Sublimation Point

So sorry to have missed the discussion of Jason Schneiderman's book of poetry. I've thought of posting some of the things I might have said (the Caliban poem, e.g., is wonderful, and the aperçue  "To think / that the young are always beautiful / is to admit to have grown old" is trenchant) but the best commentary is perhaps simple quotation:

THE SURFACE OF THE WATER

has properties, tension, behaves differently
from the rest of the water. If you fell

onto it from a height, you would bounce.
The surface would reject you, say

I'm a solid too—we can't both be here,
but then the rest of the water would accept you,

take you into itself, pull you down
away from the surface, saying I'm sorry,

I want you, come in.

A Guide for Boys

D. A. Powell, several of whose poems we read in Timothy Liu's Word of Mouth, has won the National Book Critics Circle Award in Poetry (2012) for his collection Useless Landscape, or A Guide for Boys —

a hymn to beauty and fantasy, a song-cycle to the Bay Area's bars and boathouses, [bringing] forward a verve and jocularity that is exhilarating, generous, and typical of this deeply sprung lyric poet.

Pope Aflutter

As Benedict departs, Colm Toíbín wrote an absorbing piece for the London Review of Books on him, homosexuality and the Catholic church:
"Among the Flutterers." His legacy for some of us has been his dazzling wardrobe, from his gorgeous hats to his perfect red pumps.



May he enjoy life at Castel Gandolfo while laypeople prepare his retirement suite in the Vatican. We will miss his sumptuous appearances.

The Ambassador from Venus

We've read enough by and about Robert Duncan, here and there, that some BookMen, I am sure, will be interested in looking at Michael Dirda's excellent review.

Richard Blanco's Inauguration Day Poem

Greetings, Colleagues—

For anyone who missed coverage of the actual event, here is the text Blanco (who is out and proud, as most of you probably know) read. (As a bonus, check out the video with Rep. Eric Cantor's grimace when Blanco got to all the "furin talk" in the sixth stanza.  He truly looked like he was going to throw up—priceless!)

The following poem was delivered by inauguration poet Richard Blanco during ceremonies for President Obama's second inaugural Monday. The text of the poem was provided by the Presidential Inaugural Committee.


One Today

One sun rose on us today, kindled over our shores,
peeking over the Smokies, greeting the faces
of the Great Lakes, spreading a simple truth
across the Great Plains, then charging across the Rockies.
One light, waking up rooftops, under each one, a story
told by our silent gestures moving behind windows.

My face, your face, millions of faces in morning’s mirrors,
each one yawning to life, crescendoing into our day:
pencil-yellow school buses, the rhythm of traffic lights,
fruit stands: apples, limes, and oranges arrayed like rainbows
begging our praise. Silver trucks heavy with oil or paper—
bricks or milk, teeming over highways alongside us, on our way to clean tables,
read ledgers, or save lives—to teach geometry, or ring up groceries
as my mother did for twenty years, so I could write this poem.

All of us as vital as the one light we move through,
the same light on blackboards with lessons for the day:
equations to solve, history to question, or atoms imagined,
the “I have a dream” we keep dreaming,
or the impossible vocabulary of sorrow that won’t explain
the empty desks of twenty children marked absent
today, and forever. Many prayers, but one light
breathing color into stained glass windows,
life into the faces of bronze statues, warmth
onto the steps of our museums and park benches
as mothers watch children slide into the day.

One ground. Our ground, rooting us to every stalk
of corn, every head of wheat sown by sweat
and hands, hands gleaning coal or planting windmills
in deserts and hilltops that keep us warm, hands
digging trenches, routing pipes and cables, hands
as worn as my father’s cutting sugarcane
so my brother and I could have books and shoes.

The dust of farms and deserts, cities and plains
mingled by one wind—our breath. Breathe. Hear it
through the day’s gorgeous din of honking cabs,
buses launching down avenues, the symphony
of footsteps, guitars, and screeching subways,
the unexpected song bird on your clothes line.

Hear: squeaky playground swings, trains whistling,
or whispers across cafe tables, Hear: the doors we open
for each other all day, saying: hello, shalom,
buon giorno, howdy, namaste, or buenos días
in the language my mother taught me—in every language
spoken into one wind carrying our lives
without prejudice, as these words break from my lips.

One sky: since the Appalachians and Sierras claimed
their majesty, and the Mississippi and Colorado worked
their way to the sea. Thank the work of our hands:
weaving steel into bridges, finishing one more report
for the boss on time, stitching another wound
or uniform, the first brush stroke on a portrait,
or the last floor on the Freedom Tower
jutting into a sky that yields to our resilience.

One sky, toward which we sometimes lift our eyes
tired from work: some days guessing at the weather
of our lives, some days giving thanks for a love
that loves you back, sometimes praising a mother
who knew how to give, or forgiving a father
who couldn’t give what you wanted.

We head home: through the gloss of rain or weight
of snow, or the plum blush of dusk, but always—home,
always under one sky, our sky. And always one moon
like a silent drum tapping on every rooftop
and every window, of one country—all of us—
facing the stars.
Hope—a new constellation
waiting for us to map it,
waiting for us to name it—together.

Proust

I thought this was an interesting read if you're into everything Proust as I am.  However, don't get too attached to M. Guerin.  He was not a nice man.

Jane Austen, Jewess of Chawton

Interested in pinning down Gore Vidal's burial (place) in Rock Creek Cemetery, I went to findagrave.com and found this picture

(Gore as yet undead in Ravello). Coming across the unexpected terminal "r" I tracked down an explanation on newyorksocialdiary.com (you'll have to scroll past several photos).