlessness as looking for a ghost wandering the corridors of the Pollard Hotel. Below me lurk bears and early snow vowing a late summer marriage.

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KA TA SEE Persona PART TWO

Some persona poems are a double distilled poetic form. Basically a persona poem requires a voice speaking from a dramatic situation. Since the Modernist Period dramatic has diminished to a context that allows for a kind of oblique self-portraiture.  The poems require a literate, alert audience. Like wearing a mask, it requires the observer to know who is being portrayed and then appreciate the nuances of the delivery. If one arrives at a masquerade ball as Edgar Allen Poe, but is mistaken for Count Dracula the droll charm in describing one’s cocktail with sad alliteration is lost. The persona poem is both formally demanding, and imaginatively freeing.

Robert Browning’s dramatic monologues in iambic pentameter were the model of persona poetry for Ezra Pound. Browning revitalized the form by fragmenting the traditional epic into shorter dramatic monologues. Robert Frost wrote some wonderful dramatic monologues like “Witch of Coos” and “Death of the Hired Man”. They were traditional in that as readers we understand the voice is Frost, but not the persona. Pound discussed fragmenting the form into masks of portraiture with his colleague, T.S. Eliot. He also made some arrangements to have Eliot’s “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” published in Poetry Magazine and now millions of students know what to do with the bottoms of your trousers when you grow old. Prufrock is the Twentieth Century’s most familiar persona character. J. Alfred wasn’t T.S. Eliot and he was. Eliot’s favorite poet growing up was Byron, yet ironically Prufrock seemed his poetic antithesis.

Byron is an underappreciated master of the use of poetic persona. Byron’s masterwork, “Don Juan”, was considered scandalous, primarily because Byron himself was considered a scandal. Often the biographical character of Byron as the melancholy, erotic, wandering Romantic poet overshadows his craft and production as a poet. Judging from the behavior of graduate students frequenting cocktail lounges like Poison Girl, even today I suspect most would rather be Byron than be able to write like him. It’s a persona young poets like to adopt, it allows them to speak both as sexy, sophisticated, and world weary, when in fact they often studious, ambitious, and bookishly unworldly. Through the course of his career Byron was able to develop a poetic voice that was distinctively his, but wasn’t exactly him.

Although he was a historical character who didn’t seem to need much permission, he did need a poetic voice that allowed him to be heard without being the “Lord Byron”. Don Juan was already a literary mock hero defined as a womanizing, wandering scalawag whose life is complicated by paramours and their husbands. As a subject Don Juan is separated from traditional epic heroes and scalawags, like Odysseus, primarily by tone. Consider the BBC version of “War & Peace” and Woody Allen’s “Love & Death” plenty of death and suffering in both, but the introduction of satiric wit by Allen’s nebbish character relieves “Love & Death” of the gravitas of Tolstoy, and allows for the additional of a personal commentary.

The nebbish, or fool, descends to us from the European tradition of divine lineage. A fool was a persona given a dispensation to satirize royalty, that’s why he wears a mock crown. It was dangerous work. It’s worth remembering that during Byron’s life (and even Elliot’s) royalty and peers possessed genuine power especially in taste, literary matters and publication. We still classify much of English Literature by the monarch reigning during the time the work was produced. The fact that Byron was a genuine baron gave him education, class privilege, and entre that currently would make him one of the maligned “1%”. Nonetheless he became perhaps the world’s most fashionable rebel.

One of Byron’s poetic models was Alexander Pope, his poetry is what separates undergraduate from graduate literature students. Pope was one of the first writers who made a living from writing, subsequently he was very cognizant of who he offended and flattered. He had to publish his verse form “Essay on Criticism” anonymously. He translated The Iliad into heroic couplets and used the same couplet form in his mock heroic satires. Couplets both put an edge on Pope’s wit and extended him a certain amount of fool’s dispensation in powerful circles.

Know then, unnumber’d spirits round thee fly,

The light militia of the lower sky; (Rape of Lock)

 

Formal rhyme was, and still is, a verbal mask to draw attention to the fact that what is being said is both true and artifice.

Following the example of Pope, Byron’s gift for rhyme was initially topical and referred disparagingly to literary figures of his age. Not too unlike rappers who challenge each other’s skills, it was a way of representing, of demanding attention. Although he was facile in many forms, ultimately Byron choose to write his poem “Don Juan” in ottava rima, an Italian form often used in mock heroic epics. Ottava rima uses Cantos made of formal stanzas, each stanza end rhymes ab, ab, ab, cc.

