Dear Carrol,
 
Now that my email will do it, I made this large and readable.  Enjoy--if possible.
(It's in Inventions of the March Hare.)
Nancy
 
 
Ode
on Independence Day, July 4th 1918
 
Tired.
 
Subterrene laughter synchronous
With silence from the sacred wood
And bubbling of the uninspired
Mephitic river.
                     Misunderstood
The accents of the now retired
Profession of the calamus.
 
Tortured.
 
When the bridegroom smoothed his hair
There was  blood upon the bed.
Morning was already late.
Children singing in the orchard
(Io Hymen, Hymenæ)
Succuba eviscerate.
 
Tortuous.
 
By arrangement with Perseus
The fooled resentment of the dragon
Sailing before the wind at dawn.
Golden apocalypse.  Indignant
At the cheap extinction of his taking-off.
Now lies he there
Tip to tip washed beneath Charles' Wagon.
 
 
>>> Carrol Cox <[log in to unmask]> 01/29/09 1:19 PM >>>
> Nancy Gish wrote:
>
> Well, he is quite certain that he does know. That is what is so
> infuriating. Eliot, on the other hand, seems never to be concerned
> about it. "Ode" is an ode to total sexual narcissism; the narrator
> seems utterly unaware that another person might have feelings about
> such an awful experience.


I'm unfamiliare with "Ode," and Google failed to help with it. (I was
also unfamiliar with "Figs," but Google came through on it. Does anyone
have an electronic copy of it they could send me. I'm particularly
interested just now in "infuriating" poems. "Figs" is infuriating
enough, but its writing seems slack to me, and I want well-written
outrages.

Note, assuming "ode" well written (or that I am wrong on "Figs"), There
must be 10s of thousands of pages of trash expressing "utter
unawareness" of others, and surely we meet up with such unawareness in
daily life. Couldn't one argue that in fact one of the central functions
of literature is to make visible the outrageous! The attitudes Lawrence
expresses are not his alone; they probably are widespread enough to be
an element in the ideological support for continued male supremacy. A
poem does not itself need to "know" or "express" the truth, if by
considering the poem a reader may find truth for him/herself.

Poets, as Plato claimed, may all be liars -- but readers may
nevertheless gain truth from the lies, be those lies powerfully enough
expressed.

Carrol

Carrol