Brave men were living before Agamemnon[22]

And since, exceeding valorous and sage,

A good deal like him too, though quite the same none;

But then they shone not on the poet’s page,

And so have been forgotten:–I condemn none,

But can’t find any in the present age

Fit for my poem (that is, for my new one);

So, as I said, I’ll take my friend Don Juan. (Canto I, 5.)

 

In the first six lines the poet refers to Agamemnon, the leader of the Greek forces at Troy who returned home to be murdered by his wife’s lover, and claims he can find no contemporary. He roughly rhymes the name with the word “none” twice. In ottava rima the final couplet also serves to undercut, joke, satirize or re-address what has come before in the stanza. The couplet then re-introduces the mock hero (self) with a forced two syllable rhyme, new one/Juan, that introduces his friend, Don [jew one]. The couplet end rhyme changes the Spanish name to an Anglicized pronunciation. He cleverly identifies the character as both the Don Juan and English.

Ironically, this convoluted and extended verbal construction of “Don Juan” is often described as the truest voice of George Byron, who was neither Don nor Lord. Byron employed this form and proceeded to narrate the invented adventures of Don Juan for over two hundred stanzas per Canto, with seventeen cantos completed and more planned at the time of his death (that works out to approximately 3,500 stanzas, so a kind moment to consider Browning’s genius in concision might be in order.

Although to poets of the 21st Century considering a persona in the cantos of “Don Juan” seems incalculably far off, they were published less than a hundred years before Prufrock, which itself is now over a hundred years old. Byron/Don Juan as a persona continues to survive. Perhaps it was best exemplified in my generation by Jim Morrison. He adopted Byron’s dark, troubled, jaded, Romantic persona down to the flowing opened collared shirts and sadly early death. As a poet and performer he was able to inhabit a parallel Byronic construction as a persona to speak through, a possession with obvious risks.  Unlike some of his musical contemporaries like Miles Davis or David Bowie he didn’t invent his artistic persona and subsequently couldn’t re-invent himself as a periods of artistic invention evolved.  I have friends whose son-in-law makes a living portraying Jim Morrison in a Doors tribute band, Strange Days (not be confused with other, inferior, Doors tribute bands). Jason Tosta impersonates a person inhabiting the persona of another person. He recreates an image of Jim Morrison in studious detail, even attempting to have Frye make him replica boots, but he is an actor. His audience pays to watch him re-present a performance of a completed act. He doesn’t (I hope) allow himself to try to speak through the late Mr. Morrison.

My professional introduction to the dramatic monolog/persona poem came through the generosity of Richard Howard, the poet, essayist, and translator. At 86 he is still a master of the  literary style of the persona form, a style that employs formal precision, intimate historical erudition and poetic revelation. His literary maestro was Henry James who didn’t write persona poetry, however Richard did serve a sort of apprenticeship with W.H. Auden whose “The Age of Anxiety” used four characters in barroom to poetically explore their failure to actualize.

Since the publication of Untitled Subjects in 1969, Richard Howard has populated poetry with dramatic conversations between, about, with and from a humbling variety of personae both real, fictional and fictionalized. Richard anticipates a salon of sophisticated, literate readers to participate in his invented conversations. Using his encyclopedic knowledge of culture and translator’s apprehension of belle lettres he produces poems that express his view of the world as paradoxically sad, unpredictably revelatory and elegantly disconnected. One may hear the voice of Goliath speaking from the severed head cast in the Donatello bronze, listen to a peasant’s description of the poet Holderin found worshiping ancient gods in his garden, eavesdrop as Oscar Wilde gives Walt Whitman a copy of Fleurs de Mal, submit a letter composed by gifted fifth grade students asking for a cure for coitus, or read the response written by the Envoy in Browning’s “Last Duchess”. They are ballet-precise, intelligent poems drawn from a life of conscious immersion in art and culture. They’re designed to be performed aloud to an audience capable of appreciating the nuances of the dramatic situation, as well as the poet’s wit, consummate craft and unashamed genius.

That stylistic braggadocio is part of the style. It is a demonstration and a proclamation. Howard sees himself as a poet in the tradition of Pope, Byron, Eliot and Auden. A formal tradition carried on through today by other poets like Rita Dove, Frank Bidart, and my friend Veronica Golos. These variations of persona poem are poems bound to literature in form and existing characters, and allow the poet to speak only within those structures. They can ask the questions their persona answered, but they can’t extrapolate to resolve questions beyond the text. The poet willfully imprisons their life in the persona figure and performs a dramatic escape act.